Tess Morrison is struggling. Suffering from an anxiety disorder after a tragic accident that claimed the life of her younger sister, Julia, she's simply trying to survive high school--which is tough, since she's the newest student at Eagle Point. En...
Do you ever wonder about the people behind the blunt words of a news headline? I don't blame you if they've never crossed your mind. I never thought about them either, until someone I loved became one of them.
The headline read, "Girl killed in I-94 collision." It was an emotionless statement of fact, bold and plain. The photo on the article was a stock image of a police car with flashing red and blue lights, the same one I'd seen on dozens of similar stories. The article itself didn't provide much more information: "A 13-year-old girl was killed on Thursday when the car she was riding in collided with the guardrail on I-94."
It happened December 24th, 2016. Merry Christmas.
The "Girl killed in I-94" collision was my sister. Her name was Julia Nadine and, yes; she was only 13 years old when I lost control of our car on a snowy Minnesota highway. We were on our way to her year-end ballet recital.
The person who wrote the article didn't mention that Julia loved to dance. "Loved" is an understatement; she had a passion for dancing. It was her life. She'd been talking about the recital for weeks. She was wearing her costume when she died: a red dress covered in shiny sequins with a soft, flowing skirt. She had spent ages pulling her hair up into a smooth, perfect ballerina bun.
It would have been her first recital dancing on pointe; she had just started pointe work the year before, and she could barely wait to appear on stage in those coveted shoes. The article didn't say that she'd never get the chance to fulfill a dream.
We were fighting that night, like usual. Like sisters. I was in a bad mood because I had to drive her to the recital through the snow, and we were late. I was mean to her that night; some of the last words I ever said to her are words I would give anything to take back. But our world changed in an instant, and I'll never get the chance to say I'm sorry.
Because we were running late, our parents were worried. My dad was texting us, checking in to see when we'd arrive; he was afraid Julia would miss her recital. I glanced down to check his text. For two seconds, I had my eyes off the road.
When I looked up again, it was too late to do anything but crash.
I woke up to shouting. Someone was calling, "Turn off the car! Miss! Turn off the car!" I couldn't make my fingers work to turn the key. A stranger leaned in through the driver's side door and turned off the car for me.
Julia's face was turned away from mine. I called her name, and she didn't answer. She wasn't awake. I didn't know when I saw her there, her hair still immaculate but her costume askew, that she was already gone. I didn't know there would be nothing they could do.
There were lights and sirens and strangers. Someone was helping me out of the car. I kept repeating, "Get Julia. Get Julia." And they did; I saw paramedics in dark blue coats taking her to the ambulance on a stretcher. They were moving so fast, shouting to one another, completely focused on what they were doing. I tried to follow them, but someone held me back, forcing me to sit on the bumper of another ambulance, flashing lights in my eyes, asking me questions I couldn't hear.
They took her without me. By the time I got to the hospital in the second ambulance, no one could tell me where Julia was. A doctor examined me and pronounced me free of any major injuries; just a few scrapes and a minor concussion, she said.
"Where is Julia?" I asked.
"Your parents will be here soon."
"Where is Julia?"
"Just rest, honey. Everything is going to be okay."
The doctor left me alone for a moment, and the curtain swished closed behind her. The next thing I heard was screaming. It sounded familiar, but I couldn't seem to understand why. Then, the curtain surrounding my emergency room cot slid open. My father stepped in, his face as white as the sheet on my narrow, sterile bed.
With that raw screaming as a backdrop, he told me. He said it first with his eyes, and then with words.
The news article about my sister's death doesn't say anything about any of this, about what it was really like to lose her. It doesn't talk about how my mother screamed until she lost her voice, about how my father cried for days, about how none of us could eat or sleep or pray. It doesn't talk about the guilt I will carry for the rest of my life, the knowledge that it was my mistake that killed her. The knowledge that some of the last words I ever said to her were cruel.
Julia was my baby sister. When she was born, I hadn't quite known what to make of her. One of my earliest memories is Jules puking on my dad's hair. I, four years old at the time, had laughed so hard I cried and had fallen completely in love.
It wasn't always easy to be sisters, but there was no other way to be, and despite our differences, we loved each other. Julia was a huge part of my life. A huge part of me. I taught her to ride a bike and, when she fell off, I put Band-Aids on her knees. We fought a lot, and we laughed a lot, and we loved each other like only sisters can. We loved to go to the $6 theater near our house to watch second-run movies, even the cheesiest, oldest ones, with our dad. And she loved to cook with our mom; they were like two of a kind in the kitchen. And then there were things that were Julia's alone: she loved to read, she loved to draw, she loved dance. She was intelligent, funny, passionate, artistic, and kind; she was Julia.
The story about the car crash that killed her doesn't mention any of this. It doesn't say how she completed our family. It doesn't say how much we miss her—those of us who are left behind. It doesn't mention how the smallest moment can completely change an entire life. An entire world. In an instant, my parents and I, Julia's dozens of friends, our school, our town—all of us changed forever. There's never going to be a day, never a moment, when I don't wonder what my world would be like if she were still in it.
That story didn't say, "Her sister misses her." But this one does.
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