Tuesday, August 9, 2011, 3:00 a.m. Los Angeles
I wake to the sound of Rob's soft snoring. Moonlight streams through the bedroom window to cast him in ghostly grey. Turning to spoon his thin body, I stroke his skeletal cheek. My heart aches over my beloved wasting away from heart disease and me, helpless to stop the inevitable slide into death.
A flood of grief hits me with the force of a rogue wave. Tears fill my eyes as I rise to sit on the edge of the bed.
The sweet scent of jasmine wafts through the open window, bringing the memory of Mom on her knees in the dirt. She planted the white-flowering bushes in the 1960s, and by some miracle, the jasmine lives, breathes, and blooms. A heavy sigh escapes my throat as I picture her, frozen in time at the age of 38.
My eyes flick around the homey bedroom to take in the familiar sights. In one corner sits the rocking chair Dad made Mom when she was pregnant with me. A double-doored oak wardrobe and a heavy chest of drawers stand against the wall opposite me. The king-sized bed is the only new addition to this room.
Outside the window is the waxing gibbous moon, a distant witness to my heartache. I briefly consider kneeling and reviewing my life lessons in the introspection demanded by my spiritual practice during this moon phase. If I gain enough insight, maybe Creator will heal my beloved.
Moments pass as I stare out the window and wait for a sign. Something, anything, to reassure me I'm not abandoned and alone.
Rob's breath catches in his throat in a garbled, choking sound. I turn away from the window to cup my love's face in my hands. As my fingers caress his cheeks, Rob's breathing returns to a slow, steady rhythm. He's been in my life longer than he hasn't, yet we've had so little time together.
Burning sensations erupt in my gut and spread to my heart. Rising to stand, I shake a fist at the universe.
This is so unfair! I've dedicated most of my life to You, followed every command without question. What more do you want from me?
My shoulders slump as I turn from the window. Every passing moment is a painful reminder that I've always been on my own. I begin to pace, from one end of the bedroom to the other. As I shuffle across the rustic wood floor, memories of this grim anniversary fill my head.
Friday, August 9, 1968, 5:00 p.m. Los Angeles
The bus taking us home from Cheer Camp swells with girlish laughter. I haven't stopped smiling since making the junior varsity squad. Seated at the back of the bus, I turn to my best friend Mary and bop her on the shoulder with my purple and gold pom-pom. Her brown eyes sparkle as she grins and presses her pom-poms against mine. In unison, we raise them and break into our high school rally song. As the bus moves along Devonshire Boulevard toward the train crossing, the rest of the girls join in. Our singing grows louder and more raucous with every verse.
By the time we reach the last verse, we're shouting. Between the bus's metallic rumbling and the cacophony, it takes me a minute to realize the girls at the front of the bus have stopped singing.
Suddenly, the driver slams on the brakes and I'm thrown into the back of the nearest seat.
For a split-second, the bus falls silent before groans reach my ears. I grab the sticky green vinyl seat back, stand, and move to Mary, who's crumpled on the floor. Extending my hand, I pull her upright.
The balding driver stands and turns to face us. "Anyone hurt?"
A chorus of "no" peppered with choice words about his driving abilities comes in answer.
I sigh in relief until I notice flashing police lights through the front window. "What's happening?"
As the bus driver opens his mouth to answer, the girls erupt in excited chatter. His mouth is moving, but I can't hear what he's saying.
In the bus's front, a blonde classmate leans across the aisle to speak to another cheerleader. The second cheerleader gasps, then turns to the girl seated behind her. Girlish whispers flow in a ripple as the news passes through the middle of the bus. As one girl turns to the next, the smell of sweat and old gym socks hits my nose. By the time the sound wave reaches us, I'm gagging.
One seat over, a redheaded cheerleader jumps to her feet and turns to us. Her long ponytail whips around as she moves. "The train crashed into something."
An uneasy feeling of dread grips my chest as the girls at the front of the bus rise, and then rush to spill out the open bus door. Mary follows, leaving me to bring up the rear. As we near the front of the bus, I smell gasoline and burning meat.
By the time Mary and I hurtle down the steps and onto the street, police officers are herding the cheerleaders and ordering them to get back on the bus. The scene is chaos, with an ambulance and fire trucks blocking the road in front of the train tracks. The black and yellow locomotive engine idles on the tracks and dwarfs the emergency vehicles. Behind the engine stretches a long line of rail cars. Through the engine's window, a man wearing an engineer's cap sobs into a red and white bandanna. Black smoke floats from whatever's burning on the tracks.
My stomach's queasy and the stench makes me want to gag. To get a better look, I jump back onto the stairs, grab the hand rail, and lean past the open bus door.
A burned station wagon lays crumpled in front of the engine. Thick smoke rises from the interior.
Time slows as I leap from the stairs. With superhuman strength, I push between two police officers. They're shouting at me to stop, but I ignore them and run toward the car. As the bent license plate comes into view, my heart's a jackhammer.
Screams fill my ears as I fall to my knees. Inside the car are three burning humanoid shapes. Darkly uniformed police officers surround me. As their looming shapes block the sun, I realize it's me that's screaming.
Saturday, August 10, 1968, 6:00 p.m., Los Angeles
I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend that, when I open them, I'll be back home in our cozy house next to the Chatsworth Reservoir. Mom and Dad will sit down for dinner, and I'll bang on Rhonda's door to tell her it's time to eat.
I've lost all sense of time. Bouncing between maybe someone borrowed our car, and knowing that Mom, Dad, and Rhonda drove to meet my bus in their usual show of support. But maybe I'm trapped in a nightmare. When I wake up, everything will be right and as it should be.
A sharp train whistle shatters my daydream. Opening my eyes, I'm jolted back to reality by the sight of Aunt Margaret's and Uncle Frank's dimly lit, formal living room. I'm sitting near the front door on a low wooden bench in the itchy, borrowed black dress. My bare feet are tucked under the bench to avoid having my toes stepped on by the endless stream of mourners.
Just outside the front door sits a water basin on a little table, for mourners to wash their hands before entering. The front door hangs open to allow entry to solemn adults wearing pins with a ripped piece of black fabric. Most bring food, as if stuffing my face will somehow fill the gaping hole in my heart.
Each guest briefly stops to offer me some quiet words meant to comfort. The interactions are quick, like I'm working a drive-through window at a fast-food restaurant. A few stupidly ask how I'm doing. No one looks me in the eye. Maybe they're worried about being sucked into my bottomless pit of grief. Maybe they think freak accidents are contagious. If they turn away, maybe their families will stay safe.
A heavy darkness slumps my shoulders and hollows my chest. People pass through the house and then leave to carry on with their lives. Like nothing happened. Like my world hasn't ended.
I want to jump up and run out the door to the safety of home.
Another screech from the train whistle sends a shudder through my chest. My Aunt's house is a half-mile from the Chatsworth Train Depot, but the shrieking sounds as if it's just outside.
My attention's drawn to a stomping sound as Uncle Frank walks from the kitchen and into the living room. His balding head sports a fluffy black toupee. A goy, he refuses to wear a yarmulke. Shiny black shoes thud with every step towards the coffee table piled high with food.
As his rough hands snatch two pastries, Aunt Margaret rushes from the kitchen. Her thin face is pinched, like she's been eating lemons.
"Frank, your shoes! Show some respect."
The room falls silent as mourners turn toward the latest drama. Uncle Frank snorts as he shoves a pastry into his mouth. Turning toward the center of the room, he talks with a mouth full of food. "It's my damn house."
Beady rat eyes find mine as he stomps across the room. Extending his left hand, he waves the remaining pastry in my face. "Want some? It's delicious." The scent of Jovan Musk for Men overwhelms my nose as he leans in.
Pale man-hands grab Uncle Frank's shoulders, and he turns to find Rabbi Schumer.
"I'd like to speak to Betty, if you don't mind."
Uncle Frank glares at the rabbi, shoves the other pastry in his mouth, and exits back through the kitchen.
Rabbi wears a light blue long-sleeved shirt, black suit, and blue matching socks. A black yarmulke covers his balding head. Instead of the drive-by greeting, Rabbi Schumer settles down next to me on the bench and adjusts his jacket. Leaning sideways, his shoulder touches mine.
"I'd like to speak to you about your family."
Expecting some nonsense words about how I'm supposed to feel, I lean away to rest my body weight on the armrest.
Rabbi sighs deeply before continuing. "Your sister Sharon is flying home from NYU today. I've made arrangements with one of your mother's friends to pick her up from the airport."
A lump forms in my throat at the mention of my older sister. As I turn from the armrest toward him, Rabbi's Schumer's kind brown eyes meet mine.
"As soon as Sharon gets here, I want to go home."
Henods and places a warm hand on my shoulder. "I spoke with the coroner last night. He's allowing volunteers from Chevra Kadisha to sit with your family." He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze before releasing his grip. "Betty, I made sure they aren't alone. The volunteers will remain with them until the coroner signs the release. Chevra Kadisha will respectfully and ritually clean their bodies, and stay with them until the funeral."
A strangled sob escapes my throat and I collapse into Rabbi's thin chest. One hand cups my head while the other wraps around my back. As he rocks back and forth, his gentle presence offers more than words ever could.
AUTHOR NOTES:
Banner Photo of Devonshire Street in Chatsworth, 1964, courtesy of the CSUN/Oviatt Library
Playlist River Man by Nick Drake