I'll See You Again Part 5

Our friends marshaled forces and took over whatever arrangements they could. They set up a tent and tables with coolers at the end of the driveway for all the gifts of food that were pouring in. Someone made a schedule in which friends signed up to be in the house twenty-four hours a day. The whole community rallied around us, and even through my haze of shock and grief, I felt the goodness of the people around us holding me together.

Isabelle and Mark, our close friends and back-door neighbors, had been away on vacation, and they rushed back to be with us. Their children, Ryan and Kailey, were the exact ages of Emma and Alyson-and were like two halves of the same puzzle. We never closed the gate between our yards because the children traipsed back and forth, treating both families as their own. I was as likely to find Kailey in my kitchen as Kate. Now Warren whispered to me how terrible it must be for Isabelle and Mark to tell their children that their best friends were dead. A horrible conversation to have, he said. He couldn't imagine having to give our girls that kind of news.

In truth, we would have given everything we owned to have one more conversation with our daughters, whatever the topic. But we were too shattered to think rationally. I nodded at Warren's comment, sharing his regret that our friends and their children had to endure such pain. I felt that somehow, it was my fault.

The next few days were filled with questions no parent should have to answer-about caskets and burial plots and eulogies at the funeral. Warren took control, handling all the specific arrangements. Picking where the girls were laid to rest mattered deeply to him. I didn't know how he was coping, but maybe staying busy helped him avoid the avalanche of grief that would otherwise overwhelm him-and that was currently crippling me.

Two days after the accident he came to me with the news that Father O'Farrell, our local parish priest, was able to get us into Holy Rood Cemetery.

"What? What does that mean?" I asked, not focusing.

"It's a beautiful place for the girls, Jackie. You're going to love it there. It's right near Jeannine's house."

"Oh," I said, still not really grasping what he was talking about. "Okay."

"It's good news," Warren persisted, "because it's basically sold out and impossible to get a plot. But they took care of it."

Two days ago, I had been focused on what school I wanted my girls to attend. Now I was competing to get them into a cemetery.

Father O'Farrell had called on the bishop to pull some strings at Holy Rood, and with the path cleared, Warren had been able to buy a double plot big enough for twelve-six for our family and six for Diane's family, the Schulers. The expense was huge, but we weren't thinking about that now. Nor did we have enough information in those first days after the accident to realize that burying the girls next to Diane would eventually become a constant source of pain for us.

Once the plots were decided and a funeral date was picked, a friend came and gently asked what I wanted the girls to wear in their coffins. They were going to be G.o.d's little angels. I was dressing them for eternity.

I wanted to scream that they weren't G.o.d's angels, they were my baby girls. But instead I mumbled something about white sweaters. Pretty dresses. Bows in their hair and their diamond crosses.

Would the girls approve? In real life-only two days before-they were little fas.h.i.+onistas with their own ideas about style. We loved shopping together and talked about the right outfits for every occasion. I knew what they liked to wear to parties, school, beach club, and camp. But we never discussed what to wear for eternity. As with so much else now, I was on my own.

n.o.body would get to see the girls in their pretty dresses because at the wake on Wednesday, the caskets stayed closed. Caskets are usually kept open at a Catholic wake, but everyone agreed that in this case, the sight would be too unbearable. The real problem, though, was that I hadn't seen the girls, either. Right after the accident, Warren's father, my brother Stephen, and a police officer friend named Lou had identified the girls at the hospital before they went to the funeral home. Trying to protect me from the unimaginable anguish, friends had kept me away. They didn't want me to open each Pandora's box of pain.

But the attempt to preserve my sanity had backfired. My mind conjured horrible images that haunted me constantly; I had to see the girls myself. When at last I saw the girls in their open caskets before the wake, I was stunned. The girls looked perfect. Pretty and unmarked. The accident hadn't left them marred or visibly injured, and their minor bruises were covered. How could they be so perfect-but so lifeless? The girls had smooth faces and soft skin. Every fiber of my being said it didn't make sense. How could they be gone? Diane was the only one who looked like she had been in an accident. How could this have happened?

Five coffins lined the room of the funeral home, evidence of a t.i.tanic tragedy. The proper term for a wake is a vigil, but if we couldn't protect the girls in life, how could we watch over their souls in death? All our vigilance had not been enough. A Catholic wake is meant to have a positive spirit, but now that innocent children had been yanked from the earth, all the talk of souls coming home seemed warped and wrong. Home for Emma, Alyson, and Katie should be in Floral Park with the parents who loved them. Nothing else made sense.

Hundreds of people came to the wake, friends and family members and neighbors. The whole community of Floral Park seemed shocked and shaken, and they came to offer whatever comfort they could. Seeing familiar faces, from local cops to shopkeepers to friends from the Mothers' Club, at least made me feel less alone. As I wandered through the room greeting everyone, I felt like the macabre hostess of the worst party in the world. Childhood friends from New Jersey and cla.s.smates from high school arrived, and several who knew my mother gathered around her. I wanted my mom to take care of me, but she had lost the three grandchildren she adored and could barely handle the depth of her own loss.

Danny came into the funeral home and we hugged. It was the first time he and I had seen each other since the accident, and instead of being comforting, the touch destroyed us both. We fell to the floor in a tangle of tears and screams, holding each other and sobbing. The emotion was overwhelming, but I eventually managed to stand on my feet again and make it through the rest of the vigil.

I felt the outpouring of emotion from the whole community as people asked how they could help us, so Warren and I suggested donations to the Hance-Schuler Family Foundation. At the moment, it was just a mailbox at Jeannine's house, but I had a vague sense that great good could eventually emerge. Almost immediately, people devastated by our loss and wanting to express their support sent notes and cards and emails, checks and cash and generous donations. It was the first inkling I had of how generous people can be. The depth of human kindness would continue to overwhelm me again and again in the coming months.

The superintendent of schools arrived at the wake, her expression frozen tight with anguish. She came over and, taking my hand, spoke warmly about the girls-how smart they were and how kind; the great spark of joy they brought into a room.

Many others had expressed similar sentiments, but her memories of my happy daughters were especially meaningful to me. School is where children spend most of their time and feel connected. I pictured Alyson swinging happily across the monkey bars during recess.

"Maybe we can donate playgrounds to the schools," I said spontaneously.

"That may be a bigger project than you realize," she said, with a smile that briefly wiped the pain from her face.

"Well, something like that. Maybe I can plant a tree," I said. I immediately liked that idea. At least I would have something to nourish, something of mine that would grow.

The next day, Thursday, was my children's funeral.

I suppose I got up that day and brushed my teeth, took a shower, and combed my hair-all the little daily routines that would suggest I was alive and functioning. But I wasn't, really. What was happening was beyond comprehension, and my mind completely shut down, refusing to take in the scene. I survived the day by not really being there.

In newspaper photographs from that day, I am in dark gla.s.ses, my face puffy and pasty. Warren is on one side of me and a police guard is on the other. Warren looks blank but determined. In survival mode, he feels the burden of making sure the day goes right.

The costs for the funeral had soared, and a few people suggested using some of the donations that were coming in, or asking for others. But I came out of my stupor long enough to issue an ardent "no." We would pay for the funeral. We would bury our own children.

I had grown up as a devout Catholic, so the familiar traditions of the Church brought some comfort when everything else around me was crumbling. Having gone to church every week for most of my life, priests and blessings and hymns were the right source for consolation. All of us fall back on ritual to smooth over grief, letting rules and traditions be the guide through a time of uncertainty. Funerals become grand exercises, a kind of pomp and ceremony to mark graduation from one world to the next. Since Emma, Alyson, and Katie would never get to graduate from high school or college-or even grade school-this was all we had.

I remember looking out the window of the limousine taking us to the church, hearing music, and wondering, Where did the bagpipes come from? Two rows of bagpipe players lined the road, blowing their mournful tunes. The four black limousines bearing our family and Danny's pulled up behind the five white hea.r.s.es. Grim-faced men hefted the white-and-gold coffins and brought them into the redbrick Our Lady of Victory church. Once they would have thought of themselves as our friends, brothers, and uncles. Now they would forever remember being pallbearers at my daughters' funeral.

More than a thousand people filled the pews in the church.

Hundreds more waited outside.

Floral Park is in suburban New York, but it is an old-fas.h.i.+oned town where everybody knows one another. I suppose you could plunk it in rural Wyoming or Idaho and the small-town spirit would feel the same. Warren and his siblings-including Diane-grew up here, and the family's roots go back more than a century. Since our house had generations of history, the tangle of interconnected relations.h.i.+ps could fill a soap opera.

The hundreds of people who knew us or had been touched by the girls came to the service in shocked disbelief. The tragedy had seeped into their homes, and they reacted as if it were their own family. A small town like ours functions in some ways like an extended family-everyone watches out for one another. The gossipy chatter that can sometimes feel intrusive turns, in times of trouble, into a saving grace. Even people who didn't know us lined the streets or stood on their front lawns, offering prayers and support. I didn't realize until much later how much I was buoyed by the strength and support of the community. Warren and I felt like we had lost everything, like we had only each other. But now a thousand people wanted us to know that we had them, too.

As we walked into the church, part of me kept thinking, This isn't really happening. I would wake up tomorrow and get my life-and my girls-back. This nightmare would be over and we could get on with our plans for summer camp and church plays.

One newspaper reported that as the coffins were wheeled into the church, music played softly in the background and "Jackie Hance placed a hand over her mouth, hugged her husband, covered her face and placed a hand over her heart."

How theatrical that makes me sound, as if I had planned each gesture for fullest effect. But this wasn't a movie with Meryl Streep playing the part of the grieving mother. Instead, it was real life, and the grieving mother-me-was disappearing into a black hole of woe.

Warren had decided to give the eulogy, knowing that it would have been impossible for me. I couldn't imagine how he would do it.

"I have one chance to tell all the people at the funeral about the girls and what's in my heart, and if I don't do it, I'll regret it the rest of my life," he had told me right after the accident. Those words came back to me as he walked forward to give the eulogy.

Warren had never done much public speaking, and he avoided the television cameras that were everywhere. He wanted to talk only to the people he cared about-and they were all gathered at the funeral. As he stood at the front of the church, he spoke calmly, his voice steady.

"What we ask all of you going forward is when you see us on the street, please don't look the other way," he said at one point. "Please don't be afraid to talk to us. You don't have to offer any more condolences, you don't have to tell us how sorry you are."

Our own sorrow was already so relentless, pressing down so heavily, that any more might crush us completely.

He talked about our girls and he talked about Bryan, the "miracle child" who had survived. Only at the very end did he lose his composure.

"Cherish your children," Warren said. "Hug your children. Kiss your children. And don't forget-"

But he couldn't finish the sentence. As he gave in to his grief, the whole church seemed to be rocked by sobs. Parents clutched their children and held them tightly. The girls' friends had tears streaming down their cheeks. When people finally left the church, some of the children sat on the curb, too stunned to move. I look at pictures from that warm, sunny day and feel sad for the pretty little girls in their summer clothes whose lives had suddenly changed. They had always felt safe and protected in our suburban community, surrounded by parents and adults who loved them. But now they had discovered the truth they shouldn't have to face: Mommy and Daddy love you, but they can't always protect you.