Loss

People talk about loss, sudden devastating loss, as something that happens to your heart. Your heart shatters, shrivels, jumps in your throat...

Dad's voice sounded strange, a bit wiggly, as it came through the phone. "Deb, where's Ellen?"

"She's right here, Dad." My concern dissipated a bit because I could see my daughter in the living room, hunched over her blocks building a stable for her horses.

"Where?"

"Here. In the living room. She's..."

Dad cut me off. "Get her."

"Okay," I answered slowly. My anxiety returned. Dad's voice allowed no discussion. "Ell?" I called. "Come here, baby."

She looked up, squinting as she opened her mouth to protest. Her eyes widened as she looked at my face and her little guppy mouth closed quickly. Immediately she stood up and came to me. "She's here, Dad. Right next to me."

My mind ran down the list of members of Dad's family who were on shaky ground in their health or age.

"Hold her," Dad directed me.

I put my arms around my 11-year-old and pulled her close. She came willingly, her dark almond eyes mirroring my own fear and confusion. "Is it Grandmom?" I asked, beginning the cliche questioning people do at the advent of ill tidings.

Even at 90, Grandmom still danced through life spryly. Her dark auburn hair now flamed a fiery orange as it hid white rather than brunette. Her brilliant blue eyes sparkled gleefully over crab apple cheeks, rosy but wrinkled. Grandmom was fickle, flitting from one beau to the next, a butterfly looking for a protective male to care for her, to think for her.

"No," Dad answered.

"Doris?" Dad's wife was several years his senior--she had to be at least 70 in spite of her blond curls-- and had just been treated for colon cancer. Her memory was slipping and her muscles twisted and bruised easily. Her square dancer's litheness couldn't counteract the slow clumsiness that aged her body.

"No," Dad replied.

Then who...I cut off my own internal querying with realization. "Oh, no, Dad. Not Catherine?" It was a whispered question, but I knew the answer. My sister was the only other family member near Dad. She lived across the state from him, in the dry, hot eastern half of Washington, where she managed a state park. During the last two years we'd grown close, crying together through our divorces, bolstering each other's demolished egos, cheering each other on through every new adventure as free women. She regularly bossed me into action, most recently into replacing my bicycle after 20 years. "It will be good for you," Cath declared. "Who cares what it costs--it's an investment in yourself that will last years and years. And get decent gear--a comfortable saddle, cycling shorts and clipless pedals." I had just picked it up two days before, still dubious about the pedals that required coordination that I didn't have. I almost immediately tumbled over on the thing, thudding hard on the cement, my feet coming unclipped only after the chain ring was firmly planted in my calf. The jagged holes still bled easily, a trophy of my undaunted spirit that I couldn't wait to share with Catherine. "Is she okay? Was she hurt? Where is she?" Again, the stereotypical litany of questions tumbled from my mouth, willing my father to give me the answers I wanted to hear. Tears welled in Ellen's eyes as she heard the panic rise in my voice.

Even over the long distance phone I could hear Dad's quiet gulp that turned into a sob. "She was killed this afternoon in a car accident. A state trooper..."

Dad's voice faded from my consciousness. I doubled over, my silent cry muffled in my daughter's soft hair. I felt like I'd been kicked in the belly. My insides rose up in protest, surging for my throat. I gasped for air, trying to suck in the oxygen that had somehow been ferociously squeezed from my lungs. My head reeled as Ellen and I clung to each other. Spots swam dizzily in front of my eyes, flashing and bumping like moths in the light. I swallowed hard, once, twice, ignoring the searing pain sizzling up from my chest into the back of my throat. Slowly I recovered my senses enough to hear the rest of Dad's calm recitation of the details. They didn't really matter. I'd just lost my best friend and little sister in one blow. And my bicycle coach. She left me stranded with those damn pedals and I didn't even get to whine to her about them.