The Spite House(70)
On the way to the hospital, Dess and her mother sat next to Stacy in the backseat while her father drove. They talked to her to try to keep her awake, keep her responsive. Dess was terrified that Stacy would stop answering them, shut her eyes and never reopen them. They were all scared of that, she supposed, all except for Stacy, who was barely even there.
At the emergency room, Stacy was taken to the back without waiting. The family was allowed to go to a smaller waiting area behind the first two sets of double doors, but not into the room where staff would be working to save her life. Dess and her parents sat together in the waiting area, expecting every nurse and doctor who walked by to be the one who would approach them with information on Stacy. When a sullen-faced doctor finally did approach, Dess saw in her eyes that the news was as bad as it could be.
It wasn’t heatstroke, as her mother had feared, or anything else that they could have accounted for. Naegleria fowleri was a “brain-eating” amoeba that can lurk in freshwater lakes and rivers, and that could enter the body through nasal passages. The only quality that exceeded its deadliness was its rarity. Fewer than one hundred fifty people in the United States had been infected with it in over fifty years. It was like Stacy got struck by lightning while hiding in a basement. Like this thing was a hunter determined to kill her.
The days between Stacy’s death and her “homegoing” service somehow moved lethargically for Dess. Her parents had to occupy themselves with the unsavory tasks of notifying family members and coordinating the service. Dess had no such obligations, which gave her ample time to dwell within doleful memories and regrets, field clumsy condolences from friends, and be alone in a quarter-empty house that felt emptier.
After the funeral she found herself increasingly frustrated by the lack of anyone to bear the guilt for Stacy’s death. She hated to think it, but often wondered if things might have been easier if Stacy had died of heatstroke, or had drowned when they were all distracted. They would have cause to blame themselves, then. They could punish themselves and each other and then look for a path to forgiveness. Because the guilt and fury and accusations still existed, but without cause they did irreparable harm. They fractured her parents’ marriage.
Beyond the worst of their arguments, where each held the other liable for their loss, they could not agree on how best to mourn or honor Stacy. Mom needed to purge the house of any “inessential” reminders. Clear out Stacy’s bedroom, donate her books and clothes and toys, and keep only photos and maybe a few specific, personal items, like Miss Happy. Dad needed to keep Stacy’s room pristine and every single one of her belongings in the house, and also to find some other way to keep her name alive.
Dad first looked into creating a small nonprofit in Stacy’s name to raise awareness about the thing that killed her. Mom pointed out what must have already been apparent to him: He’d get no traction seeking funding to fight an illness that killed fewer people in over half a century than heart disease did every few hours. Calling attention to the threat of Naegleria fowleri amounted to starting the Stacy Emerson Fund for the Prevention of Exceptional Misfortunes.
He next explored other memorial opportunities focused on general assistance for sick children. He also considered purchasing a star to be named after her before seeing that this was a scam. He approached the local public library system about how much he would have to donate to have a section of a library dedicated to her. He looked into dozens of options and could not determine which was the right one.
Maybe if Mom had worked with him—and especially if she had guided him, given how much more sensible and decisive she could be—Dad would have found his direction. Or if Dad had been more willing to compromise, had given Mom more time to navigate her mourning, they never would have separated. Instead he pushed his way, and she pushed her way, and after a few months Mom moved into an apartment one town over.
That left the house half empty, and with the amount of time her father spent in his room on his laptop researching, Dess might as well have been living on her own. She enrolled in summer school to earn the credits to graduate early, at the end of the fall semester, and made plans to leave home after Christmas. She had a few friends whose parents would let her stay with them until she went to college. Other friends who graduated the year before and shared a small apartment said she could crash in their living room. She had options if she wanted to get away from the house and the direct shadow of her kid sister’s death. That was her plan, but it changed in early August, when Stacy came home.
Dess and her father spotted the little girl walking alone in their neighborhood after dark. They were close to home after a rare night of dining out, trying to have a semblance of a pleasant evening, when they saw her on the sidewalk headed toward their house. The girl wore the same dress that Stacy had been buried in. She walked the way Stacy did when she was excited, each step almost a hop. Even from behind, before they could see her face, her identity was unmistakable. But it had to be a mistake. Stacy could not be there walking alone at night. When they pulled ahead and saw the girl’s face it would be someone else’s because it couldn’t be Stacy’s. It was, though. It was her.
Dad pulled over, got out, and ran to the girl. Dess was right behind him. The girl smiled Stacy’s smile and jumped into her father’s arms the way Stacy did. When she spoke to them with Stacy’s voice she didn’t ask why they left her someplace to walk home by herself, nor did she tell them where she was coming from. She asked where Mom was.