Taylor's Gift (13 page)

“What are you planning?” I asked.

“I just want you and Tara to tell the viewers what happened, why you decided to donate Taylor's organs, and how you're doing now,” Cynthia said.

As an anchor for one of the largest ABC affiliates in the country, Cynthia didn't do much reporting herself. So when she told me that
she
wanted to be the one to do the interview, I knew there would never be a better opportunity. Tara would feel safe talking to her, Cynthia would protect our family, and our story would be a way for us to honor Taylor.

Cynthia was our friend. We loved her, and I trusted her to tell the story. We agreed she could come to the house with a crew later that afternoon.

“I promise to give this story the grace it deserves,” she said.

When Cynthia and her crew arrived, Tara was still in bed. We went in together to get her.

“Remember that interview we talked about? The WFAA crew is here with Cynthia,” I said. Tara stared at me blankly as if she had no recollection of our conversation. Her eyes were red and her face looked gaunt.

Cynthia stepped past me and gave Tara a hug.

“I look terrible,” Tara said, tears lining her face.

“You just stay there. I'll take care of your hair and makeup,” Cynthia said.

Beth and the other women helped Cynthia as she combed Tara's hair and powdered her face. When they finished, Tara took one look in the mirror and said, “This isn't how I look!”

She grabbed a hat and put it on to hide her hair.

We sat in the dining room and told our story. I was concerned that Tara would be out of it, but shortly before we went on camera she said, “We need to do this to honor Taylor.” She took one deep breath and focused every ounce of energy she had on the conversation. Cynthia was easy to talk to, and I was proud of how well Tara did. Of course, all three of us became emotional during the interview.

After we finished, Tara went back to bed. A few hours later, she'd forgotten she'd even done the interview. Nonetheless, Cynthia managed to create a beautiful story out of it. Her piece led the ten o'clock news that night.

Between the interview and the new Facebook page, we hoped all the questions and concerns people had would be answered. Most of all, we hoped they would honor Taylor.

The five days after we got home seemed to follow a similar pattern. Tara would wake up screaming hysterically. Shrieks of pure terror would echo through the bedroom walls. The sounds would wake up Beth, and she'd come running. “Do you need me to help? Is there anything I can do? I can go away if you want me to.” But I always wanted Beth there. She and the other women who came would take over for me. “You guys give it a try,” I'd say, feeling helpless.

Eventually, Tara would calm down. Then she'd mostly be a zombie, going through the motions of living, but without any real emotion. That's when people would try to coax her to eat or drink, and she'd mostly refuse.

I'd go in to check on her and just love on her. If she was able to listen and take in information, I'd tell her the latest. “We picked out a casket.” Or, “We found a plot by a tree.” Often, it was just simple things. “A friend from church stopped by.”

Sometimes she'd talk and tell me things that Beth or the other women had told her. Invariably, she couldn't remember half the details, so it was like playing connect the dots. She'd have a few of the details but not enough to make sense of the whole picture. Sometimes she would remember what we talked about, but most of the time she didn't. I wasn't sure if it was the medication, the lack of sustenance, or the grief.

Throughout the house, the organized chaos continued. Pockets of people mingled in the kitchen, on the back porch, in the bedroom, and in the dining room, which had now become the central planning and meeting area. Dozens of people scurried in and out of the house every day. Food and flowers filled the countertops

Beth organized the women who were all busy cleaning, packing, unpacking, and moving things. To this day, I have no idea what all they were doing. Matt and Terry were my point people and helped me do what needed to be done, especially as far as planning the funeral went. I sat at the head of mission control of funeral central, issuing orders and making decisions—thankful for something to do that made a difference.

I couldn't comfort Tara, I couldn't take care of the kids, and I couldn't make anyone's pain go away, including mine. But I
could
plan a funeral that Tara would be proud of and that would honor Taylor.

I poured everything I had into that.

Tara

Juli, my brother Kary's wife, walked in and sat down next to me on the bed. “Tara,” she said, “it's been five days. Don't you think Ryan and Peyton need to come home?”

“Five days?” I looked at her, puzzled. “How could it be five days?” It didn't seem as if they had been gone that long. “What day is it?” I asked.

“It's Sunday, March 21,” Juli said.

“Sunday?” The last memory I had was of Tuesday night.
How had so much time elapsed?
“Yes, of course, they need to come home,” I said.

Beth was standing near my bed, and I searched her face for answers. “Have I been that out of it?”

She nodded. “You were completely shut down. You were like a zombie. We were all here, but it's like you didn't even see us.”

I considered the past few days, trying to remember. They were a blur of faces, of people trying to get me to drink or eat. But I couldn't remember any details; it was like a Sunday afternoon when you intend to sleep for just a few minutes and wake to find you've
been sleeping for hours. Only in my case it was
days
, and I hadn't been sleeping. It frightened me.
Have I even talked to Peyton and Ryan in five days? Surely, I have. I've got to get a grip. I can't let this happen again.

I had disappeared into the grief, and Juli's question about the kids helped me fight my way out of the fog. Though the pain of living in the present was intolerable, I vowed to do my best to fight through it. It was the least I could do for Ryan and Peyton.

Later that night, Todd asked me to join him, Matt, Beth, and some of the others to go through details for the next few days. Todd had arranged a funeral mass on Tuesday, March 23, at our church, St. Ann's. There would be a visitation the night before at the funeral home. “When Monsignor Duesman and Father Fred came over—”

“Wait, Monsignor Duesman and Father Fred were
here
?” I asked.

“Yes, they were here yesterday,” Todd said. He looked concerned. “Don't you remember?”

I shook my head. I remembered we had spoken about including my brothers Bill and Kary, his brother, Terry, the Sunshine family, Laura Springer, and Taylor's friend Kate Dicken in the funeral mass. But I didn't realize he'd picked out the pallbearers or created a first draft of the funeral program until I saw it.

“I just want you to approve everything before I confirm it,” he said, putting the document in front of me.

I was amazed at my husband. How could he manage all of this, while I still couldn't even keep food down? When I needed a shoulder to cry on, he was gentle and tender with me, but as I looked around the table, I could only marvel at his strengths—a rough draft of Taylor's obituary, photos for a slide show, and a funeral program with red ink encircling the typos.
Surely, God is protecting him
, I thought.

“What do you think of this?” he asked, sliding a piece of paper in front of me.

“It's fine,” I said, barely glancing at it.

“Here are the Scriptures I picked out. Are these okay with you?” He slipped another piece of paper in front of me, and I read the first verse: “Jesus replied, ‘What is impossible with men is possible with God,' Luke 18:27.”

“It was on Taylor's Facebook page,” he said, pointing at the verse.

Below that one was another, 2 Peter 1:17. I recognized the verse from the paraphrase that Todd said to the kids many nights when he tucked them into bed. “You're my son/daughter with whom I am well pleased. You are my delight.” I started to well up, thinking how he'd never again say that to Taylor.

“You're going to be really pleased with the casket Todd picked out,” Beth said, trying to change the conversation. As she and Todd went on to describe it in painstaking detail, all I could think was
I'm never going to be happy with that
. But I was thankful that someone else had taken care of it for me.

“I know you haven't had a lot of input on this,” Todd said, once again referring to the funeral plans. “Is there anything you want?”

“I think someone should sing ‘Finally Home,'” I said.

I remembered Taylor sitting at the bar in our kitchen, her feet swinging, as she listened to the Mercy Me song that spoke of what we'd say to God when we finally made it home.

Taylor was now home.
What was she saying to God?
I wondered.

Beth interrupted my thoughts with a question. “Do you have something you want her to wear?”

I hadn't even thought about it.

“Umm, her jeans. And her UGG boots,” I said. “But I don't know what else.” The tears flowed freely now, and I tried to think. I knew there were other things.
A ring she always wore, a special bracelet, and a necklace Todd's mom had given her.
But I couldn't put it all together in my mind; it was just too much. “Could the girls go shopping and maybe pick out something for her?” I asked.

“We'll take care of it,” Beth said.

Emily and Allison were glad to help. Not only did Beth take them shopping for Taylor but she took care of dressing all of us.

We arrived at the funeral home for the visitation about an hour and a half before it officially began. The funeral director greeted us at the door and asked if we had any requests. “Can we turn these monitors on?” Todd said, pointing to TVs mounted in the corners of the room. “We'd like to have the slide show playing when people come in. And can you unlock the door to that room, so if we need to get away for a few minutes, we can go in?”

It was obvious Todd had been here before. His ability not only to think through the details but to think
at all
overwhelmed me. I had no idea how he did it. His strength was incredible, and as we walked toward the room where the visitation would be held, I clung to him physically and emotionally.

I could barely stand. Though nausea had made a permanent home in my stomach and I had gotten used to the feeling, my stomach now began to toss and turn violently. Peyton hung by my side, and Ryan just followed without saying a word.

As soon as we walked into the visitation area I could see Taylor's casket, and my eyes were immediately drawn to it. My heart started pounding. It became difficult to breathe. The closer I got to the coffin, the more my body shook. When I finally got a good look, I burst into tears and had to fight the urge to throw up. I stared at the young woman in the coffin with copper-colored lipstick and dark rouged cheeks, and I lost it.

“It's not her! It's not her!” I yelled. “She doesn't look like Taylor!”

Ryan and Peyton had been standing next to me, but when I started panicking, they immediately stepped back. Todd wrapped his arms around me and tried to console me. “Tara, it's her. It's Taylor,” he said, holding me tight.

By now, several funeral home employees were starting to gather near us.

“It's not her! She doesn't wear lipstick. Her hair would never look that way; it doesn't look anything like her,” I said, pounding my fists into Todd's chest. It didn't look like Taylor. I had a vision of what she would look like, and in my vision, I pictured Taylor looking like she was asleep. But the girl in the coffin looked like she was
dead
, and I couldn't bear that.

I turned and ran out of the visitation room, busting through the crowd of family members and intimate friends who had come to support us. Once I got to the hallway, I leaned against the wall and cried.

The makeup artist arrived with her kit. “Tell me what to change, and I'll change it,” she said.

“That lipstick!” I shrieked. “She would never wear that color!”

“What color would she wear?” she asked.

I wanted to scream, “She was thirteen! She didn't even wear lipstick!” But I didn't have to answer her. Suddenly, every woman there pulled out her own tube. I looked up to see my mom, my sisters-in-law, and Beth each holding out their personal colors.

“Come with me,” the makeup artist said, gently tugging my elbow.

I had a choice. I could stay in the hallway and cry about how unfair the whole situation was, or I could go with her. No matter how much I wished differently, I knew there was nothing I could do to bring Taylor back, and the visitation was going to happen with or without me. I took a deep breath and balled my hands into fists as I tried to pull myself together.
You can do this
, I told myself, digging my nails into my palms.

“Come with me,” the woman said again. “We'll fix it, I promise.”

I took another deep breath and forced myself back into the room. I walked toward the casket, alongside the woman holding her kit. I took another look at Taylor and fished in my purse for a Kleenex. Then I scrubbed the copper color off of Taylor's lips and applied the lipstick that Beth had given me.

“What else can I do?” the woman asked.

“Change that,” I said, pointing at her heavily made-up cheeks. “She would never wear that much makeup.” The makeup artist took some of it off, rubbed some of it in, and then asked for my approval. “How's that?”

“That's better. But see if you can fix her hair,” I said, pointing to a lump. I knew I was being unpleasant, but I wanted it to look like Taylor. The woman did as I directed and turned to me once more for approval.

“Thank you,” I said. “That's better.”

Ryan and Peyton had remained in the room with Todd after I ran out, and they stayed away when I first returned. But slowly, they felt more comfortable, and soon Peyton was back at my side.

“Is everything okay now?” Todd asked, after I finally calmed down.

I nodded. But it felt as if I would never really be
okay
again.

Todd stood next to me, and I suddenly felt
his
body shaking. I looked over, and he was wracked with sobs. He had waited for me to be okay before he allowed himself to break down.

We were almost two hours through the visitation when Matt came up and whispered to us, “We've got to find a way to speed this up. People are standing in a line outside that wraps all the way around the building.”

I knew there was a line to see us; I could see that from where we stood, but I had no idea until later that people had waited up to two and a half hours to talk to us. All I could do was concentrate on talking to the person in front of me and sucking on peppermints so I didn't lose my stomach.

Todd wanted to talk to every single person. When a flood of teenagers came in, it was as if Todd became more engaged, and his face lit up. I just wanted to retreat.

“I am so glad you came,” he said, looking a young boy in the eyes and shaking his hand.

“I want you to know you are loved,” he said, hugging each of Taylor's close friends.

“Thank God, you're here and that you're okay,” he said to those who had traveled a distance to be with us. It was like he wanted everyone to know they were important and loved. He was energized by taking care of them. I was exhausted.