Taylor's Gift (2 page)

M
ARCH
14, 2010
V
AIL
, C
OLORADO

The sun wouldn't set for another three hours, but the shadows of the snow-covered pine and spruce trees that bordered the ski run had grown longer with the afternoon. From the top of Beaver Creek Mountain, the view was exquisite. Todd Storch knew he was experiencing the trip of a lifetime, and he wanted to capture every minute of it in pictures and videos.

It was shortly after 4:00 p.m. when the three skiers pushed off from the top of Latigo, an intermediate “blue level” run. Eleven-year-old Ryan took off first. An experienced skier, he'd been on numerous father and son skiing trips with Todd, but this was the first ski trip that also included his mother and sisters. Swelling with pride, Ryan couldn't wait to show them all the things he'd learned and talked about from his past trips.

Thirteen-year-old Taylor was next. She'd graduated from ski school only minutes earlier. The instructors couldn't believe this was her first time skiing. They'd promoted her from her assigned class with her little sister, Peyton, to a much harder class with older teen
boys. She handled it just fine. “She's a natural. She's been on blues and greens all day,” the ski instructor had said, referring to the color codes that signified the difficulty of each run. “She's good to go.”

Seconds later, Todd was the last of the three Storches to push off from the mountaintop. With poles in one hand and his Flip camera in the other, Todd took videos of the kids as he skied behind them. He couldn't have been prouder. Ryan was in the lead, showing off a bit for his older sister. Taylor skied behind her brother, her neon pink and black ski jacket and forest green helmet creating a colorful contrast to the glistening snow. A natural athlete, she looked good on skis. Todd marveled at the sight—his two kids skiing together for the first time. He reminded himself to breathe in the moment.

Back in the alpine village, his wife, Tara, and their nine-year-old daughter, Peyton, ordered hot chocolate and found a seat by the fireplace. Todd told Tara he'd meet them there with Taylor and Ryan by 4:30. The family needed to return their equipment rentals by 5:00.

Earlier in the day, Todd and Ryan had mapped out an easy route to the bottom. They had planned several pit stops along the way, which gave the three skiers a chance to reconnect so they didn't get separated on the mountain. Those stops also gave Todd the opportunity to take pictures with his phone. At the final stop, Todd dropped his backpack onto the snow, took out his good camera, and said, “Okay, guys, we're going to get a bunch of pictures here.”

He snapped a few pictures, then posed his children to get the perfect mountain landscape in the background. “C'mon, Dad,” Ryan said, “we're supposed to be skiing, not taking pictures.”

Taylor was more tolerant of her dad's wishes. She loved having her photo taken; she'd recently opened a Facebook account and wanted to share pictures of her in the snow for all of her friends back in Texas to see.

Todd wrapped up the photo session and gave his kids their final instructions. “This is the last run, so when you finish, wait by the ski lift and then we'll go find Mom together.”

Once again, Ryan pushed off first, followed by Taylor. Todd was delayed a few seconds as he put on his backpack, grabbed his poles, and once again held the Flip camera in his hand. Todd had never been so happy. It had been the perfect first day, and they still had four more vacation days to go.

The run got a little busier when their slope combined with another. Ryan, already ahead of his sister, pulled over to wait for Taylor, but when she caught up with him, instead of stopping she seemed to rapidly pick up her pace. Ryan pulled out a few feet after her, while Todd was less than a hundred feet behind them.

As the runs merged, the slopes became steeper. Though the path was extremely wide, trees now flanked both sides of the run, and the number of skiers continued to increase as they neared the bottom. Taylor was now moving too fast for the conditions. At first, she tried to snowplow—a technique used to slow a skier down—but instead, she fell backward into a squatting position, which had the effect of reducing her wind drag, and she began to increase speed at an alarming rate. Ryan and Todd watched, hopelessly unable to help, as Taylor got into trouble.

Witnesses suggested that instead of falling over to stop herself, she tried to stand and put more weight on her right side, which caused her skis to turn. As the slope steepened, she continued to pick up more speed. Like a rocket, Taylor shot toward the woods that bordered the run. Heading into the tree line, she hit a pine tree head-on, but her perilous speed made her bounce off it, and she propelled into a second tree.

Stunned at what he'd witnessed, Ryan snowplowed to a sudden stop on the trail adjacent to where Taylor lay face up, her leg unnaturally bent backward at an angle.

Seconds later, Todd skidded to a stop, overshooting the area by about five feet. He quickly kicked off his skis and ran into the woods toward his daughter. But off the main trail, the snow wasn't packed. With every step he sank into the powder, and he found it impossible to climb up the hill. After backtracking to the trail, he
sidestepped up the hill until he was directly next to Taylor, then once again left the trail, tugging his boots through the deep powder until he reached his daughter.

“Is she dead?” Ryan cried out. The sickening alarm in his voice could only be heard by his dad. The other skiers on the hill didn't seem to notice what was being said—or even realize what had happened.

Todd got down on his knees, straddled Taylor, and looked into her eyes. They were dilated and watery. He leaned closer, placing his left ear against her mouth, listening for breath sounds. Then he shouted.

“Listen to me, Ryan. I need you to listen to me. She's breathing! She's just knocked out.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Do exactly what I tell you. Kick off your skis and put them in the snow so they form an X, and then wave your arms at the skiers as they go by. You can yell, ‘Help!'”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Ryan said, as he looked at his sister's limp body and the gravity of it all sank in.

“Do it now!” Todd yelled. “We have to get help. Taylor can't ski down.”

Ryan immediately went to work and flagged down a skier, who used his cell phone to call the ski patrol. The time was 4:20 p.m. Within minutes, Taylor was taken off the mountain on a sled. Riding in the sled next to her were EMS officials who made sure she didn't code out on her first—and last—run down the mountain.

At 12:15 p.m. the next day, doctors at Grand Valley Junction hospital pronounced Taylor Storch dead. Her grieving parents wept by her bedside, and the doctor asked a single question that would forever change countless lives.

“Would you be willing to donate Taylor's organs?”

Donate Taylor's organs? Her parents had obviously never discussed it. Who thinks about such things? It doesn't even cross parents' minds that their child might die in a skiing accident—let alone whether or not they should donate their child's organs. But now, in Taylor's hospital room, the unwanted question stood at attention before them. Todd and Tara didn't say anything out loud, but they both knew what the other was thinking.

What would Taylor do?

It could have happened anywhere:

In the backseat of a car.

In the lunchroom at school.

In the gymnasium after a volleyball game.

In the bathroom in front of a mirror.

Or even in her bedroom.

All it took was a couple of girls trying to snap a picture of themselves, and Taylor couldn't hold herself back. Just as the girls lined
up perfectly in the viewfinder of a camera or cell phone, Taylor would sneak up behind them and position herself in the background of their photo. Sometimes, she stood there looking innocent, like she didn't even know she was in the picture. But more often, her presence was deliberate. She'd pose for the camera with a specific look—an arched eyebrow and pursed lip, a thumbs-up and a big smile, or eyes wistfully looking off into the distance while she made a heart with her thumbs and pointer fingers. No matter the occasion, Taylor had a pose. And she loved sneaking into other people's photos. Her friends thought it was hilarious because no one would know she was there until they looked at the picture.

Taylor was tall—five foot eight—and still growing. She had a lean, athletic build, perfect for a middle hitter on the volleyball team and a forward on the basketball team. She had long, straight brown hair that she wore up, down, in braids, or purposely messed up, depending on her mood and activity. But it was Taylor's eyes that were unforgettable. They were framed by long black lashes, and people compared them to the color made famous by the “little blue box” from the expensive jewelry store. Even strangers commented on the color of Taylor's eyes. Taylor had often heard her mother tell the story about the time she was two years old and an older woman in the grocery store stopped Tara.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” she had said in a loud and pushy voice. “Did you put mascara on your baby?”

This was back in the days before toddler pageants made reality TV. Tara was horrified at the thought.

“No! She just has really dark lashes.”

The lady turned away, obviously not believing that the little girl's eyes and lashes were natural. Over the years, others also noticed and commented. By the time she was in eighth grade, Taylor had just begun to get a glimpse of what other people saw. “My eyes are my favorite feature,” she'd recently told her mother.

But when Taylor snuck into the background (or, occasionally, the foreground) of her friends' pictures, those same stunning eyes
were just as often closed, crossed, or rolled upward. She was goofy and not afraid of being the punch line of her own joke—as long as it made other people laugh.

Tara watched as the students of Coppell Middle School East shuffled into the welcoming gym and found seats in the bleachers. The students were happy to be out of class and were excited for the pep rally. Taylor entered with a large group of friends. The girls were easy to spot in their black and red uniforms with white trim. They found a seat on the floor with the other cheerleaders. Sitting beneath the basketball hoop, with their tricolored pom-poms on the polished wood floor in front of them, the girls laughed and talked. But Tara could see from the look on Taylor's face that she was deep in thought.

Tara knew her daughter was going through a mental checklist. Ever since Taylor had entered middle school two years earlier, she had been a list maker. It was how she kept herself organized. In her notebook she made lists of homework assignments due, and on her nightstand she always had a list of what to bring to school the next day. But Tara's favorite list was the one her daughter made during the school day—a list of things she wanted to tell her mom when she got home from school. One of the items on that list the previous day was Taylor's reluctance to perform at the pep rally. Though she was a great athlete—a starter on the school volleyball and basketball teams—Taylor was not the greatest cheerleader, and she'd confided to Tara that she was worried about the routine. She wasn't sure she could pull it off.

Principal Laura Springer took to the microphone and made some announcements to gain control of the crowd. Before becoming an administrator at East, Principal Springer had been a beloved teacher among students at the local high school. Once she arrived at the middle school, it didn't take long for their little brothers and sisters to take a liking to her as well. They called her “Springer,” a name
that was fine with her. Laura Springer didn't fit into the traditional models of authority anyway. She preferred jeans and T-shirts to suits and blouses, and she was just as often seen roaming the halls talking to kids as she was seen in her office talking to educators. Tara knew that the kids, Taylor included, loved her.

While Springer spoke, Tara watched Taylor retie her shoes and check to make sure the red ribbon in her hair was securely tied. When the principal stopped talking, she motioned for Taylor to come to the microphone. Taylor bounced up and strode across the floor. Then she stood at the mic to make an announcement about an upcoming event. As she finished and turned to leave, Springer stopped her.

“Taylor, stay here. I have something for you,” she said.

At that moment, the volleyball coach appeared and handed Taylor a certificate.

“Congratulations! You're volleyball player of the week!”

Taylor took the certificate with all the poise of a middle schooler, and with a smile spreading across her face, she turned to rejoin her friends on the floor. Halfway there, Taylor abruptly stopped and turned around. Her smile turned to a grin as she passed Springer and the microphone on her way to the chairs where the band sat. She found her seat in the second row next to the other French horn players and checked to make sure her music was there. She was in place and ready to go as soon as the bandleader waved the baton and signaled the first notes of the East Broncos fight song.

Beginning French horn players don't make the sweetest sound by themselves, but when the middle school band played together, they actually sounded good. Taylor had never loved playing the French horn, but Todd and Tara had encouraged her to stick with it and she agreed. As the final notes of the pep song hung in the air, Tara, the other parents, and the students burst into applause. The crowd was there to celebrate all things Bronco, and the fight song was just one more element to cheer about.

As soon as the song finished, Taylor placed the French horn on her chair and scooted out of her row to find her way back to
the pom-poms she'd left on the floor. She picked them up and rushed to her spot in the center of the gym to take her place in the cheerleaders' formation. Tara saw the concentration on her face as the music started and Taylor joined the other cheerleaders in a routine she hadn't quite mastered. While the other girls did standing backflips and round-offs, Taylor glanced at her mother in the crowd. “Help me!” she jokingly mouthed to Tara, acknowledging her lack of cheerleading prowess. Tara smiled, encouraging her daughter. Taylor stuck with it and struck a pose, making the best of it until the moment passed and the routine ended.

A few weeks later, in the lunchroom, Springer sat at a table reviewing paperwork and watching the students emerge from the cafeteria line and find seats at the crowded tables. As Taylor walked by she caught the principal's eye. Maybe it was because she didn't take herself seriously, or maybe it was because she was involved in so many activities, but Taylor seemed to get along with everyone. She was outgoing and silly one minute and warm and welcoming the next, traveling easily from group to group and from one social activity to another. Unlike some girls who felt the need to protect their status by remaining exclusive, Taylor was as comfortable hanging out with the loners and the nerds as she was the popular girls in her own crowd.

But Springer also noticed Megan, a girl who wasn't in Taylor's circle of friends; in fact, Megan wasn't in anyone's circle of friends. She was a loner and comfortable with being separated from everyone else. But others weren't as comfortable. Springer had occasionally discussed Megan's aloofness at staff meetings. She worried Megan was spending too much time alone and didn't have any friends. The staff strategized about ways to get her involved, putting her in groups for academic activities, encouraging her to get involved in school clubs and other social activities, but they soon realized that Megan didn't want anything to do with their
ideas. Or with her classmates. Megan didn't want to be fixed. She appeared to be as comfortable with who she was as Taylor was. The only difference was that Taylor had tons of friends while Megan had none.

That day, as Megan sat alone at a lunch table reading a book, it was Taylor who couldn't stand it anymore. Springer watched as, without warning, Taylor got up from her table of friends, walked across the sticky cafeteria floor, and plopped her tray down next to Megan. Apparently, Taylor had decided that Megan needed a friend and that she would be that friend.

From where Springer was located she could overhear parts of the conversation.

“I've read that book,” Taylor said.

“I'm only halfway through,” Megan said.

Springer listened as the girls continued to talk about the book.

“Oh, that part is good. But wait until you get to the next part, it's amazing!” Taylor said.

Megan put down her book and picked up her lunch, and the two girls spent the rest of the lunch period talking about other books they'd read. When the lunch bell rang, Megan picked up her things and said goodbye to Taylor.

“Bye, Megan,” Taylor said.

Taylor didn't see Springer until she dropped off her tray.

“Taylor, come here,” Springer said. “I want to tell you what it means to me that you did that. For you to take your lunchtime and spend it with Megan instead of your friends tells me a lot about your character. I'm very proud of you.”

Without missing a beat, Taylor said, “Springer, I didn't do it to make you proud of me.” With a flip of her ponytail, she was off to class.