How was I supposed to do that, when I didn’t understand it myself?
Here’s what I knew about what had happened:
Brooke had been at a business dinner in Chicago. It was at a nice restaurant downtown, one with white linens and a skyline view. She’d been wearing a black dress and her mother’s pearls. Everyone at the table had been eating their main course—Brooke was having the tiger shrimp; I’d asked Quinn to find out, because for some reason, I wanted to know—when she abruptly put her hand to her head, murmured something about a headache, and tried to leave the table. She’d halfway risen from her chair, then keeled over onto the restaurant floor.
I’d asked Quinn to find out if the floor was carpeted. Thankfully, it was. I felt a little better knowing that her fall had been softened.
Everyone at Brooke’s table had jumped up in concern. Someone called 911, and a doctor dining with his wife across the room gave Brooke CPR. Medics arrived and transported her by ambulance to a hospital that supposedly has a world-class reputation, but when she arrived at the emergency room, she was pronounced dead.
Because she was only thirty-eight and seemingly in perfect health, the coroner had conducted an autopsy. The cause of death: an aneurysm had burst in her brain.
It was a fluke, one of those things nobody can predict or explain. There was no way Brooke could have known it was about to occur and nothing she could have done to prevent it. She had been the picture of perfect health. There was absolutely no reason that it should have happened.
So how was I supposed to explain that to a child who’s only been out of diapers a year?
“Well, honey,” I’d ended up saying, “your mommy had a problem in her head that no one knew about. The problem is called an aneurysm, and it’s very unusual. It got very bad very fast, and it killed her.”
Lily, bless her heart, hadn’t really understood. She’d been sitting on my lap on the sofa, hugging her stuffed bear. She’d turned solemn eyes up to me.
“So Mommy got sick?”
“Yes.”
“But she’ll get better.”
In Lily’s world, that’s what always happens. I blinked hard, my vision blurred. “Not here on earth,” I’d said. “But she’s in heaven now, and she’s all well there.” I’d glanced over at my minister to check my theology. He’d nodded encouragingly.
“When will she come home?” Lily had persisted.
“She can’t, honey. But one day we’ll all be together again,” I’d said.
“Where?”
“In heaven.”
“Well, then, I wanna go to heaven to see her.”
“You can’t, honey. Not for a long time.”
Lily’s face had twisted. She’d turned to Quinn, as if she didn’t trust me. “I don’ want to wait a long time to see Mommy.”
“I know, sweetie,” Quinn had said. “I don’t, either, but we don’t get a choice.”
“Why not?”
“That’s just how the world is.”
“I don’ like it.” Tears had streaked down her face. “It’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not, but life’s like that sometimes.” Quinn had reached over and taken Lily’s hand.
“Everyone’s life has parts that seem unfair,” the minister had said. “When someone we love dies, it’s normal to feel sad and mad and confused, and it’s normal to cry. That’s when friends and family can help the most. That’s when we understand how important is it to love each other and to take special care of each other.”
“Mommy an’ I always takes special care of each other.”
Quinn and I had looked at each other. I’d had trouble seeing her through my misty eyes, but I could tell she was fighting back tears, too.
“Jesus is taking very good care of her now,” I’d finally said.
