Motion Masquerade

May 23, 2003
I’m standing in the kitchen of our two bedroom apartment on Orange Grove Road. My husband has just said something that has me laughing so hard I have tears running down my flushed chipmunk cheeks. The phone over the antique microwave rings. I’m not a fan of telephone conversations so I check the caller id: Opal E. I always pick up for her.

“Hey Grandma,” I say, still laughing, “what’s up?”

Her voice is quiet and choked with sadness. I can barely hear her, “Chris.. Chris… Oh, God,” she wails.

I put my right hand out in front of me, palm toward Michael, and give him a serious stop glare. “Grandma,” I say with an even tone, “what’s wrong? I can’t understand you.”

“When are your parents back from vacation?” she asks through her tears.

“They just left this morning,” I answer. “They’ll be back in a couple of weeks.”

“I don’t want to ruin their trip,” she replies.

“Grandma,” I say more sternly, “what’s going on?”

“Oh, darling,” she says, and starts crying with renewed vigor, “Christina was killed in a car accident this afternoon.”

My stomach feels cold. My knees start to buckle. My hands slicken with sweat and I nearly drop the handset. “What?” I whisper.

I still have my cousin’s most recent letter — received just the day before and unopened — on my desk.

“I don’t think we should tell your folks until they get back from their vacation,” my Grandma says quietly. “Darling, I have to go.” The line goes dead before I can say anything more.

My left arm drops to my side and the handset hits the linoleum floor.

Michael reaches out and places his hands gently on my shoulders, “What happened?” he asks.

“Christina’s dead,” I hear myself say. “I have to call my mom.”

The next several hours are a whirlwind of desperate activity. I call my mom’s cell phone and am directed to her voicemail. I tell her to call me as soon as she gets the message, regardless of how late it is. I call my dad’s cell phone and do the same. I text them: Call me asap. It’s important.

I drive to their home and search for their vacation details, but find nothing. I go through my mom’s address book (thank God she still keeps a hard copy) and find the number for my Uncle Kyle and Aunt Joyce. I dial with shaking hands. A voice I don’t recognize picks up the other end of the line.

“Can I please speak to Joyce or Kyle?” I ask.

“Who is this?” the woman on the other end of the line inquires.

“Cassie,” I say, “I’m Sharise’s daughter.”

I hear the lady relay this information to someone in the background and then my aunt is on the line. “Hi Cassie,” she says. Her voice is broken and raw.

“Aunt Joyce,” I say, “I am so, so sorry. I wish I could be there with you. I wanted to let you know that Mom and Dad don’t know yet. I’m trying to get ahold of them, but I haven’t been able to reach them. I won’t stop trying until I do. I love you and I can’t tell you how sad I am.”

My aunt is barely audible through her tears, “Thank you, Honey. We love you too.” And the line goes dead.

I drive back home and call my parents every hour on the hour until one in the morning. I leave another voicemail each time. I start to worry that something’s happened to them. I pace until I’ve left a ring in the carpet of the living room. Eventually, grief and exhaustion take over and I fall asleep.

At six the next morning I’m startled awake by the phone ringing.

“Cassie,” my dad says in a stern tone, “has something happened to your brothers?”

“No, Dad,” I reply, “It’s Christina. Christina was killed in a car accident yesterday.”

I can hear my mother scream in the background and a moment later I hear her say, “Kyle? Oh, Kyle! I’m so sorry…”

My dad spends the next fifteen minutes explaining that their phones died and that the next time an emergency like this takes place I need to do a better job of handling it.

I make plans to fly to Great Falls with my mom and baby brother for the funeral, but the morning of the flight I wake up sicker than a damn dog and can barely make it from the bed to the bathroom. I call to let my mother know I’m not going to make it. Mom is furious with me. I’m disappointed in myself too.

May 23, 2024
They say time heals all wounds, but twenty-one years later I can remember that day as vividly as a motion picture reel.

Every year around this time I start to feel melancholy; and often, I don’t exactly know why until I glance at a calendar and remember. Ah yes, the anniversary is upon me.

Of all my cousins, I was closest to Christina. We were regular pen pals and we had a lot in common. We both walked to the beat of a different drum. We wore our hearts on our sleeves and gave too much of ourselves to the people we loved. We had over-achieving, ambitious siblings that lived up to a different version of success than we did. We also had shared trauma that no one in our families wanted to talk about.

Christina was beautiful in every sense of the word. She had long, flowing, golden hair; gorgeous hazel-grey eyes that changed color in different light; and a smile that took up two-thirds of her face when it was in full bloom. Her laughter sounded like tinkle-bells, and she was never stingy about sharing it. She listened more than she talked, and she was definitely an empath. My cousin had a poet’s soul.

When her sister gave birth to her son on Christina’s birthday, she named him Christopher in honor of Christina. Sadly, my cousin didn’t live to see any of her nieces or nephew born. She would’ve doted on them unconditionally.

I’m grateful that she was able to meet my son, whom she adored.

Christina longed to be a wife and a mother. She wanted nothing more than a life full of love and laughter. She left us far too soon; but, the legacy she left behind is full of the things she desired. I have faith that wherever she is, she knows that; and I hope that one day I will be met on the other side by her infectious smile and musical giggles.

I miss you, Chrissy-Girl.