Taylor's Gift (15 page)

“Would you be able to talk to them? Not only are they missing Taylor, but they're also worried about you, Tara, Ryan, and Peyton. You're all part of this community.”

I didn't even have to think about it. “I'll be there tomorrow.”

I had always liked Taylor's friends, but after talking with them at the visitation, I had a renewed sense of connection with them. I wanted to take care of them and let them know it was going to be okay. I wanted to be their friend and hear how they were doing.

Tara was sitting out on the back patio. When I found her, I told her about the conversation I'd had with Laura and how we'd been invited to come up to the school for lunch.

“I can't, Todd. I can't,” Tara said. “You go.”

I understood. It had been hard for her to see some of Taylor's closest friends at the visitation and funeral. Tara didn't receive the same kind of strength from them that I did. Though she hadn't woken up screaming for a few days, she still cried and had that same vacant look in her eyes. The nausea prevented her from eating, and now chest pains were making it hard for her to breathe. She was in no shape to leave the house.

The next day, I met Laura in the cafeteria. After all the kids got their food and sat down, she stood on the stage and said, “We've had a tough time here the past few days. We're all missing Taylor. That's why I've asked Mr. Storch to talk to you.” Then she turned it over to me. I looked out across the cafeteria at the round wooden tables and watched some of Taylor's closest friends tearing up. Their heartfelt emotion touched me.

“First, I just want you to know we're surviving as a family and it's because of the love you've shown us. We're so thankful for
those of you who have prayed, stopped by, sent cards, or written notes for us. Thank you for loving us.”

I could hear some sniffling in the crowd. I turned in that direction and said, “It's okay to cry. We're going through all of those crazy emotions at our house too. I know this is just as tough for you as it is for the adults. But our family is going to be okay, and though it will be hard, you will be too.”

Trying to lighten the mood, I talked about Taylor's sense of humor and some of the funny things she did. I told them things they might not have known about her and things they could relate to. I reminded them of how she would sneak into their photos without their knowledge. I mentioned organ donation and how it had given us great hope because even though she was not with us any longer, she was still here in some small way, by making life better for others through her gifts.

The somber mood seemed to have turned as the kids responded to the stories I told. The lunch period was almost over, so I concluded by saying, “If you see me in the grocery store, and you want to give me a hug, you can. Or if you want to come by our house, come by. We don't always know how to respond, so it's okay if you don't always know what to say. I just want you to know we're here for you if you need us.”

A girl in gym shorts and a T-shirt asked, “Can I come by your house today?”

Another girl with short blonde hair asked, “I have a note I wrote to Taylor. Is there somewhere I can leave it?”

“Of course, all of you can come by anytime. You can leave the note in her bedroom, if you'd like.” As I said it, I immediately realized what was happening. The kids didn't have a place to mourn or pour out their grief. They needed a place. They were too young to drive, and even if they could, they wouldn't visit the cemetery or hang out in a big church all alone. They needed somewhere to gather individually, and in small groups, to remember their friend.

Taylor's room was the place they needed.

“Pull out your cell phones,” I said, “and I'll give you my number. That way you can call or text me, or you can just show up at the house. You can go upstairs to her room and just hang out for a while. Or you can write a note and leave it there, if you want. Whatever you want to do, know we love you, and we're all going to get through this together.”

Afterward, I followed Laura back to her office. On the way, we talked about how the kids seemed lost. They really didn't have a place to go and needed their own space.

I sat down in her office, and I mentioned the tree account. “I know people have been making donations to the PTO account to buy a tree in honor of Taylor. Maybe we could somehow make that a spot for the kids.”

“Todd, you realize that account has more than thirty thousand dollars in it, right?”

I was speechless. “Thirty thousand dollars?” It took a moment for the number to sink in, and when it did, I said, “We're not buying a thirty-thousand-dollar tree!”

Laura laughed.

“Look,” I said, “I don't know how any of this stuff works, but if we've got all this money, let's use it to do something great.”

She thought for a moment and then said, “The seventh grade class has the responsibility of a garden, but it has a lot of meaning to Taylor's class because they were the first ones to start it.”

“Great. We'll use some of this money to spruce it up. What do you need?”

“Oh my, we need everything! It's nothing but some sad little plants, a couple of weathered picnic tables, some old bricks, and a lot of kids trying to do good work.”

“Perfect. If we fix it up, maybe plant a tree or two and do a little landscaping, not only will it become a way to honor Taylor but it will also become a place for the kids to talk and grieve.”

We agreed on a budget for the garden and decided the rest would be used for scholarships. Jay Praytor, who owned a local
landscaping company, was also a former student of Laura's from her high school teaching days. I offered to call him and see what he could do for the budgeted amount. Laura thanked me for coming, and I thanked her for the opportunity to talk to the kids.

But I should have thanked her for giving me a purpose.

Tara

My brother Bill knew what he was doing even if I didn't catch on right away. Somehow, he convinced me to go for a ride by telling me I needed to get out of the house. He was right. I did. So many people and so much chaos filled the house during the days immediately following the funeral that I spent most of my time either secluded in the bedroom or out on the back porch.

We'd been driving around for about ten minutes when he decided he was hungry and needed to eat.
Why didn't he just eat at the house? There is so much food available, and he could have eaten anything.
I had been trying to eat, but I just couldn't keep anything down. Bill had prescribed Phenergan Gel for my wrists. It was supposed to stop the nausea, but all it did was make me sleepy.

“Anything sound good to you?” he asked.

I shook my head.

He made a left and then a quick right onto the main road. Up ahead, I saw a Taco Bueno, and I immediately knew that's where he was headed. Bill and I were both crazy about Taco Bueno. I loved everything on their menu. If I ever had to choose a death row meal, it would be Taco Bueno.

Before he placed his order, he asked again, “Are you sure you don't want anything?”

“I'm sure.”

“I'll have four bean burritos, three beef tacos, and four tostadas. And extra salsa, please.”

As the cashier repeated the large order back to him, I realized he had purposely ordered all of our favorites. After paying at the window, he handed the sacks to me. “Can you hold these, please?”

Driving back to the house, I could feel the heat from the food warming my thighs through my pajamas, and it felt good. I was always cold. The aroma of the spicy food began to fill the car. Surprisingly, it didn't make me feel queasy; it made me feel hungry.

We got back to the house, and Bill asked me to join him in the kitchen while he ate. I sat down as he plated some food and purposely left it sitting in the middle of the table. It didn't take long for me to have a bite.

For days, I had only sipped protein-packed smoothies and nibbled at crackers. Finally, Bill got his way. I ate. My first real meal after Taylor's accident was a tostada from Taco Bueno.

For the next eight weeks, I was never left alone. Just when things seemed to settle down, someone else would show up—friends dropping off cards, delivery services with flowers, or people bringing trays of food. Finally, someone got smart and attached a basket to the door with a note that said, “Please leave the family a note if you come by. Please don't knock at this time.” That helped to calm things down a bit. Each time someone new came, they wanted to hear details about what had happened from Todd or me. They had questions, or they wanted to see how we were doing. In those rare times when I
did
want to talk, I didn't want to talk about any of
that
.

When friends came over all dressed up, wearing jewelry and makeup, it would anger me. It would tick me off that they were going on with their lives, spending time shopping and looking cute,
while I was struggling just to breathe. Even smelling their perfume after they left made me mad.

But I knew the issue was me, not them. They were simply doing what they knew to do, just like all the friends who showed up to take care of us. While I didn't have the mental or emotional capacity to thank them, I couldn't have done it without them. These faithful women would come over and do laundry, make dinner, empty out cabinets, and organize the pantry. They'd make the kids' lunches, help them with their homework, and give them rides to practice or school activities, if they needed it. They cleaned, dusted, and vacuumed.

One friend even organized a meal calendar, so when anyone wanted to bring a meal, they would just call her. One day, she said to me, “I got a call from someone at your church who wanted to bring a meal to you tomorrow night, and I told them we already had it covered. They asked if there was a day next week when they could bring one, and I said we had that covered too. Then they wanted to know when the next available day was, and I laughed and told them—July 19.”

It was still March.

The generosity of this community of women was surprising, and at times overwhelming, but I couldn't have made it without their help. There was a gaping hole in our lives without Taylor, but these women made sure nothing else fell through the cracks. Their presence allowed me to fully grieve.

The same afternoon that Todd visited with the kids at Coppell Middle School East, he started getting text requests to come to the house.

“Hey, Mr. Storch. It's Jordan. Is it okay if three friends and I come by at 4:15 today?”

I was in our bedroom when Todd told me he'd offered to let the kids visit Taylor's room, and now they wanted to come.

“Do you care?” he asked.

“No, I'm staying in here,” I said.

But it wasn't just that day. It was
every day
. Sometimes they would text or call Todd. Sometimes they'd just show up. The doorbell would ring, and when Todd opened the door, three or four girls would be standing on the front porch. “We want to write a note to Taylor. Can we go to her room?” they'd ask.

They almost always came in groups, with the mom who drove escorting them to the door.

“Sure,” Todd would say. “You know where it is; go on up.”

The mom who drove would stand at the door, awkwardly trying to express her sympathies. Todd would engage her in conversation and make her feel welcome. She'd say something like, “Should I wait or come back later?”

“You can go, if you want. I'm sure they'll text you when they're done,” he'd say.

Todd was a kid magnet, and he never wanted them to feel awkward. He stayed away while they were in Taylor's room and tried to make them feel comfortable when they weren't, or while they waited for their moms to pick them up. When they left, they'd hug him, and if I was there, they'd hug me too. He loved it. To me, it was just more beep, beep, beeping at the door and chaos in the house. Their cute little UGG boots, Nike shorts, and talk of volleyball tournaments were more painful reminders of what I'd lost.

A few days later, Kim Dicken came to visit me. Her daughter, Kate, had been best friends with Taylor. Like she had with Emily and Allison Sunshine, Taylor had made a lot of videos with Kate and uploaded them to YouTube. They would lip-synch to their favorite songs, and when people commented about what gifted singers they were, Taylor and Kate would laugh—the truth was they couldn't sing at all.

Like so many of my other good friends, Kim had been helping out. On this particular day, only she and I were in the house. Early
in the afternoon, I got up from the bedroom and walked to the kitchen to get some water. About the same time, Kim was walking down the stairs with a basket of dirty laundry. Though I hadn't been in Taylor's room since the accident, I immediately recognized the little basket she kept in her closet.

Kim had gathered up Taylor's dirty laundry—pajamas, Nike shorts, a couple of T-shirts, and volleyball socks. When I saw her come down the stairs with that basket, and I realized what was in it, I was like a two-year-old who didn't have the words to express her anger. I instinctively did the first thing that came to mind, and I slapped the basket out of her hands, knocking the laundry all over the floor. I reached down and picked up Taylor's clothes and started to bawl, and then I threw them down again.

Stunned, Kim hesitated for a second and then reached out and hugged me. She held me while I sat on the floor and cried. I was surprised at how childish I acted. I knew it was stupid, but at the time, it was just one more connection with Taylor I felt was being scrubbed away. When I finished crying and got up, Kim picked up the clothes, put them back in the basket, and went to do the laundry.

My neighbor Trista was our “Grief Fairy.” She had a way of sneaking into the house to do what needed to be done, then leaving again without anyone knowing she had been there. One minute I would look up and she was doing my dishes, and then I'd look again and she'd be gone. I would walk through a room, and the next time I was there things had been organized or rearranged. I'd go outside with dirty dishes standing in my sink, and when I came back in they'd be gone. Those were sure signs the Grief Fairy had been there.

One day, while Trista was sitting with me on the back porch, people kept entering and leaving the house. Each time someone went in or out, the alarm would make its annoying beeping sound.

“We've got to do something about that blasted alarm!” Todd said, as annoyed as I was.

Trista jumped up. “Where's your alarm pad?”

Todd showed her, and thirty seconds later she was back. “I fixed it so it won't beep every time you go in and out of the door,” she said.

“Are you kidding me?” Todd looked at her incredulously. “Someone should have done that ten years ago!”

That was just like Trista, always there with the right thing at the right moment.

My days were still filled with bouts of uncontrollable sobbing, nausea medication, and long periods of darkness when I disappeared into my thoughts. Days would pass and I barely realized it.