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scream, “Oh my
God!”  I kept saying, “That’s not Nicole,” but it only took seconds for me to
realize that it was her, hanging by her neck.  She was dressed only in a
hospital gown that looked like a tent on her thin body.  There was absolutely
no movement, just her head bowed and her limp body dangling against the red
brick. 
    My mouth
was open to scream, but I couldn’t muster a single peep.  There was nothing
left in me, as if the breath had been vacuumed out of my body, and without
regard for my passenger, I pushed the gas pedal to the floor and aimed the car
for the brick wall.  With any luck, I would be thrown through the windshield,
and it would be over quickly.  The closer the car came to the building, the
better I was able to see the horrible images of my daughter.  At that instant,
the screams finally came, and I bolted up in bed, wet with sweat, screaming at
the top of my voice.
    Images of
Nicole’s dangling body were all I could see for hours after I awoke, and I was
unable to calm the panic that filled my chest.  I thought about calling the
counselor, but it was Sunday.  I immediately dressed and left the house; I
drove around, I sat in the park, I went to the office, but nothing eased the dread. 
Out of options, I called Marlo.  Without letting on that I was in trouble, I asked
if I could meet with her the next day.  She paused momentarily before saying, “No
ma’am, you’ll meet with me today.”  I was apologetic but grateful.
     Within the
hour, we met at a local bistro.  I explained that I’d had a horrible nightmare that
was too gruesome even to recount.  “It’s okay,” she said.  “You talk about
whatever you want for as long as it takes you to feel okay.”  So we sat out on
the patio and talked for hours until the sun began to sink below the treetops.
    “How long
will it take for me to get better?”  I asked her.
    “You keep
asking me that as if you want me to give you a time frame.”
    That’s exactly what I wanted, some kind of grief chart that said in three
months, the tears will stop; in eight months, the gut-wrenching pain will
cease; in a year’s time, the sun will shine again.  I needed a diagram
wherewith to measure my progress, something to assure me that I wasn’t going
crazy, but
Marlo said there is no normal grief.  “It is what it is, and there’s no wrong
way to do it.”   
    “Can you
give me a time frame?”
    “I wish it
were that simple, but it doesn’t work that way.  And what do you mean by better ?”
    “When will I
stop crying?”
    “Never, your
child is dead.”
    I told Marlo
that I was moving out of the house.  I had been thinking about it and had
mentioned it to her once before, but I’d decided that it was time.  She tried
to discourage me saying that it was unwise to make major life changes while in
a state of grief.  Regardless, the house held nothing but bad memories. 
    I had moved
into the small bungalow to save money for Nicole’s transplant.  The gentleman
that rented to me had done so at a mere pittance.  The place was impeccable,
and he handled the maintenance like clockwork.  Once when I arrived home from
work in the dead of winter to find the heat not working, I called him and left
a message.  He returned my call from whatever sandy beach he was vacationing
on, and within two hours a heating and air truck pulled into my driveway.  Each
year when I renewed my lease, my rent stayed the same.  “How’s that little one
gettin’ along?” He’d always ask.
    That aside,
Nicole was sick when we moved in, and every room in the house held traces of
illness and misery.
    “Will you stay
in the area?”  Marlo asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Will you
just rent somewhere else?”
    “I think
I’ll buy.”
    In the meantime,
I had begun packing and thought it was best to get Nicole’s room out of the
way.  After a week or so, nothing in her room was packed.  I’d go in her closet
and slide the clothes from one end