by Beth
Saadati
January 2
started like any other day—a welcomed return to structure and routine after two
weeks of winter break, with all the hope and promise that accompany a new year.
At 3:45 I naively wove through the high school car line to pick up my freshman
daughter, completely unaware the world I’d known was about to change.
In
the backseat, Jenna chatted lightheartedly with a carpooled friend and recounted the day’s happenings. One
awkward moment peppered the list—circulated talk about a guy with a girlfriend
who’d asked Jenna to the I.B. Ball, even though she’d said no. “I always
attract drama,” Jenna declared.
She
laughed it off then asked how many friends had emailed to say they planned to
come to a game night she’d host in three days. “You’re already up to fourteen,”
I replied. She smiled, seemingly happy with the news.
On
the afternoon of January 2nd, Jenna waved no red flags. Her arrival
home was followed by a little time in her room, the customary change of
clothes, a request to go to her “thinking spot” by the stream as long
as she returned in time to finish AP world history homework before attending youth
group. Without hesitation I agreed and returned to editing a friend’s novel—the
chapter in which the villain appears. Unsuspecting fingers clicked laptop keys.
Time
ticked by. Darkness replaced light. Jenna never arrived.
January 2
ended like no other night. A long search. A police interrogation. Friends
thoughtfully picking up my two young kids. Sirens, flashing lights, yellow
caution tape. Fear of abduction, fear unlike anything I’ve ever known,
concluding with a friend’s gentle delivery of eleven terrible words: “Your
daughter is dead. It appears she took her own life.”
Then
a wailing of “no” that didn’t sound like my voice. A sleepless night. A suicide
letter to read, a funeral to plan, painful decisions to make.
The
morning before visitation, I sat in the funeral-home parking lot with a family friend—a
friend who wanted to say his goodbye privately before the evening crowd came in.
We sat in the Accent for over an hour, neither of us ready to see the beautiful
girl who, in this world, would no longer smile, laugh, or open her eyes. He
glanced towards my seat, said he’d known someone who’d walked through
trauma and was never the same, said he didn’t want me to end up that way. I internalized
the challenge, assured him I’d be okay.