July 25th - the hardest day of the year...

I met her first on a warm, humid summer day. I had seen the bikes parked under the patio of the house at the end of the street for a few weeks and I had hoped that there was a girl living in the house that was my age. I desperately wanted a friend in my new neighborhood. With patience, I would ride by the yellow house day after day, hoping to catch a glimpse of some hope that my new best friend would live there.

Finally it happened… our street was about ¼ mile long with about 14 houses. This was the only house that I thought might have someone my age. And there she was. Standing at the end of her dirt driveway, long hair in a sideways ponytail, dressed in a bathing suit with a beach towel around her shoulders. She looked my age and I was so excited that I stopped immediately and introduced myself, not even worried that I was making a total fool of myself. I remember telling her my name and finding out yes, we were the same age, in the same grade. Her name was Stacie and even in that moment, she seemed so much more “girly” than I was. In a shy voice, she told me that she and her sister were going down to the Saco river for a swim. And even though her sister was only two years older, she looked like an adult. Close enough for me – I rushed home and told my mom I was going swimming and fudged, just a bit, on her sister’s age.

With my dog, Penny, at my side, I was back at her house in minutes with my bathing suit on. I had a friend! The trip that day to the river was the first of many days we would spend at the “campground”. (In reality, it was a tiny road with six pop-up campers.) The river provided the perfect swimming hole and the mucky clay on the bottom, blood suckers, and occasional brush on the legs by the fresh-water eels did not deter us from a cool swim. A raft made of wood planks and empty barrels provided hours of entertainment as we would swim underneath, perhaps surfacing in the air pocket in the middle.

That day started a friendship that would last 10 years, cut short by a careless act of selfishness. When I think of my childhood, my memories all center around Stacie – whether it was the feeble attempt to build a fort down in blackberry pit, resurrecting opposing castles in the snow banks at the bus stop or doing our hair together before a school dance. My memories with her are all crystal clear amid a contrasting compilation of barely-there and hazy recollections of the rest of my childhood. It is with startling clarity that I remember the thickness of her hair, the love she had for her poodle, Tuffy, and her distaste for doing chores (especially the bathroom – which I did for her on many days). We would do Jane Fonda aerobics together, listen to Kenny Rogers, and watch Blue Lagoon and Michael Jackson’s Thriller video over and over.

I would do no justice to her memory if I didn’t capture those things that perhaps may not be viewed as overly positive, yet at the time, completely defined her. As much as I didn’t sleep, she slept. And we used to joke that she slept like the dead. Nothing would wake her. She would study so hard for every exam, and yet I would always get a better grade despite not studying. This infuriated her and always made me feel bad. I was chronically early and she was chronically late. I would show up at her house on the way to the bus stop in the morning and her family was none too pleased when the dog would bark at my knocks and wake them up. They never understood why I chose to spend more time at their house than mine. They never knew that when I thought of "family" or "home", they were my definition, not my house.

It was Stacie’s tendency for jealousy that I never understood. After all, she had the one thing I wanted more than anything – a stable, loving home environment. Her family was close, told each other they loved each other frequently, and you could tell how much they all adored her. Even though we were both the youngest of three, it couldn’t have been a more stark contrast.

We had our ups and downs, as teen girls do, but regardless of what was going on, we always spoke on my birthday and on her birthday. It was something we never missed.

She wanted to be a marine biologist – had since the day I met her. She wanted to grow up, get her degree, get married and have two little girls named Hannah and Megan. She also longed to have straight teeth and this would prove to be the only desire she had come to reality. She died shortly after getting her braces off. (Maybe this lends to my strong desire to have my girls appreciate their orthodontics.)

We hadn’t seen each other for quite a few months and it was her 21st birthday. I had Brooke just three months earlier, when I met up with her and some other friends at the bar at the Marriott. I never went "out" so it was so odd to be out, amongst friends. We hadn’t talked in months, as I was busy with the three girls and dealing with the mess Kirk had left me in. But I wanted to see her.

At some point late in the evening, we both went to the ladies room and I will never forget the conversation. Something within me told me to let her know what she meant to me. I must have sounded like a babbling fool – telling her how much I loved her, that she meant the world to me, and she was the most positive thing to come out of my childhood. I thanked her for her friendship and for all of the memories. I told her how beautiful I thought she was and how honored I was to have her as my best friend all of those years. I remember being so overcome with emotion, that I started crying. She hugged me and told me that I was being silly. She told me she loved me too… I'm sure she was trying to figure out how I had gotten "drunk" after not drinking alcohol! How else could my emotional outburst be explained?

That was July, 1991. I spoke to her on my birthday that October. A quick conversation, checked on the kids, and caught up briefly on life.

Two months later, I received word that would forever change my life. I didn’t have a phone in my apartment as diapers and formula took precedence. My mother showed up and told me that she had bad news. Stacie had been in a car accident and she was in critical condition. She didn’t know much other than the fact that her sister and brother were in the car, and although injured, they were expected to be ok. However, Stacie was much more serious. It was four days before Christmas.

She was in ICU at Eastern Maine Medical Center in Bangor – a 3-4 hour drive north. One of my biggest regrets now is not leaving immediately to see her. But I had no one to watch the girls as my mother was heading for potentially life-threatening surgery the following day. And it was that next morning I learned that she died. At the hands of a drunk-driver. Katherine Bolduc, 34 years old, her two kids in the car. Multiple DUIs to her name. At a Christmas party and no one stopped her. No one took her keys. They let her kill my best friend.

I would later learn that Stacie was driving up to spend Christmas with her mother and step-father, bringing her sister and brother. She saw the car coming towards her on her side of the 4-lane road, but she was on a bridge. She was trapped and she knew she was going to die.

At MMC that day, I was in the ICU waiting room as my mother was coming out of surgery. I was crying and filling my sister in on the details when another visitor spoke up. Ironically, I learned, she had been on the rescue unit that was first on scene to Stacie’s accident. She assured me that Stacie had been killed instantly, had not suffered, they only kept her alive long enough to donate her organs. She didn’t suffer, she told me. Yet, how can you say she didn’t suffer if she saw her impending death? I shudder to think of those last minutes of her life before the impact.

The funeral was little more than a blur – the church filled with friends, family, and many Maine State Troopers (her step-father was a State Policeman). But we couldn't help but smile and even giggle a bit when the song "Don't Worry... Be Happy" came loudly from the church speakers. The minister let everyone know, that's what Stacie would have wanted. He commented on her love of dancing in the rain and I knew that he was referring to my special memory. During any substantial rain storm, we would meet at the halfway point between our houses, dancing and singing like fools.

I wrote this post on her 38th birthday, 7/25/08, but she will forever be 21 in my heart and in my memories. A life cut short due to a tragic selfishness and utter disregard for others. I pray often that I will one day forgive her killer and all of those that allowed her killer to be on the road that day. And I pray that no one will ever have to know this pain.