Getting back to why bad things happen to good people...

On Sunday I usually offer the thoughts of someone else - holy or wise, man or woman - someone possessing the former two qualities in greater portion than your host, which makes for a pretty sizeable pool of candidates. But today I'll just tell you a story. It won't take long.

Wednesday before last, at about the same time Terri Schiavo's feeding tube was being disconnected, my daughter Bernadette was teeing off in a golf tournament, a fundraiser for her high school alma mater. It's a rich kids' school. Bernadette is not rich, but she got to attend because her mama teaches there. She was invited to the tournament because she had played golf for the school and because she's good. They're proud of her, and still take notice of her progress in their monthly newsletters. She had to go out to all the par 3's and hit a shot to the green, and any of the foursomes could use her shot to putt from if none of theirs were closer to the pin. Almost all had to use her shot.

She had been invited to the tournament by a woman we'll call M., a former PE teacher who now works in the development office drumming up money for the school's foundation. She has known Bernadette ever since she enrolled at age 12. M. and Bernadette and two other ladies played in the same foursome. One was a rich realtor, the other a rich something else, and all were delighted to be playing with my kid. (Okay, she's a grown woman, 22 now.) And guess what. They won the tournament, shooting 63 in a scramble format. Rich ladies squealed in the ecstasy of triumph. There was lots of hugging, as women do. My woman-daughter-kid, being a pro, rendered herself ineligible for any prizes. But she didn't care. She was having too much fun. There was all the free food and drink she could handle. There was an auction at which people bid on various items: a round of golf at Lake Nona Country Club went for 300 dollars. A homemade cake might go for over a hundred. A rich man who belongs to some kind of consortium came up to Bernadette and told her to put a resume together so that his group might consider sponsoring her golf career. The rich lady realtor told her a few days later that she had gone to sleep that night with Bernadette's beautiful swing playing in her head. M., a bit of an athlete herself, said it was the most fun she'd had in quite a while. The kid came home that evening relaxed and glowing. Everyone had been sooo nice. She'd had so much fun. Life was good sometimes, in fact, at her age, most of the time.

The next night, Thursday, in the wee hours of the morning, M. got a phone call from some law enforcement agency in Georgia informing her that her daughter was dead.

M. had three kids, a son and daughter in their early thirties, and then this one, her youngest, 28. Kelly was her name. Bernadette had known her, though not intimately; she graduated within a year of Bern's enrollment. Kelly battled an eating disorder most of her high school years, anorexia I think. She had it bad, but eventually overcame it enough to live with it, though the struggle was always there. Even recently she told M. that she'd just like to get through a day when the mere thought of eating a McDonald's french fry didn't make her feel guilty. Kelly went on to Auburn where she got a degree in pharmacy and eventually married her college sweetheart. They even built a house together but, for whatever reason, the marriage didn't last. According to a friend, sometime during the year before her death, she and her ex had made "peace" with each other. She moved to the Atlanta area, and again found work as a pharmacist, apparently a very well-liked one. One gentleman, a customer, testified at the memorial service in Atlanta, that he had driven far out of his way in order to avail himself of her services.

Kelly began dating again, and eventually found a boyfriend. In time, she wished to break it off, but he wouldn't let go. He stalked her at home, at work, and left letters for her in such places as she couldn't help but find them. Two days before the night in question, a superior court judge had issued a restraining order forbidding the boyfriend from contacting her in any way.

Some of her family was coming into town for a weekend visit, but no one was there at the time. When Kelly got home from work that night, the boyfriend was waiting for her in a rented car, so that she would not see him and keep driving. According to neighbors, there followed a brief argument in the front yard and then a physical altercation, during which her assailant accidentally shot himself in the leg. She took off running for the safety of a neighbor's house, but he shot her in the upper back, bringing her down. Then he walked up to her and shot her in the head. Then he shot himself.

And so M.'s daughter, her baby, was gone, just like that. She can't bury her because the body is still being held as evidence in a crime.

Before all this, Bernadette had written a letter to M. thanking her for the invitation to the tournament, expressing gratitude that she had been let in free since she couldn't afford the 150 dollar entry fee, waxing effusive on just how much fun it had been, and offering to hit the links with her any time M. could find the time. Besides, she thought M. had a pretty good swing. I don't have the text before me, but she writes a nice letter. It was left on M.'s desk for her to find when she returned.

At the Episcopal memorial service held at the school a few nights ago, M. embraced Bernadette and told her that hers was the only letter she could get through. She wanted to take her up on that round of golf. I wonder what it was like for her, holding my twenty-something daughter while her own was slated for repose in the dark earth.

It's funny in life how we can be one thing one moment, and something else the next. It sometimes seems as though we are nothing on this earth, of no account. It seems the doubters have all the evidence on their side. Destiny's eye twinkles, and we are changed. And yet we believe, some of us. I thought I'd share Kelly's story because it's been on my mind lately. Rest in peace, child. You won't go hungry anymore.

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Comments:


That's every parent's nightmare, isn't it? It must have been terribly hard for Bernadette as well. Hope she's doing OK.
A fellow once told me that he didn't want a lot of kids. I asked him why, and he said that in every large family of his acquaintance something tragic happens to one of the children. Love is risky ...
Posted by Jeff Culbreath email at October 26, 2003 08:19 PM
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I'll remember Kelly at All Souls' Day mass next week.
Posted by Joe Marier email at October 26, 2003 09:37 PM
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It is a sad commentary on our culture that there is a national support group for parents of murdered children.My best friend lost her son and her nephew (her only sister's child) to murder 19 months ago. One never truly heals, I think. The scar tissue holds one together, but healing is so hard.My thoughts are with your daughter's friend's family.
Posted by alicia email at October 26, 2003 11:24 PM
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Thanks for your thoughts, and to Joe, for a beautiful gesture.
Posted by William Luse email at October 27, 2003 03:12 PM