Little Girl Lost: Volume 1 of the Little Girl Lost Trilogy. Cindy Hanna

to her little brother, she hears someone call his name in guttural tones—it is herself. “Oh, my God! Eric. No! Eric!” She drops to her knees by his side.

      One of the lifeguards tries to pull her away but she fights him, crying, “Get off me! This is my brother.”

      A second lifeguard steps in to help pull her away. “Miss, you’ve got to let them do their job.”

      Sally relents. “What’s wrong with him? Why isn’t he moving?”

      One of the lifeguards answers, “Looks like he’s broken his neck, probably when he hit bottom.”

      Horrified, Sally looks at her brother’s lifeless form.

       He’s so…pale.

      “He took in a lot of water,” the lifeguard continues. “They’re trying to breathe life back into him….”

      The lifeguard cannot bring himself to finish. Sally helplessly watches as they work on Eric for what seems like forever. She hears the shrill wailing of approaching sirens in the distance and mumbles, “What am I going to tell her? How will I— She trusted me— I was— I was supposed—”

      She rides with her brother in the ambulance as the EMTs furiously attempt to revive Eric’s still, small body.

       He’s so grey. Come on, buddy, fight. I’m right here. Don’t leave me.

      Every mile they drive draws Sally into a deeper state of shock.

      Her heart pounds, her skin grows cold, and her mind thrashes against the horrific scenario playing out before her.

      Upon arriving at the hospital, they pronounce her baby brother— her buddy—her soul mate—her confidant—dead.

      Sally falls into a zombie-like state, going through the motions of life, yet gaining no enjoyment from them. All she wants is to smile—really smile again. She simpers on the outside while crying on the inside.

       I just want to laugh with him again. I loved belly laughing with him until we couldn’t breathe. I feel so cold—frozen—like an isolated iceberg.

      Sally hates to be cold. She is alone and feels alone. Nothing she does has any real meaning. She awakes, sobbing, every night reliving that dreaded moment on the beach.

       Why did we take one more ride? If I’d insisted on leaving, Eric would still be alive. Why did I let him talk me into catching that wave? Why?

      Sally avoids going to bed until the wee hours of the morning, fearful of nightmares. Her stomach muscles hurt from constantly crying. She hugs herself in an attempt to halt the impending ache. A sickening artificial smile appears on her face and her eyes burn as tears flood them, endlessly streaming down her cheeks. Silently, they come like Ninja soldiers making a stealthy attack. Without warning, they overwhelm her.

       Just once I want to win this emotional war. But I can’t. This is what I deserve—this hell I’m living. This is my punishment for failing my little brother.

      And so her torment continues. Sally falls asleep sobbing and awakes crying out to Eric. Every night and morning, there is a fresh puddle of salty tears soaked into her pillow. She hates the mornings most, for with them comes the gut-wrenching reminder that she has to face yet another day without her beloved brother. There seems to be no end to her purgatory.

      Sally’s mother has her own demons to contend with. Wracked with the grief and guilt only a parent can feel, she questions her every decision of that fateful day and seeks clarity by journaling.

      Why did I let Sally and Eric to go the beach alone? Why didn’t I go with them? Surely I could have saved Eric from that horrible accident—if only I’d been there. Why was he taken from me? What did I do to deserve this? What did he do wrong? Why wasn’t I allowed to say, Ügoodbye”?

      I can’t stop scorning myself for not giving him a hug before they left for the beach. It’s stupid. I was washing dishes at the time and my hands were wet. I was too worried about dripping water on the kitchen floor to give my son his final hug goodbye…and now I’ll never be able to hold him again. Why didn’t I just take the time to embrace my child?

      When will these incessant daunting questions stop plaguing my every thought? At times, I think I’m going mad. Might be easier if I did. At least then I wouldn’t be aware of the immeasurable pain I’m in.

      I’m a horrible mother! A good mother would have kept her son safe. A good mother would have saved him. A good mother would have been there with him as he lay dying: to hold him, to hug him and to comfort him. Why wasn’t I a good mother? How can I do right by Sally, after so completely failing her brother? I can’t. She’s better off if I just stay out of her way.

      I know Eric’s death isn’t Sally’s fault, but…. Why did Sally let them ride an eight-foot wave? She should have known better. As the older sister, she should have seen it coming and protected him. I am a horrible mother. I just realized that deep down I do blame Sally for the loss of my son.

      At a time when they should be drawing on one another for strength and comfort, Sally and her mother fall into the pit so often visited by those overwhelmed with grief. They grow further and further apart. They speak to one another only when necessary and spend little time together, avoiding the house that reminds them of their terrible loss.

      Just as Mr. McFee’s violent temper had never been discussed, Eric’s death is their elephant to ignore. It takes its toll on Sally and her mother. Since the day of the accident, neither has been able to bring herself to face Eric’s bedroom. Instead, they close the door. This allows them to fool themselves into thinking that perhaps Eric will come bounding out of his room in his goofy manner at any moment. But they both know better. His contagious laughter will never again liven their house.

       We’ll never see his twinkling green eyes or feel the warmth of his embrace.

      These are the realities that neither can bear to accept, so Eric’s room remains sealed—unaltered—as if a shrine. Their loss and shame is never faced.

      Collectively, mother and daughter come to realize that it is better to keep his room shut and ignore it, than to face their shattered emotions.

CHAPTER 3

      Sally’s mom cannot bring herself to go home after work, following Eric’s death, and finds herself volunteering to work longer hours. She runs meaningless errands to avoid the inevitability of returning home.

      Sally cannot stand how everything—school, house and neighborhood—reminds her of Eric. She begins hanging with the druggie kids from school in an attempt to block out her pain and loneliness.

       I hate being alone. These druggies have reached out to me. They accept me and it feels good to be wanted. And their drugs numb my pain.

      Their leader, Grease, presents a proposal to her. “We’ll let you in our group. But you have to prove your allegiance.”

      Sally asks, “What do you want me to do?”

      Grease looks her straight in the eye and responds, “Shoplift.”

      It is almost the end of the school year. Sally is seventeen years old and lured by the numbness the drugs will offer. Feeling confident that she can pull this off without getting caught, she does not back down from Grease’s penetrating gaze and replies, “All right.”

      During lunch, Angel and the other druggies drive Sally to the market. They wait in the parking lot by their car as she goes inside.

      Sally nervously walks up and down a few aisles, summoning courage to go through with her initiation.