“EVERY 15 MINUTES A PARENT GOES THROUGH THIS AGONY?”

I knew the doorbell was going to ring.  I knew the police officers were coming to our house, all solemn-faced and serious, as if it were the real thing. I knew they would tell us that our daughter Alison, 18, a senior in high school, was hit by a drunk driver.  I knew they would say she was dead.

When the police car pulled into the driveway, my husband heaved a big sigh.  “They’re here,” he said.

Two men – funny, I can’t picture their faces – walked into our house and asked us to sit down.  They kept standing.

“I have some very bad news,” said the shorter man.  “Your daughter was in an accident.  She was driving home from her boyfriend’s house.  A car ran the stop sign at Fern and Abbott.”

Short sentences.  Brief.  To the point.

He hesitated, took a deep breath.  “She didn’t make it.”

She didn’t make it.  I knew this wasn’t real. I knew that Alison was spending the night at a local church with a dozen other high school seniors, preparing for the “Every 15 Minutes” program on drunken driving.  But those words – she didn’t make it – took my breath and my reason away.  I couldn’t quite figure out what they meant.

The police officer handed me a faded blue t-shirt discarded by my husband years ago.  Ali loves that shirt because it’s so soft.  She wears it almost every night, and there are holes in it where the material has worn through.

“Alison was wearing this,” the policeman said, “when she died.”

Died?  I knew she was alive.  I knew I’d see her the next morning at the school assembly.

She’d give me a big hug and smile her beautiful smile.

I knew all this, but my heart was beating faster, and I just wanted these strangers to go away.

“Who was driving the other car?” I asked, awkwardly trying to fill the silence in the room.

“A 26-year-old man.  He’d been drinking at a tavern all afternoon.  He was drunk.”

It’s not real, Kathy, I kept saying to myself.  This is not really happening.

The police officer asked if he could do anything, and we said, “No, thank you.”  He gave us a business card for the Herring Funeral Home.

A real funeral home on a real street in our real town.

“Why isn’t she at the hospital?” I asked.  Because I was thinking, even though I knew it wasn’t real, “Maybe they made a mistake, maybe she’s still alive, and why would they take her to the funeral home, shouldn’t she see a doctor, isn’t there always something doctors can do?”

“They had to cut her out of the car,” the policeman said.  His voice was soft.  Comforting.

“She was alive for a few minutes.  She said to tell you that she loves you.  Those were her last words.”

We nodded our heads – what could we say? – and squeezed the blue shirt, the soft one with the holes in it that Ali wears to bed every night.

We stood up and shook their hands.  It seemed like the thing to do.  Their badges, I noticed, were bright, polished.  When they left, we shut the door gently behind them.

We knew we would see Alison the next morning at the senior class assembly.  My husband would speak at the assembly, telling the story of her life, trying to describe how much we love her, and how her death has left a big hole in our lives.

We were both scared, trembling actually, because it all seemed too real.

Other parents – so much braver than us that it’s not even fair to draw a comparison – would speak, too, but they would talk about real death.  The knock on the door was unexpected, the pain and the horror never ending.

Before we went to bed, I kissed my 15-year-old son goodnight.  He said, “I love you.”  Maybe a dozen times.  More than usual.

I wanted to kiss Alison goodnight, too.  I wanted to tell her how much I love her.  I wanted to apologize for anything stupid or insensitive I might have said or done that day, or any of the 6,644 days of her life.

I wanted to hear her say, as she always says, “Chemesherfires,” which means, “Check on me when I’m asleep, make sure there are no fires.”  She started saying that in first grade, when firefighters talked to her class about houses burning and people trapped inside.

Not a day has gone by, not one goodnight kiss has gone unaccompanied by those final parting words, “chemesherfires.”  Even today -- when Ali is 36 years old, a special education teacher in Seattle, married, expecting her first child – she sometimes says, “Don’t forget, Chemesherefires,”

Maybe, just maybe, in that magical thinking kind of way, we believe the word will prevent that knock on the door.  Maybe the word will keep her family safe.

I have heard that the two most common prayers are “Help me!” and “Thank you.”  Every morning and every night, all these 16 years later, I repeat those words. 

“Help me.”

“Thank you.”