The Star of David
Hopsewee Plantation, Georgetown, SC, August 2018
The docent ushered us up the grand staircase of the old plantation house to the second floor. Lizzy wriggled and twisted in my arms, straining her neck to catch a view down the stairwell. I bounced and jiggled her through the description of the upstairs bedrooms, whispering occasional acknowledgements of her burbled commentary. As my mother and little sister asked questions about the antique warming pan laying by the fireplace, I thought about the people who had lived and died and had their babies in this home, and I dreamed of the home I wanted to build one day for Lizzy.
Eager to get down and run around, Lizzy squirmed and twisted and giggled until I eventually led her out to the back porch overlooking the river. We walked down the stairs; I placed her in the verdant grass and off she ran to explore wildflowers and practice headstands. The vista of riverfront opened up before me, majestic, moss-draped oaks towering in a hushed canopy above our heads. Lizzy danced and played and laughed and I lifted her into air and swung her in dizzying circles. My little sister joined us, and Lizzy took our hands in hers and walked towards the sun shimmering off the river, her bright face yearning towards the light.
Mount Harmon Plantation, Earleville, MD, December 2020
The docent led us into the front hallway, pointing out the intricate Chippendale pattern of the grand staircase and the Asian-inspired wallpaper. My father and little sister peppered her with questions about the antique chairs in the hall as Cece squirmed in my arms, restless to keep moving. I bounced and jiggled Cece, whispering responses to her coos, commentaries, and complaints alike. Cece wriggled and twisted, bored with the proceedings and eager to get down on the ground and practice her standing.
After the tour, we set out a picnic by the boat dock, watching the winter sun refracting against the river. The bare trees swayed with the chilly wind and we nibbled on chicken and cranberry lettuce wraps and drank Mexican hot chocolate to the sound of laughter echoing into the cream-blue sky. I bundled Cece up in Lizzy’s red coat with gray bunny ears and we walked alone to the end of the pier. I pointed out the sound of the water lapping against the pilings and the osprey’s forlorn calling overhead.
I told Cece about everything that I could see as she burrowed her pink-cheeked face against my shoulder and kneaded mittened hands into my neck. I told her that places like this made me think about Lizzy, and that one day, I would tell her all about her big sister in heaven. Then I made the same promise to Cece that I had made to Lizzy and told her that no matter how long it takes or how hard I have to work for it, I will give her the life she deserves: the life Lizzy deserved.
The sun traced ice palaces of light into the face of the waves; the sky swelled with marshmallow-whipped clouds and then exhaled a pine-scented breeze. The hollies and magnolias smiled in evergreen splendor, and the dock creaked and swayed to a wild wintry melody. I held Cecilia close, watching a herd of deer graze near the beach, then turned and walked back to the car.
Sometimes, I feel like I’m living my life on repeat. You would think that by now I would have stopped saying phrases like “it was supposed to be . . . .” but I haven’t. I can’t help but think about what yesterday would have been like with a three-and-a-half- year old Lizzy running around the boxwood gardens, helping to push her little sister in the stroller, and playing at the water’s edge with her aunt. I can’t help but wonder if Cece would be walking now with the constant presence of Lizzy’s inexorable physical prowess as guidance and assistance. I wonder if Cece would be talking by now. I think about what it would be like to watch my daughters opening Christmas gifts together underneath the sparkling gold and red tree or eating mini-gingerbread man cookies together.
I simply don’t know what it feels like to have two children alive at the same time. It is a wound that never stops aching, a wound that properly belongs to the much deeper wound that is Lizzy’s death. Because Cecilia was born into a valley of grief, diagnosed with a life-threatening disease, and then plunged into the midst of a worldwide pandemic, Cecilia has never interacted with another child her age. At first, I simply couldn’t be around babies and toddlers; now, there is so much fear from every direction prohibiting us. And I cannot help but wonder how much happier and healthier Cece would be with the constant companionship of her big sister.
I think every mother wishes to spare her children from pain and alleviate any burden unfairly placed on that child’s head. Cece was given multiple burdens before ever she entered this world. She is a different child to the child that she should have been, and we are a different family than the family that we should have been. Now, it is just me and Cece. Who we are today is a product of the suffering that lives within us and behind us every single day. I do not dismiss nor diminish that this suffering has made us both stronger; I simply yearn for an alternate version of my life in which I didn’t need to require an unjust and precocious strength from my nineteen-month old daughter.
As Christmas approaches with winter looming not far behind, I begin to think of the advent of Cecilia’s second birthday. It remains a massive milestone in my head, as though the idea that I can mother a child past the age of two is nothing more than a ludicrous fantasy. But, again, reality sets in, telling me that if Cecilia dies, it will not be in the same way or at the same time as Lizzy. And yet, here I am, stuck in this endless loop of believing that my world will surely come crashing to an end on May 21, 2021, sixteen days after Cece’s second birthday.
There is no real key to combatting trauma. There is just the grueling reality of mental health and the constant struggle to reason with an internal voice that occasionally eviscerates your sanity just for fun. I consciously recognize that I am stuck in a trauma loop, but a part of me also realizes that I likely cannot free myself from that loop until Cecilia survives her third year of life.
As it gets colder and I arm wrestle with my fear daily, I try to remind myself of the reason why I’m fighting to keep Cecilia alive. I remind myself of days like yesterday, when the beauty of the world and the beauty of my daughters blend synergistically in an intoxicating vision of what could be. I think about how Lizzy is still present in everything that is beautiful and how Cecilia is present in every way that the word “presence” indicates. I fight the darkness and I fight the despair, and as the days grow shorter and shorter and the nights stretch longer and longer into visions of the hospital, I try to remember that the sun will come back; Cecilia is still fighting by my side, and one day, I will see Lizzy again.
What lies in between is a slow climb uphill: an inglorious and unseen battle for sanity and strength when I feel like there’s no strength to be found in my fragmented and foundering mind. It’s a constant thirst towards hope when my throat is swollen and parched: a hunger so deep it’s begun to feed on my bones: a wanting so consuming that it dwarves both desire and and longing with its immensity. I can feel my endurance waning and my will faltering as my flesh begins to cling to my ribs and my organs shrink and swell. I want to believe that I’m dying and not fighting for life with every step. I want to believe it’s all coming to an end, and somewhere beyond that end, I will find Lizzy.
It is in these moments that, almost unconsciously, I find myself raising my head to the sky. And it is there that I find Cecilia, blazing like the star of David, emitting a light so magnetic, I can do nothing but follow it. Like her big sister before her, Cecilia takes my hand and guides me to the light from which she is currently undifferentiated. Blindly, I follow her, guided only by her hand in mine, recovering a strength I thought had abandoned me.
I can see now that Cecilia is leading me to a place beyond my weakness, a place where there is no room for failure. And I find that it doesn’t matter how much fear or despair plagues me because the beacon that is Cecilia will always shine brighter than my hunger or thirst or helplessness. She shines so brightly that I can no longer see my own frailty, that I must learn to walk guided by the touch of her hand. And so I will follow her touch like it’s water or air or fire, guiding my steps as I navigate this mountainous grief, anchored by the feel of her hand in mine.
And perhaps, once we finally reach the top, I will find that Cecilia is gently transferring my grasp to her big sister’s hand, the light is concretizing into Lizzy’s smile, and she is walking with me once more towards the light shimmering off the river.
