A fictional story in remembrance of the 2016 Chatanooga School Bus Crash.
Every morning when I open my eyes, the first thing I see is the small square of bulletin board on the wall. At the top is tacked a selfie Ava took of us both on our last birthday together. At the bottom is a photo of Ava and I with our friends. In the middle of the board hangs an office calendar. Today’s date is circled in red with “Anniversary of Ava’s death” scrawled in the box. “Like I might forget November 21st,” I thought ruefully to myself when I woke today. Today’s a day I’ve been dreading, yet sometimes longing for, the past year. “I’m sure I can move on once a year has passed,” I thought to myself countless times.
I wasn’t so sure now as I lay in bed this morning, staring at the blurry calendar, hoping against hope the scribbles would disappear. That Ava’s death was all a nightmare, and she’s in the bunk above, yawning and stretching, ready for a bright new day.
Mom tapped on the door and stuck her head in. “Good morning, sweetheart.” Her eyes were red, and her voice sounded teary. “You all right?”
I nodded. “Just tired. My head hurts some, too.”
“Do you need any help? We need to leave in ten minutes.”
“No thanks,” I replied and got up, a bit stiff.
Putting on my glasses, I stumbled into the bathroom, trying to remember the things I needed to do to get ready for school. Unfortunately, my mental list seemed to be getting lost in my fibro fog. Before heading downstairs, I tried to comb my hair while packing my rolling book pack, but my silly left hand kept dropping things!
When I finally made it down, Dad was at the table. We exchanged hurried greetings before Mom and I ran out the door. Despite the time, Mom drove even more carefully than usual. Everyone was obeying the law, especially around school buses, probably remembering the Chatanooga bus crash.
“So,” Mom began at the first red light, “since it’s been a year…” She trailed off and glanced over at me for the first time during the ride.
“Yes?” I encouraged her, taking a bite of a breakfast bar.
She turned back to the light and tapped the steering wheel. “Will you go back to writing?” she finally asked.
I looked away. Ava and I had recorded our escapades together. Sometimes she’d paste in her photos. That’d been our special thing. Ava wouldn’t want me to do it without her. She never wanted me to do anything without her. I shook my head.
Mom sighed. “Okay,” she said. We didn’t talk for the rest of the trip.
When we pulled up to Woodmore Elementary, I hopped out, overly eager to get away. Most of the kids were in their classrooms already as I rolled my book pack down the halls. I take it to school because regular backpacks hurt my shoulders and back.
The teacher Ava and I had last year for Science called to me through the open door of her classroom. “Emmy! Is there anything I can do to help? Just say the word, sweetie!”
I thanked her from the bottom of my heart. It’s the kind people who’ve carried me through this.
“I’ll be at the church this evening.” New Monumental Baptist Church, she meant. That’s the church that held the memorial service for the six children killed in the Chatanooga school bus crash.
“Thanks! See ya there.” I tried to smile, but my face fell back into its sad default. Ava was one of those children. The rescuers couldn’t get to her in time. She died at the scene.
Morning classes blurred together. People who hadn’t spoken to me since the months after the crash came up to express their condolences again. Some said they’d be at the church. I thanked them, but by noon my thanks were automatic and I was just going through the motions.
In the cafeteria I sat at a nearly empty table and watched the three girls Ava and I were friends with. They’re the girls in the picture in my room. They changed after the accident and our friendship petered off. When I would come to join them at their table, they’d get real quiet and shift in their seats. Sometimes when one would start to say something the others would elbow her and frown. I could tell that I wasn’t welcome, so I started walking past their table and seating myself at an empty one.
They didn’t look as happy and carefree as usual today. This week a cloud bank from the tragedy has been hanging over the entire school and dampening everyone’s spirits.
It had been a long time since the girls had come over to see me, so I was surprised when they headed to my table. Jordan Taylor was in the lead, with the Morris sisters Grace and Faith straggling behind. They looked like they felt as awkward as I did.
“Hi, Emmy,” Jordan said, and pasted on a half-smile.
“Hey,” I returned, but didn’t smile back. I knew they’d walk away once they got whatever they wanted.
She cut to the chase now. “Mom needs to know if we’re still driving you home after school.”
“Yeah,” I answered. “Thanks in advance for taking me.”
“We’re coming with the Taylors, too,” Faith told me, nodding toward Grace.
I hadn’t known, although it made perfect sense. We were all going to my house after school for a gathering of friends and relations before heading to the church. I didn’t reply, and they left.
I sat through afternoon classes not taking in a thing of what was being said. Fortunately, none of the teachers asked me any questions. They were also sensitive to the other siblings of children who’d died in the crash. Even so, some of the kids broke down, probably at sudden memories triggered by who knows what. All week I’ve managed to hold in the tears, but today I cried in Science. Science was Ava’s favorite class, and today we were reviewing photosynthesis, something we learned right before the accident.
Somehow I got through the afternoon and found myself climbing into the van with Grace, Faith, Jordan, and her brothers. Mrs. Taylor tried to make small talk, but her attempts fell flat. When she pulled up at my house, her sons hopped out first and ran up the walkway. We followed. Inside Mom showed Mrs. Taylor where to put the dish she brought.
“I’ve got some photos of Ava on the bulletin board for our guests,” Mom said as we grabbed some potato chips from the food table. “Emmy, see if you approve. If you have any pictures of Ava you want to add, try and fill in the gaps.”
The girls followed me into the living room where I looked over the bulletin board. Mom was right, there were some gaps. “You can head to my bedroom if you want. I’ll catch up with you,” I told the girls. They nodded and strode off. I studied the board for a little while longer, then went to join them. As I approached, I could hear them talking.
“Remember when we used to have sleepovers in here?” Jordan asked. “Those were so much fun!”
“Yeah,” agreed Grace. “I miss them.”
“I miss the old Emmy,” Faith said, “the one who hung out with us instead of walking away. I miss her smile. Sometimes it’s like she died, too, or something inside her.”
“Walking away?” I repeated, stepping into my bedroom. “But you all don’t want me!”
“Don’t want you?” exclaimed Jordan incredulously. “Of course we want you. You don’t want us!”
“But I do want you!” I cried. “I’ve wanted you guys ever since you started being cold every time I came over.”
“Cold? We haven’t been cold! You’re the one who’s been cold!” protested Jordan, and Grace nodded.
“Whenever I’d come over you all would stop talking,” I accused. “You’d look down and squirm. Sometimes you’d elbow each other to stop each other from saying things.”
There was a pause, and realization seemed to flood over Faith.
“We kept making you cry, and we felt so bad,” she explained. “That’s why we would stop talking. It seemed everything we said made you remember your loss. We’d squirm and look down because we didn’t know what to say.”
“I think we’ve had major miscommunication,” Grace observed.
“Can we all be friends again?” I proffered. “Everything forgiven and forgotten?”
They grinned and nodded.
“Definitely yes!” declared Jordan.
“Absolutely!” agreed Grace and Faith together.
“Awesome!” I grinned, then had an idea. I went over to the square of bulletin board on my wall, then untacked and held up the picture of Ava and all of us. “Think we should put this on Mom’s bulletin board?”
“Yes!” they all chorused.
“Why don’t you bring the picture of you and Ava, too?” Jordan suggested. “There’s plenty of room on your mom’s board.”
I started to shake my head. “It’s spe—” But then I stopped myself. I didn’t want to risk the relationship we just patched up. I took down the treasured laminated photo and followed them to the living room.
While Jordan and Grace debated which gaps to cover up, Faith asked me, “Are you still doing your story writing?”
“No,” I stated simply, hoping she’d let it go. Mom was standing behind us, and I didn’t want her on my back again.
“Why not?” Faith pressed. “I thought you loved it!”
When I didn’t answer, Mom suggested, “Writing probably makes her miss Ava.”
I turned around. “That’s not the reason.”
“It isn’t?” Mom exclaimed. “Then what is?”
Jordan and Grace also fixed me with unwavering stares.
“Ava never wanted me to do things without her,” I spilled.
“So?” Mom and Jordan asked at the same time.
“Well, that’s it,” I replied.
“Oh, honey,” Mom said, wrapping her arms around me. “As the younger twin, Ava always wanted you to wait for her since you liked to blast off.” Mom’s eyes grew teary. “But you’re not waiting for her anymore.”
“Mrs. Cooper’s right,” Jordan nodded.
“No!” I cried. “You don’t understand! Ava— she—” She what? I felt like my thoughts were whirling around me. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t think! I clutched my photo, Ava’s photo.
There was a funny and definitely unique rap on the front door. Mom hurried to let in aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents. They poured into the rooms with dishes of food. After dropping them off in the kitchen and dining room, they tried to find a place to sit or stand where they wouldn’t be in the “traffic lane”. Mom asked me to help take jackets and coats. I put my picture down on a high ledge so my left hand didn’t drop it while I assisted people. There were over twenty family members and quite a few close friends, so I was busy for a while!
When things slowed down, my head was still spinning. So many people and faces and names! I went back to the ledge to get my photo, but it was gone. I searched while people milled about and murmured, but it was nowhere to be found! I started asking around, but everyone was beginning to pile into their cars and mini-vans to go to the church. Finally, Dad waved me over to our car. We were the last to pull away, since we had to lock the front door once everyone was out.
At church, our extended family filled several pews, and my friends went to sit with their families. After a long and weepy service, the mourning families stood in a row. Everyone else filed by and expressed their condolences. They gave a flower to each member of the mourning families. When the Morris family stopped by us, Faith pressed a pink rose and something else into my hands, something laminated. I looked down. My special photo!
After a long line of people came by, everyone went out to the cemetery. The families who had a child who’d died in the bus crash and were buried in the church cemetery stood together. Each family was called forward one by one to place their flowers on their child’s grave. I held my bundle of flowers in my right hand and hoped I didn’t drop the photo in my left.
When it was our turn — “Coopers, in remembrance of 9-year-old Ava Ruth Cooper,” Minister Hill announced — we walked slowly to her resting place and surrendered our bouquets. Mom arranged the flowers. Dad kept his head bowed. I kneeled before her gravestone, ran my fingers over the letters carved into the gray stone. My tears watered the flowers.
Suddenly a breeze blew my dark hair into my face and my left hand dropped the photo. It blew over, facedown, and I could see wavy lines on the back of it. Picking the photo up, I read the writing on the back, in Ava’s unsteady cursive:
“Emmy Cooper — I’ve never said it out loud since it sounds kinda silly, but I can definitely write it: Follow your dreams! Love ya! -Ava”
And suddenly I realized Mom and my new old friends were right. My writing was way overdue.
“I’m going to write again.” I wasn’t sure if I’d said it out loud or if it’d just been a voice inside my head, but then Mom smiled at me. She’d heard.
I flipped over the photo to see Ava with 9-year-old me. They gazed back with matching twin grins. I turned back toward Ava’s grave, but I knew she wasn’t there. I looked up at the horizon where the sky was turning all the colors in her bouquets. And I realized something else.
She’s the one waiting, now. Waiting for me.
On the ride home Mom and I took turns recalling funny stories about Ava (Dad was driving). We laughed and cried, and when we got home we all pitched in to fix Ava’s favorite dishes. In a way we were bringing her back, or at least bringing alive our memories of her.
After a scrumptious dinner, we played Ava’s favorite game, then went our own ways. I headed to my bedroom and pinned the photos back onto the bulletin board. Then I pulled out a notebook and started to write:
“Every morning when I open my eyes, the first thing I see is the small square of bulletin board on the wall. At the top is tacked a selfie Ava took of us both on our last birthday together. At the bottom is a photo of Ava and I with our friends. In the middle of the board hangs an office calendar. Today’s date is circled in red…”
