I hadn’t
seen the girls from Edinburgh altogether in two years. It was the kind of thing
where we were very close for a very specific reason – living, working, and
playing together in one flat for a month can do that to you – but when we went
home, we returned to our own lives. We still overlapped, of course – one of the
girls was heavily involved with theatre and lived across the hall from me in my
apartment building, two were in my year and major and did all my group projects
with me, two others were sorority sisters, and so on. But while now and then we’d
talk about having a reunion, we were always too many people with too widely
varied lives to actually make it happen.
A couple
weeks after I got the news about Emily, one of the girls posted in our long-neglected
Facebook group asking if we all wanted to get dinner sometime. No one said it was
because of Emily, but if it weren’t for her I can’t imagine the responses checking
back in and compromising on scheduling would have been so ready and willing. We
all seemed to feel the same need to see each other and process our connection
to Emily’s death. Other than one girl who was away working in New York, we’d
all be there.
We decided
to do a late dinner at a Mexican restaurant on a Sunday night, in honor of
Emily’s erstwhile dedication to finding good Mexican food in Scotland. By the
time 8 PM rolled around, I really didn’t want to go. I’d had one of the most socially
exhausting weekends I’d ever had, over the course of which I’d had to be every
different version of myself for all my different social and professional groups.
I walked there thinking – guiltily – that the last thing I wanted to do was
think about death and have my mood and energy lowered even further.
But it wasn’t
like that. There was something really special about just being back together.
We’d all grown a lot in two years, and we were able to dive easily into conversation,
telling each other about our lives and plans and adventures since we’d seen
each other last. Everyone had so much to tell, and there was something unique
about sharing stories with people who knew each other so well in some ways, but
hardly at all in others.
It wasn’t
until after we’d finished the main meal, and were looking into drinks and
desserts, that we finally talked about Emily. I don’t know how it came up – if someone
said they wished she were there, or if we started talking about Edinburgh and
it seemed natural – but suddenly the topic had been broached, and we were there,
talking about her. I don’t know if it was me or someone else, but someone
expressed what I kept saying, how strange it felt for us to mourn her when so
many people had it far harder than we did. But the great thing was that there,
in that moment with them, we were all on the same level, and for once I didn’t
have to try to explain the context of my loss. Everyone there understood.
Well, not
all of us were on the same level. Emily had gotten closer to one of us than the
rest, and the two of them stayed close and continued to spend time together as
often as they could over the past two years.
I’d deduced
through Instagram that J had seen Emily in Spain on one of her last days, but I
hadn’t realized until we all started talking about how we’d heard the news that
they had been together the morning Emily got on that plane. J was flying back to
the States after visiting Barcelona at the end of her study abroad term in Rome.
Emily’s plane went down over the Alps sometime during the first leg of J’s
flight, but Heathrow was blocking all news carrying the story, so she heard nothing
about the event even on her six-hour layover. It wasn’t until she landed in the
States hours later and had a Facebook message from one of Emily’s other friends
that J even knew something was wrong, and the rest fell out from there.
After this story,
the conversation moved on and others continued to talk about their emotions and
experiences. But I could tell J was still thinking, dwelling, and since she was
sitting next to me I was able to have a quiet side conversation with her.
“Why was she
in Barcelona, anyway?”
“She came to
visit me.”
Oh. Woah. J explained that Emily and her
mom had made plans to take their vacation through several places in Europe, and
had agreed to meet up with J in Barcelona when they realized their travel dates
lined up perfectly. Then the Selkes had booked their seat on the budget
Germanwings flight, going on to the next leg of their trip as J headed home.
“If it wasn’t
for me, she wouldn’t have been in Barcelona at all.”
She didn’t
say it, but I could tell she was thinking it, so I answer the unspoken thought,
“…It’s not your fault.”
“I know. I
know. But…” Again, the words didn’t have to be said. It feels like it sometimes.
Out of
nowhere, J – one of the steadiest, goofiest people I know – was crying. I
hugged her, trying to provide some measure of comfort. It distracted the others
from their conversation, and they asked if she was okay. I felt guilty, as if I
had drawn attention to her that she might not have wanted from everyone.
I don’t know
why grief hits us in the way that it does. I don’t know how the few extra
experiences they had together kept J and Emily so close, even though they were
infrequent since Emily had graduated and moved to Pittsburgh. I don’t know why
I suddenly felt so guilty as we all sat there and talked about how terrible the
media response to the event was, as if we were the insensitive ones, ignoring
our own friend and her greater level of grief.
But despite all
that, it wasn’t a sad night, really. This isn’t about that. It’s the opposite,
the odd and contradictory joy of the whole occasion. As we were paying the
bill, someone said, “I’m sorry it had to be because of this… But I’m really
glad we all got together again.”
It’s true.
Death takes away a person, leaves a hole of some sort, whether it’s a gaping
one in your everyday life or a small confused one in your memories. But it can
also bring people closer together. Like when my friend in the van on the way
back from Kentucky responded to the news by saying how much she cared about all
of us. And like how eight girls put aside their crazy schedules for the first
time in two years because losing one of our number made us realize how much we
still cared about our memories and wanted to support each other.
I can’t say
it made figuring out how I felt about Emily’s death any easier, and we haven’t
all gotten together again since that night. But I do know that it’s not always
about doom and gloom. Sometimes the dark moments are the ones that help you
find the light.
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