1The Nightmare
June 8 San
Diego, California
Caroline was playing
innocently in her own front yard when the car struck her down. She was playing
with her new puppy, a golden haired mutt she had named Buddy. Her father, a
hardworking handy man, had rescued the runt before their neighbor could drop
the defenseless dog off in the country to fend for itself. Buddy was gently
licking the little girl’s face as she hugged him. She was coaxing him to be
still while she put the pink doll dress over his head. She wanted to pretend he
was her baby. Just normal play for a five-year-old girl. She finally succeeded
and giggled at how funny Buddy looked in the frilly doll dress.
Caroline’s
nine-year-old brother was in the driveway of their modest home. The boy
stooped over the back tire of his bicycle, attaching playing cards to the
spokes with clothespins. He imagined the cards made the sound of a motorcycle
like his uncle’s 650.
The
children’s mother had been watching her daughter but needed to go back inside
the house to check on her cake baking in the oven. Her mind was burdened with
how to pay the bills. The afternoon was late and it was almost time for their
dad to come home from work. Supper was almost ready, a meager meal of hamburger
helper. But there would be cake. No matter how hard they struggled just to
survive, they remained a closely-knit family.
And then the
unthinkable happened. A late model car came out of nowhere, speeding and
swerving wildly. Caroline’s brother watched helplessly as the driver ran up
over the curb and into their yard. Buddy scampered away in the pink doll dress,
terrified, and Caroline sat frozen on the lawn, staring wide-eyed as the car
came toward her. The boy watched in horror as the car struck her small defenseless
body, hurtling it further back into the yard. He heard the tires squeal as the
car raced off—the driver not even bothering to stop after what he had done.
The boy,
almost in shock, had enough presence of mind to notice the license plate. His
parents had drilled both of their children in the importance of protective
safety measures and now the numbers were burned into his memory forever. He
frantically ran to his sister, wondering how he was going to help her.
The frightened boy bent down and cradled her bloodied
body in his arms. Feeling angry and helpless, he vowed that the maniac would be
caught.
The mother,
hearing the screeching tires so close to her house had come outside, drying her
hands on her apron, to see what was going on. She looked in the yard and found
her son holding the lifeless body in his arms. She ran toward them, holding her
head with her hands screaming, struggling to undo the terrible thing that had
just happened.
The boy
turned to her and cried, “Call 911!”
That was the
beginning of the nightmare: for the mother, for the father, and for the nine-year-old
boy.
June 18
Twelve Years Later
The nightmare
had culminated in a tragic double-homicide at the Pacific Terrace Hotel where I
was staying. Before the ordeal, I remember feeling so happy. The San Francisco Enterprise had just
published two great articles for my Ask
Jillian gardening column, and I had some time for a breather. I was also
looking forward to attending our family reunion. My personal assistant, Cecilia
Montoya, was coming with me to help take care of Teddy, my Yorkie companion.
The three of us were flying into San Diego International Airport two days
before the tragedy occurred.
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"And the Whippoorwill Sang" is a deathbed promise I made to my
lost child. When she was struck down by a drunk driver, her spinal cord
severed, and left in a semi-coma for ten of the longest days of our
lives, I told her I would make sure the world knew who and what she was;
so that her death would not be in vain. As close as our large family
was, when Noelle died, we all went our separate ways, unable to comfort
each other. One of her sisters became bulimic and suicidal, a brother
raced cars to tempt God to take him as well, her other brother had to be
constantly
pulled back from going after the repeated offender drunk driver who
caused our world to dim without Noelle’s presence. Her oldest sister
could not handle our great sorrow and stayed away on her own, while her
youngest sister was plagued with anxiety and panic attacks at the age of
eleven. Her father did not speak her name for five years and barely
ever after that. As for me, I wrote. I could not speak or share so I
wrote. The short story of the book was published by Victimology; an
International Magazine. I wrote slice of life stories about her and all
the kids for my new local daily newspaper, which led to a career in
Journalism. I started the book about four years after her death, but
life stepped in and I had to put it aside for years. When I was able to
continue it, I realized the block when I came to the part before she
died. My kids, many of whom also had memory loss, helped as we forced
ourselves to remember—that and a deadline from my publisher finally got
the book done. 
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