My Promise

 

Sunday, October 30, 1994 will always stand out in my mind as the day that changed my life. It was the day my innocence and naiveté were shattered beyond repair. It was the day I learned what it is to hate. It was the day I learned that life is not always fair. In short, it was the day I grew up.

My mother put it simply in her state of shock over the phone: "Layla's dead." I stood in the middle of the living room with the white cordless phone in a dead man's grip, not sure how to react. All my senses became completely dead except for the hearing in my right ear where I held the phone.

"She is?" my mouth questioned in a flat monotone.

"Yeah," responded a choked whisper.

I was still in shock when I said "Okay, see you later" and hung up. I reported the news to my brother Clay. I never liked crying in front of people, even my closest family member and best friend, so I only silently held my 12-year-old sibling until his tears subsided, keeping my own emotions in check until I went into my room to sort out my feelings.

When I went into my room, I picked up Maxi, my big, slightly yellowed teddy bear that I had since I was seven, and gave her a hug. A few big drops rolled down my cheeks as I thought about Layla, my cousin's second child and only daughter. Because of her parents' irresponsible mistakes, she was born with the intestines on the outside of her. She never left the hospital since her birth and spent her entire short life on life support. The doctors were very optimistic on her condition and predicted that she would be home by Christmas. She would have to be careful about her diet, but she was going to live. I was going to be her best friend. I had even started making plans to make a baby blanket for her first birthday coming on November 19. I was going to go to Duke University Medical Center and have a big party for her and all her relatives were going to spoil her rotten. Everytime I thought about that little baby I would smile.

Now all my big plans and all my hopes were shot down. Layla was ripped from my life. It was a cruel joke. I knew that many children died every day, but it was not supposed to happen to her. She was supposed to live.

The following Tuesday, I attended Layla's wake at the Brooks and White Funeral Home. When we arrived, I went straight to the room where her casket lay. Her grandmother and grandfather, my aunt Gara and uncle David, stood crying in front of the small white casket. I had no idea where her parents, my cousin Michele and her husband, Mike, were and I did not care. I was there to see Layla.

I looked down into the casket to see Layla for the first time. (The hospital would not allow any children except her uncle Dennis to go into her room.) The beautiful little face I saw hit me harder than any punch or kick I could ever recieve in my taekwondo class. Her almond skin looked too healthy for her to be dead. Her little wisps of black hair and small black eyelashes reminded me of other babies I had known that kicked, wiggled, smiled, spit up, and enjoyed having me play with them. Her chubby little arms lay at her side, the left holding a little Indian doll. There was a raw place under her pug nose that served as a painful reminder of the respirator tubes that never left her face. As the tears spilled over my face, Gara hugged me.

"Has Brett (her older brother) seen her yet?" I asked her. I could not think of anything else to say.

"Yeah," Gara rasped through a throat sore from much crying. "I showed her to him and he said, 'Wake up. Wake up, Layla.' I told him that she was not waking up. That she is in the arms of Jesus. He said, 'Layla with Jesus?' And I said, 'Yeah, Layla's with Jesus.'"

I looked back at Layla. Even though I was fifteen, I started to think like my barely two-year-old cousin Brett and prayed fervently for a miracle and that Layla would just wake up. It was not fair that she had to die. But I knew that I was just fooling myself that Layla would ever wake up. I walked away from the casket and into another room across the hall, barely missing the flowers that filled the hall because my tears were blinding me. There, I was able to cry in private. Not only did I never get to say goodbye, but I never even got to say hello.

During the whole time I was there, I returned to Layla's casket several times to nullify the grief I felt, but I did not succeed. Every time I saw her little face only made me cry more. On one of these trips, Michele, who is diagnosed with epilepsy, suddenly stood up and started shaking and let out a wobbly "Whoa!" Gara ran to her side, yelled at Dennis to get Michele's pills and guided her out. I had no pity for Michele because I blamed her and Mike for Layla's death. "Serves her right," I thought in pure contempt and hate. I would learn on the way home from my mother that Michele faked the seizure to get attention. I could not believe that I used to idolize Michele and had felt sorry for her. I then believed that she brought on herself the bad things that happened to her. I had no respect for her and did not talk to her for about two and a half years.

My family and Michele's family were the last to leave the funeral home. My parents and brother were waiting at the door while Michele cried her final tears over Layla. Gara held her as I watched.

"Come on, Michele," Gara said, "It's time to go."

"Mama," Michele choked between sobs, "I can't go. I'm never going to see her again."

"It's okay," Gara said. "We'll come back early before the funeral tomorrow so you can see her one last time."

Michele gave Layla a kiss on her forehead and leaned on Gara as she guided Michele out. I went to the casket to get one last look at Layla. I gave her a kiss on her forehead and whispered "Bye, Layla" in a voice weakened from bewilderment and sorrow. With that kiss, I made a promise to her. I would do better than Michele. I would not sell myself out like she did in letting her husband persuade her to make the decisions that ruined her life. I would provide a good life for my children. I would be the best I could be and more.

I will never forget Layla. Whenever I think about her, that beautiful little face with the raw place under the nose still haunts me. I will never forget the promise I made to her that I would learn from Michele's mistakes and provide a good life for my children, but I am sorry that the mistakes I am to learn from cost her life.