The longest drive.

There are certain events in my young life that I remember very clearly.

Most of the time I feel like my memories are muddled, as if my brain doesn't have enough room to store all the information so it just starts blending my stories together. Every time I experience something new, I'm quite sure my brain pushes one memory out the back door. There are just too many memories, too many crazy times, and one head simply doesn't have enough room to store it all.

But I remember that day.
I remember driving and driving and driving. I remember mom and dad, in the front seat, sitting silently. My mom was crying, and I'm not sure my sisters knew what had happened or what we were doing. I'm not even sure I really understood. I just knew it was awful and I knew that this drive is what we needed to do. We needed to be together, to be a family, and we needed to be silent.

I know that I loved her.

Debbie was somewhat of a constant in our lives, a staple presence at the Strannigan household. My most vivid memory of Debbie was from one fateful night when Danielle threw up enchiladas all over Debbie. It was so unexpected and so bizarre; one moment Danielle was sitting quietly on her lap and the next moment she was heaving chunks of enchilada all over Debbie's shirt. Debbie handled it like a champ, and no amount of kids or vomit kept her away. Debbie was always there, she was my mom's best friend, and we adored her. I didn't know the details, I didn't know Debbie had a past. I just knew she was part of our family. I was too young to know that it was very complicated and that Debbie was very sad.

On that day, the day of the long drive, my parents told me the truth. I was 8 years old, but they didn't hold back. They explained to me that Debbie was dead, and that she had taken her own life. There was a gun, there was a note, and now Debbie was gone.

There was also a housekeeper. She was Debbie's housekeeper but she cleaned our house, too. She smelled like cigarettes and she had a little baby boy that she would bring over while she cleaned. I never liked the way the house smelled after she left, she always left a trail of cigarette stench behind.

My parents told me that the housekeeper was the one who found Debbie. Everyone was skeptical, everyone wanted a scapegoat. The housekeeper's prints were on the gun and the whole family suspected that she was involved, if not responsible. I don't know what came of it all, but I know she was never charged. I know on that day I blamed the housekeeper. In my 8-year old mind, it was easier to accept a murder than to accept that one of my heroes had just committed suicide.

I look back on that day and I still feel sad inside. I grieve for my mom and the loss of her friend. I grieve for Debbie and the lonely and secret life that she lived. I found out so many things in later years, things that ruined my image of Debbie and things that shed a lot of light on her death. I choose to remember Debbie as she was to me - a hero, a friend, an integral part of my family. I think that its only fitting that she's buried a few yards away from my brother, and I when I visit his grave I always stop at her tombstone, complete with the picture of a Collie, and I think about that day.

It didn't make much sense to me then, and it doesn't make much sense to me now. I still marvel at the strength of my parents and their decision to tell me the truth. We've experienced a lot of loss in our lives, and I'm convinced the only reason I'm still sane is that we experienced it together.