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The first person I called after hearing the news was my sister. Nina, more than Gail or me, had followed in our mother’s footsteps married and had children, giving up her career to raise them. We saw her as the bossy one, even the controlling one at times. I was the typical middle child: troublemaker, attention-seeking, inattentive. And Gail, 10 years younger, was the blonde darling. Nina’s qualities were needed nowhere more than in the hours after the phone call. Nina found the fastest way for us to get to LA when I could barely speak or pack. She was the sister you want in your trenches.
After the funeral, we took turns staying with Gail and Colin in their basement apartment, among all the pictures of the kids, listening to them cry at night. We folded laundry, bought groceries, cooked. We often took walks around Silver Lake Reservoir, brainstormed script ideas, and complained about our jobs, our friends, and our weight. Only now, we would focus on the things that bothered us. Specifically, when people said things like the kids were “in a better place.” Some people mentioned psychics who could relay messages to Ruby and Hart from the other
side. During one of those walks, I came up with the phrase “Hate du jour” for all the people who said the wrong thing or kept their distance.
After the shiva week had passed, Gail and Colin asked my sister and me to stay with them in Los Angeles. Their bodies were badly bruised from the accident. Gail had glass shards on her tongue. They were traumatized, not knowing how they could get through an hour, let alone a day. Their synagogue had set up a food chain. People couldn’t sign up fast enough. Their rabbi had breakfast with them once a week after morning prayers. The community at large, their friends and colleagues, my nieces and nephews’ friends, were there for them. Hundreds of people attended the funeral. Condolences poured in, books on grief were sent, grief support groups were recommended, therapists were on hand. Ruby has obsessive-compulsive disorder, and her brilliant therapist helped all of us control our recurring thoughts: What if they hadn’t found the house, what if the test had been on a different day, what if the drunk driver had taken a different route or better yet, what if someone had stopped her from driving? For me, the what-ifs centered around getting a call in the middle of the night. Rationally, I knew that not answering the phone wouldn’t change anything, but there was nothing rational about that moment.
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