Pink Unicorns
Reliving a humiliation to give relief
People dressed as unicorns peppered the sanctuary of the North Corners Community Church. Some worshippers wore unicorn-shaped hats featuring a horn sticking straight up between two equine ears. Others had complete unicorn costumes with sparkles, their tails poking into the rows behind them when seated. Young mothers cradled newborns in pink crochet knit caps sporting the single horn of a unicorn. On my black tie was a prancing pink unicorn that shone against the white background provided by my dress shirt. It felt like a taping of “Let’s Make A Deal” rather than the memorial service of five-year-old Audrey, the little girl who loved unicorns and the color pink.
***
Dane, Audrey’s future father, and I were regulars at a local bar. We formed a friendship over beer and our shared background in tech. He met his future wife, Kate, on a blind date. A stunning couple, both at least 6’ 4” with Dane a husky 280, and Kate, a slender, dark-haired beauty, a statuesque contrast. Focus shifted to them in any room they entered. Dane shared with other friends and me at the bar that it was an unusual courtship because Kate, who prayed and practiced her faith daily, insisted on abstinence until marriage. Kate, we later found out, did not like this type of sharing.
The first time I met Kate was at the bar. I’d brought my brand-new Amazon Fire Tablet to show Dane; it had just hit the market, and he was curious. I shook Kate’s hand, propped the tablet upright on the bar so the screen faced them both, and tapped the browser open. A couple in the throes of flagrante delicto sprang to life on the screen.
Horrified, I aimed at the “X” to shut the browser, but my finger, as if dipped in butter, slipped off the target again and again. Dane roared. Kate’s face reddened with every miss. I flattened the tablet on the bar and tapped it machine-gun style until, mercifully, the screen went dark.
First impressions are indelible, especially that one. “The incident” was never mentioned again, but a trace of awkwardness lingered between Kate and me. Even a year later, in the reception line at their wedding, Kate and I exchanged sheepish grins while Dane offered a knowing smile. Still, our friendship deepened. I celebrated the births of Audrey and her little brother, David, and watched a happy, healthy family living the good life.
***
Dane and Kate stood center stage, the sanctuary’s spotlight magnifying their crushing heartache. Dane, head down, his large body wobbling slightly, as if caught in a breeze. His skin appeared dry and desiccated, the color of sour milk. A touch of a finger could have knocked him to the ground.
Kate stood firm beside him, tall and composed, her hands steady as she reviewed her notes. She scanned the sanctuary, then cleared her throat. A deep silence encased the congregants. Every breath she drew filled the room. Her gaze lifted skyward, her mouth twitched. Something brewed inside her, something that needed release.
Several long seconds passed. Then she turned to the crowd and spoke:
“God took our Audrey, and we are pissed at Him.”
Kate described Audrey’s brief life, every word hued in grief, then recounted what happened on the day after Christmas. Tucking in Audrey for her afternoon nap, they placed her small prescription glasses on the nightstand, left kisses on her forehead, and went about their day. Dane and Kate cleaned up, wrapping paper torn from gifts, putting away dishes, the usual post-holiday chores.
After lunch, Kate returned to Audrey’s room to wake her. Her chest was not moving, and her lips were blue. She screamed for Dane to call an ambulance. Paramedics and an hour of emergency care could not revive their little girl. All post-mortem tests came back inconclusive. “Audrey’s heart just stopped beating,” Kate explained. “No one knows why.”
Kate paused, steadied her voice, and ended with an emphasis on one word. And from that word burst her lifetime of praying, of believing, and, most of all, of hoping:
“Audrey,” she said, “this is not the end. We WILL see you again.”
Clutching my tissue, I saw the people in the row in front of me start to hold hands, gently clasping one after the other, traveling to the right, moving in a wave. The momentum reached my row and, as natural as a handshake, I extended my hand to meet the person next to me. Then she grasped the hand next to her and so on across the row. As if completing this human circuit, it would diffuse Dane and Kate’s pain, somehow lessen the anguish so plain on their sunken faces.
As the pastor continued the memorial service, pictures of Audrey’s life appeared on a screen overhead. Each image punctuating the pastor’s words: Audrey playing with her baby brother at the beach, both covered in sand, at the grocery store holding “a shopper in training” cart, asleep on her mom’s lap. Sobbing filled the sanctuary. A disturbing thought popped into my head; instead of playing with Audrey and her new Christmas toys, Dane and Kate had to choose a casket for their firstborn. I didn’t know I could cry so hard.
The service ended, and Dane, Kate, and the immediate family exited up the aisle to the church’s common area, where tables of food and other refreshments awaited. I left the sanctuary and took my place in the line of people waiting to console Dane and Kate.
What was I going to say to him? My words needed to be profound, soothing, and somehow explain the situation. I remembered quotes such as, “Grief is love with nowhere to go” and “Where there is deep grief, there was great love.” Then the cruel trophies of their sorrow crept into my mind: The empty chair at the dinner table. The car seat, never to be used again. The unmoving tricycle. The bedroom where Audrey lived and died. And most of all, the soft body and sweet smell of their baby girl, gone in an instant, like a puff of warm breath in the winter’s night. Those quotes, as beautiful and powerful as they are, now seemed trite. My mind whirring, I looked up, and there was Dane. It was my turn, and I had nothing to say.
We embraced and hugged hard. His bulk swallowed me, our cheeks touched, and our tears mixed. Dane’s massive chest convulsed and echoed against mine. I could feel the fight going on inside him as he battled not to lose it. I whispered in his ear, “Don’t worry. I didn’t bring my Amazon Fire tablet.”
Dane laughed. A real laugh. We broke our embrace, and he said, “I love you, you asshole.” I said, “I love you too.”
I walked away happy, trying to dry my face with my last tear-soaked tissue. I uttered no profound words as I’d hoped, but by reliving my humiliation, I was able to give my friend some respite – if ever so brief – from his pain.
Pain that will not end until his memorial service.