The Girls From Ames Part 14

Kelly's liberal leanings are shared by some of the other girls, but not by all. "It's therapeutic to talk politics with Cathy, Jane, Angela and Sally," she says. "Some of the others are more private, and we respect that."

Not long before the reunion at Diana's, George W. Bush was inaugurated for a second term, and there were disagreements among the girls about his record and about the war in Iraq. At one point, the conversation turned to gay marriage, and it was obvious that others weren't in agreement with Kelly's more liberal support of it. She tried to steer the conversation off of that topic because she feared it might get unpleasant. One day they all went for a hike and broke into groups. When Kelly's group returned, Cathy pulled her aside and joked, "You left me with the Republicans!"

Actually, because she lives in California, Cathy is grateful that some of the other Ames girls connect her with a part of conservative America she rarely sees anymore. She lives in the quintessential blue state. Almost all of her friends there are West Coast liberals. And yet when she sees the humanity, good intentions and mid-American values of someone like Marilyn, she says, it's as if she's getting a reminder to temper any urges to be dismissive of red-state conservatives. "Marilyn is also a face of the red states," she tells herself.

The girls are proud that they resist getting into political arguments or combative philosophical debates. That would defeat one of the reasons they get together. As Kelly explains: "When I am with them, I am reduced to someone who simply experiences joy in the moment. It is like walking into a party where everyone knows each other and everyone is having fun. My gut aches from laughing when I am with them. How often do any of us experience exhilarating moments of happiness? So consider this: Every time I am with these women, even when mourning brings us together, I am lifted up with joy."

In all sorts of ways, Kelly is happy to be in her forties now. "A lot of women in their forties look fabulous," she says. "They're working out, their bodies are fit, they take great care of their skin and hair. It's no wonder that the acronym MILF has become popular." (For those who don't know the term: Just Google it.) As Kelly sees it, almost everything she has learned about beauty has come from the other Ames girls. "I don't spend a lot of time exploring new beauty products, and I often don't know about new trends, but every time I get together with them, I learn ways to improve my diet, my skin, my hair. I get a crash course from them on what works and what doesn't. They are truly a panel of health and beauty experts."

Maybe it's their Midwestern roots, but Kelly believes most of the other girls try to portray a look that radiates health as opposed to glamour. "I don't get manicures and pedicures," Kelly says. "I'm not overly zealous about whitening my teeth. I'm not going in for skin treatments. I am ardently against breast enhancement."

Her focus on health as opposed to glamour is her way to combat a culture in which women are still objectified and there's an unrealistic airbrushed ideal that is everywhere in the media.

Kelly has been monitoring the culture's impact on women all her life and in all sorts of ways, so she's a bit of a barometer for her friends in that respect.

When Kelly considers the woman she has become, she sees flashes of the fighting spirit she first developed back in Ames. Yes, she and the other girls benefited from the t.i.tle IX legislation of 1972, designed to end discrimination against girls in sports and educational opportunities. But Kelly also remembers the bad old days.

There was the time at fifth-grade recess when she and a few other girls decided to play soccer with the boys. A teacher came running out and angrily told the girls to quit the game. The teacher, a woman, implied that by being so physical, the girls were acting in a seductive manner when they had contact with the boys. Kelly proudly recalls how she and the other girls heard the teacher out, then chose to keep playing.

In junior high, when Kelly was student council president, she attended a meeting with teachers, parents and students to discuss ways to improve the school. One suggestion was to make sure the girls and boys had equal activities. Someone said, "Girls should be allowed to do the pole vault in track." Kelly can still remember how one of the adults laughed. "That won't work," he said. "Girls will never have the upper body strength to do the pole vault."

But there were sea changes, too, showing up in the living rooms around Ames, and Kelly now believes the impact wasn't insignificant. "During our formative teenage years," she says, "women featured on TV shows went from playing housewives to being the Bionic Woman and Wonder Woman and Charlie's Angels. The first female athletes who made an impression on us entered our lives when we watched the Olympics. They partic.i.p.ated in sports very few of us were involved in, but at least we were seeing strong female athletes in compet.i.tive situations."

Kelly likes telling the other girls that once she began teaching, the feminist mentors in her life were her older colleagues. Encouragement from them kept her in the workplace. She had one fellow teacher named Ruth who was an ardent feminist and took Kelly under her wing. In 1995, after her third child was born, Kelly thought about leaving teaching. She had actually turned in her letter of resignation, explaining that with three children under age four, she felt overwhelmed with the duties of motherhood and needed to be home. Ruth convinced her to stay, to think about how her decision would affect her pension. "I did it," Ruth said to Kelly. "You can, too."

Ruth told her about how, as a young mother in the days before car seats, she'd tuck her baby in a laundry basket to transport her to a babysitter each day. "Women used to lose their jobs once they became pregnant," Ruth said. "They'd hide their pregnancies as long as they could."

Kelly listened and then took back her letter of resignation. "It was a way to honor the women who had been pushed out of their jobs when they became mothers," Kelly now says.

She understands and admires the other Ames girls who choose not to work outside the house. But she says she has a special appreciation for the working women among them, for how they balance work and family.

"I once listened to a debate between working moms and stay-at-home moms," Kelly says. "Although I respect that this is a very personal choice, it's important for society to acknowledge the benefits of women in the workplace. We need to praise the women who are doing essential, valuable jobs-and not criticize them."

Kelly is proud that there are three working teachers in the group-Kelly at a high school, Sally at an elementary school and Jane at a college-and that Karen may someday return to teaching. She admires how Jenny has a high-powered job as an a.s.sistant dean of public affairs at a university and that Angela runs her own public relations company.

When Kelly's daughter Liesl has a day off from her own school in Northfield, Minnesota, Kelly invites her to drive south with her and join her for the day as she teaches at Faribault High School. "I want to model for her how happy a woman can be at work," she says.

Kelly admires the back stories of how her old friends from Ames found their way in the workforce. Jane was always smart and inner-directed back in Ames, so Kelly wasn't surprised that she'd work hard to get her Ph.D. and become a professor. Angela has always been a terrific mult.i.tasker-taking on a host of projects and committees as a student at Ames High. So Kelly knew she'd make a go of it when she began building her own PR agency in North Carolina. Angela was suited to juggle a host of clients, motherhood and more.

Kelly thinks it's terrific that Diana had a full career years ago as a certified public accountant, then took time off to raise her kids and has now gone back to work twenty hours a week behind the counter at a Starbucks near her home in Arizona. Since her husband is self-employed, Diana likes that her family can take advantage of the full health-care benefits that Starbucks offers even its part-time workers. And Diana says she's having a lot of fun working as a barista-interacting with regular customers and knowing their names and their orders before they ask. She calls it great exercise for an aging brain. "Some people do Sudoku," she says. "I work at Starbucks."

Diana also likes talking and listening to her younger coworkers. She feels protective of some of the teens and twentysomethings who work with her-and she learns a lot from them, too. They give her a glimpse into the world her preteen daughters will inhabit in a few years. She's impressed by so many things about them, but she's also a bit taken aback by all their piercings and tattoos. "Their lives are exciting, though sometimes worrisome," she says, "and getting to know them gives me a lead-in to discuss issues with my kids at home." Her coworkers have asked what she'll do if her kids come home someday with body art. "Well, honestly, I hope the trend doesn't last too long," she tells them, "but I know there are much worse things they could get involved in. I'll just keep loving and supporting them."

Kelly likes the idea of Diana-who drinks hot chocolate, not coffee-spending her days at Starbucks learning from her young coworkers. It sounds like more of a kick, and appears more emotionally rewarding, than being a CPA.

Kelly also is proud of Jenny, whose earlier career was in politics. Jenny came from a family that was active in Republican Party circles in Iowa. Her grandmother was a state legislator, and her grandfather, a newspaperman, knew Ronald Reagan back when the future president was a radio sports announcer in Iowa. The two men once took a train together from Des Moines to a convention in New York, playing poker all the way.

Because of her GOP pedigree, Jenny joined the Young Republicans when she got to the University of South Carolina. In 1984, Nancy Reagan made a campaign stop at the school, and Jenny was on the committee that met her at the airport.

Jenny was in the Delta Delta Delta sorority and had heard that in her day Mrs. Reagan was, too. "It's so nice to meet you, Mrs. Reagan," Jenny said, as they shook hands. "And I just want you to know that I'm so glad you're a Tri Delt!"

Mrs. Reagan smiled and replied, "Well, I went to an all-girls school. I wasn't in a sorority. I'm not a Tri Delt."

Jenny found herself stammering, "I'm so embarra.s.sed," and Mrs. Reagan rescued the situation by saying, "Well, is it still nice to meet me?"

After graduation, Jenny went to Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., and worked as a receptionist at the National Republican Congressional Committee. Then, in 1986, she got a job as an aide to an Ohio Republican in Congress, Donald (Buz) Lukens. It was an exciting time to be young, learning about how government works, dealing with const.i.tuents and hanging out after work with other young Republican staffers.

"In a House office, the staffers are like a family," Jenny would explain to Kelly and the other girls. "There are only six of us, and it's close quarters. We're all in our twenties, and it's almost like Buz is the dad and we're all the kids."

At first, she described the congressman to the others as "a perfectly nice old guy." He was in his fifties then and divorced. Jenny found it interesting that no matter how unattractive, fat or churlish a politician might be, there were always "congressional groupies throwing themselves at these guys, mostly women in their thirties and forties."

Buz was a politically incorrect throwback, and in the 1980s, people like him were still common at the Capitol. He called Jenny and the other young female staffers "honey." He put his arm around everyone. "He's very touchy-feely," Jenny said, "but he's harmless and he cares about all of us."

Then Congressman Lukens was caught paying $40 to a sixteen-year-old girl to have s.e.x with him. The encounter was secretly taped by an Ohio TV station. After that made headlines, a House elevator operator accused him of fondling her.

A firestorm followed, and there was even a photo in the congressional newspaper, Roll Call, Roll Call, ill.u.s.trating the fact that Lukens and his staffers were under siege. The photo showed the hand of a Lukens staffer sticking out from behind a partially closed door to the congressman's office. Between the fingers was a sign that read: "No comment." That hand was Jenny's. ill.u.s.trating the fact that Lukens and his staffers were under siege. The photo showed the hand of a Lukens staffer sticking out from behind a partially closed door to the congressman's office. Between the fingers was a sign that read: "No comment." That hand was Jenny's.

Lukens would end up resigning, and it was left to Jenny and her colleagues to pack up his belongings. He was too depressed to help. Congress had been his life and now he was ruined. Jenny worried she'd come into the office one morning and find him dead. (He would later go to jail for nine days.) Once he was gone, Jenny and the other staffers held on to their jobs for a couple of months; there were still const.i.tuents' needs to attend to. But Jenny found herself unable to get another job on Capitol Hill. "It's awful," Jenny told some of the other Ames girls. "All the other offices have shunned not just the congressman, but those of us on his staff. We're pariahs. We're unhirable. No one will even interview us."

Jenny worked as a temp for a while and eventually got a job at the Business Roundtable, an a.s.sociation for corporate chief executives. In those years, Kelly would take her students to visit Was.h.i.+ngton for national journalism conventions, and she'd meet up with Jenny in fancy hotel lobby bars and listen to updates on her career and love life. Eventually, Jenny ended up in her job as an a.s.sistant dean at the University of Maryland School of Medicine.

The picture of Jenny in Kelly's mind was always the image of the small-town girl she was back in Ames, driving around in that old World War II-era jeep her dad had bought her. Now, in Was.h.i.+ngton, Jenny seemed so sophisticated and glamorous, advising Kelly on the transit system, the best hotels, the sites an average tourist wouldn't know about. She wore heels and a suit, while Kelly was in tennis shoes-a teacher from the Midwest touring the Capitol with wide-eyed students.

Jenny took Kelly to her office, and Kelly thought she seemed so worldly. Around her cubicle, Jenny displayed photos of her family and friends-so Ames had a presence-but the work Jenny was doing just seemed important. For the Business Roundtable, Jenny was working on a public-service ad campaign aimed at asking legislators to fund programs that help American children be more compet.i.tive in math and science.

While Kelly was impressed with Jenny's work, Jenny viewed her old friend as so much further along in life. Kelly already had children. And here she was, visiting Was.h.i.+ngton, leading a group of fresh-faced students from Minnesota, a busload of kids who depended on her and looked up to her. To Jenny, Kelly seemed like the more developed adult.

It was intriguing how Jenny and Kelly viewed each other. For her part, Jenny felt as if she'd arrived at her success without having a clear game plan. When she was a child, her mother was very busy with community and charity projects, but she was almost always in the house when Jenny got home from school. "I always thought my role in life was to be a mom and serve the community," Jenny says. "It wouldn't have occurred to me that I'd be the sort of working woman I am now. Who would I have seen in Ames who is like me now?"

Jenny feels circ.u.mstances turned her into who she is. "When I got to Was.h.i.+ngton, where it felt like seven women to every man, I realized I had to change my plan. I looked around and said, 'Well, there's no one here I want to marry who wants to marry me, so I'd better go with Plan B.' And that's when I decided I'd better be serious about what I'd be when I grew up." (As things turned out, Jenny didn't end up marrying until 1996. She and her husband, involved in their marriage and careers, waited eight more years before having a child.) After marveling at Jenny's career trajectory, Kelly is impressed by the ease with which Jenny has now segued into late-in-life motherhood.

"Although any of the women would be wonderful role models for my daughter, Liesl," Kelly says, "I've really been drawn to Jenny over the past few years. Several times, I have held her hands during sad moments-including at Christie's memorial service-and each time I was surprised by how small and fragile they seemed, and yet how strong they are."

Since her divorce, Kelly has tried to look at her life as it is, to appreciate the light and deal with the darkness. "I never imagined a life where I would feel so alone," she says, "that I would be a mother but not have my children with me all the time, that I could have lovers but not have someone as a constant in my life."

On the positive side, here at the reunion at Angela's, she shares with the other Ames girls her observations about all sorts of wonderful moments in her life back in Minnesota. She tells Sally about a man she has dated. "He's used to petting animals," Kelly explains, "and when I'm on the couch watching a movie with him, he'll pet my neck. Oh my G.o.d, I love that! It's like heaven to have a man pet your neck. You put your head in his lap and he's just stroking. The whole movie!"

Kelly tells the others that she holds in her heart her memories of that weekend reunion at Diana's, when the girls were all there for her, a militia in Maxi Pad slippers. She thinks back to the long walks she took in the Arizona desert air with Angela and Sally, and how willing they were to think deeply about what advice they had for her. She recalls the flight back to Minnesota with Karla, and how Karla offered her home as a safe place to stay if Kelly ever felt she needed that. Kelly thanks them all for that.

Kelly tells the girls that her daughter is completely intrigued by their relations.h.i.+ps. In one of Angela's bedrooms, while Kelly is getting dressed for dinner, her cell phone keeps buzzing. It's Liesl, texting her.

One of Liesl's first text messages reads: "I can't wait to see you Wednesday!"

Another says: "When I see you Wednesday, what do you want to do?"

And then Liesl comes up with a plan. "Mom, we'll have ice cream and you'll tell me everything about the weekend. I can't wait to hear about all of it!"

"Liesl knows exactly why we're all down here together," Kelly tells the other girls over dinner, "and she's excited for the details."

She plans to tell Liesl the specifics of the weekend-where they went for dinner, how they went for hikes, the sort of conversations they had until early in the morning. But those are just the particulars. What Kelly really hopes Liesl will pick up in her retelling is a feeling of how deep the bonds between women can get.

She's not sure what exact words she'll say, but Kelly the wordsmith would like her daughter to know this: "Having these women in my world has meant not only acceptance, but radiant joy and laughter that knocks me right out of my chair. Through our darkest moments, we have lifted each other up. In every moment of grief we've shared, our laughter is a life vest, a secure promise that we will not go under."

17.Mysteries and Memories

It is just after breakfast on the final day of the reunion, and Jane tells the other girls that she has noticed something: They're showing up in her dreams a lot more lately.

Maybe it's the fact that, through email now, the girls seem to be in closer contact than at any other time in their adult lives. Maybe it's because of her daughter's bat mitzvah project involving Christie or her deepening bonds with Karla. She also suspects that, because they have been sharing stories for this book, long-buried memories and questions have been floating into her subconscious.

In the mornings, she doesn't have clear recall of these dreams, or any real sense of what they might signify. She just knows she has spent part of her night in Ames with old friends. Later on some mornings, when she's out running, she also finds herself thinking about the girls and the roles they've served in her life.

For all of the Ames girls, even in their waking hours, there is a dreamy quality to some of their memories of their lives together-especially those involving mysteries and unanswered questions.

As the years have pa.s.sed, however, they've found the courage to make contact with certain people or to ask questions they didn't ask when they were younger. And so some old mysteries can be at least partially resolved. This is especially true on two fronts, one involving Marilyn, the other involving Sheila.

On August 1, 2007, the I-35 Bridge in Minneapolis collapsed during evening rush hour, sending about a hundred vehicles into the Mississippi River and onto its banks. Thirteen people died, 145 were injured, and because more than 140,000 vehicles had crossed the bridge that day, it felt as if a terrible lottery had hit the residents of the Twin Cities. Who was unlucky enough to be on the bridge at exactly 6:05 P.M.?

After the collapse, area residents fielded millions of phone calls and emails from their friends and relatives across the country, all asking: "Are you OK?" As Minnesotans, Karla, Kelly and Marilyn heard from the other Ames girls in the hours that followed; the others shared their concern and then relief that they were safe. But Marilyn was most moved by the very first email she received after the collapse. It came from Elwood Koelder, the other driver in the 1960 accident that killed her brother.

She still hadn't met him or had their long-awaited full conversation. But she was touched by his unexpected email. "Just a quick note," he wrote, "checking that none of your family has been involved in this catastrophe."

Marilyn wrote back that her family was fine, and that she appreciated hearing from him. It was meaningful to her that Elwood had chosen a tragedy like this as an opportunity to show concern for the family scarred by that long-ago tragedy involving him.

After that, Marilyn did get on the phone with Elwood to follow up on the letter she had written to him. She later recounted the conversation in an email to the other Ames girls. It felt surreal speaking to him, she said, but also cathartic.

"I told Elwood what I always say to my kids: 'There's a difference between an accident and 'on purpose.' If Elwood had killed Billy intentionally, I don't know that I would be interested in contacting him. But it was an accident, and he was just a child himself."

Elwood told Marilyn that he was on his way home from church the morning of the accident. He said he doesn't remember the actual collision-how fast he might have been going, how the cornstalks obstructed his view, anything. At the moment of impact, he was thrown from his car, ended up underneath it, and pa.s.sed out. When he came to, he heard his horn blaring and tried to get up, hitting his head on the undercarriage of the car. The horn continued unabated, so he made his way to the hood, opened it, and pulled on some wires, and finally it went silent. That's when he saw the McCormacks' destroyed car, some of its occupants still inside, and felt an awful kind of adrenaline racing through his body.

Dr. McCormack was already out of the car, and Elwood helped him lift Billy out of the front seat. Elwood recalled what Dr. McCormack said to him: "Thank you for your help. I'll take it from here." (After learning of Elwood's recollection, Marilyn and her family saw it as a quintessential Dr. McCormack response. It was just the sort of gentle direction he'd use to guide a nurse, an EMT or his own children.) Over the years, Elwood said, he has wondered to himself: "Is there anything else I could have done to help that boy?"

Elwood spent a week in the hospital, recovering from a concussion. He also had a knee injury. Because he was driving on a permit that allowed him to travel only to and from school, he was charged with not having a valid driver's license. When his case was reviewed, however, his family argued that the fifteen-year-old boy had driven to church Sunday school the morning of the accident, so in essence he was on his way home from "school." The court fined him just $25 and the case wasn't pursued any further. The McCormacks never chose to file a civil suit.

"When he told me about the $25 fine, that was the only part of his story that twisted a knife in me," Marilyn wrote in her email to the girls. "I had to repeat to myself: This was an accident. He didn't do this on purpose."

Elwood told Marilyn about his family-three daughters, a step-son who is an army staff sergeant, grandchildren. He talked about his work as an Iowa-based truck driver, delivering doors and countertops to retail outlets such as Home Depot, and he said he was reeling from the high price of gas. He said he hoped to meet Marilyn in person the next time he drove through Minnesota.

After the phone call, Marilyn's older sister, Sara, decided to write to Elwood also. She shared her letter with Marilyn, since she thought it might be cathartic for Marilyn also to have a record of Sara's recollections of that day and her memories of Billy.

She began by thanking Elwood for his concern after the I-35 Bridge tragedy, then shared with him a few images of Billy. (He died just before his seventh birthday, when Sara was five.) Sara recalled being a preschooler and wrestling with Billy in the hallway early one morning. Her father, still in bed, called out to them: "Billy and Sara, are you two dressed yet?" "We were completely naked," Sara wrote to Elwood, "but Billy replied with a resounding 'Yes!' It was a unique concept to me that one could lie, but I followed his example with an equally enthusiastic 'Yes!!!' before we scampered off to put on our clothes."

Sara told Elwood about one of her father's favorite memories of Billy: "When Dad returned from work each day, Billy would laugh so hard that he would sometimes fall on the floor." Sara also wrote of how, after the accident, adults would say things to her that felt a bit off the mark. "I recall a well-meaning woman who said, 'G.o.d needs your brother more than your family did.' Even though I was young, I thought, 'It was simply an accident. The G.o.d I know wouldn't take a child away from a family for his own needs.' "

Sara wanted Elwood to know that "the crossing of your path with ours gave my siblings and me the opportunity to learn more about our parents' philosophies of life. Dad said that many people offered him condolences after the accident. He also told us about a custodian at the medical clinic who lost his son at about the same time. The boy had been playing in a construction hole, and the dirt caved in on him. 'People may have known me better because I was a physician,' Dad said, 'but my pain was no greater than his.' Dad kept speaking to the custodian about his son's death, because he knew others would move on and stop asking.

"Dad was clear and gentle when communicating with parents of a child who had died. He would ask about their marriages, whether they had left their child's room untouched, and if they still expected to see their child run into the kitchen at breakfast time. 'I know it is like rubbing salt into wounds when I ask you about your child,' Dad would say, 'but I want you to be able to speak about your child with laughter and joy, rather than pain. I will keep meeting with you until that happens.' "

Sara wanted Elwood to understand also how grateful she was to have Marilyn as her sister. "I always regarded Marilyn as a special present to me from my parents," she wrote. In explaining the trajectory of the McCormacks' lives after the accident, Sara also said that the family came to say "I love you" more frequently. "We try not to lose sight of the extraordinary importance of family and friends."

For his part, Elwood now says he was "blown away" the first time he heard from Marilyn, and he welcomed news of her existence. It was overwhelming to him to learn that she was born after her dad's reversed vasectomy. Speaking one day by cell phone as he drives his truck, he says that getting to know Marilyn and her family has served to ease his mind. Billy has been part of his life for forty-seven years. "I've thought about that little guy," he says. "And now, knowing that a new life came into the world for the one that went out, well, it's a miracle, is what it is."

Elwood says he has been moved and impressed by what Marilyn has told him about her friends.h.i.+ps with the other Ames girls. It's sobering, he says, to think that Marilyn's ident.i.ty as a doctor's daughter and her place in this group of friends were in certain ways informed by her brother's death and her feelings of not wanting to disappoint her grieving parents. "You never know what will happen to you because of what happened to someone else," Elwood says. "You just never know."

Around the same time that Marilyn was tracking down Elwood, the Ames girls were also reestablis.h.i.+ng ties with Sheila's family.

They had gotten word that Sheila's younger brother, Mark, had a four-year-old son with a rare form of cancer. A Caring Bridge Web site had been set up to share health updates, and the girls visited it and left messages to let the Walsh family know that little Charlie was in their thoughts.

Kelly, Sally and Karla had seen Sheila's mom a couple of years earlier at the memorial service for Cathy's mother. But for most of the others, this was their first contact with the Walsh family in many years. Visiting the Caring Bridge site, of course, reminded the girls of all those months when Christie was writing about her cancer journey. It was hard for Karla, especially, to read about Charlie, but her note to the Walshes was upbeat: "I'm sending positive energy to all of you. Know that Sheila's friends are praying for your family."

The other girls also left notes of encouragement, identifying themselves to Charlie as "friends of your Aunt Sheila." "You are a very handsome boy, and oh so brave," wrote Angela. "I went to school with your Aunt Sheila and think of her often." Marilyn wrote: "Keep smiling, champ!"

Sheila's mom, Sheila's sister and two of her brothers had moved to Kansas City, Missouri, and they were touched to see all the comments on Caring Bridge from Sheila's old friends. It had been a long time.

One afternoon, on the s.p.a.cious back deck of Mark's upscale suburban home, he and his mom, along with his sister, Susan, and brother Mike, agreed to speak for this book about their feelings regarding the other Ames girls, and to share their memories of Sheila. (A third brother, Matt, lived out of town.) Mrs. Walsh admitted that she was disappointed because most of the other Ames girls didn't stay in touch after Sheila died. "They just literally deserted me," she said. "They never came around. Never. It would have been nice if they had." But she is forgiving because she understands that they were also grieving and were unsure how to respond or what to say to her.

She saw those who attended Sheila's funeral. "Yes, some of them came, but you know, they were grieving within their group." She doesn't recall them coming up to her; if they did, it was brief. "It's OK. They were young."

(For their part, the Ames girls recall feeling a bit slighted at the memorial service. Ushers asked them how they knew Sheila, and when they said they were her friends from childhood and high school, they were directed to a side pew. Susan's and Sheila's college friends were seated more prominently. When people are grieving, and their emotions are so heightened, they notice such things.) Sheila's family described her as being completely devoted to the other Ames girls. If someone made a crack about, say, the weight of one of her friends, Sheila would respond sharply. "She was intensely loyal," said Susan. "If you were in her inner circle, she would jump off a cliff for you."

The Walshes smiled and laughed over many of their memories of Sheila. They remembered when she and some of the other Ames girls did neck exercises, twisting and stretching their necks so they wouldn't get wrinkles.

Susan said she and Sheila were sometimes very close, and other times, there was distance-or they fought. Though they were only eighteen months apart, they traveled in different circles of friends, especially as they got older. Sheila had told the other Ames girls that it was hard to live in Susan's shadow, because Susan was so beautiful and accomplished, and got along better with their mom. Susan now understands some of the dynamics. "I was a rule-follower," Susan said, "and Sheila wasn't."

They shared a room, and Susan has sweet memories of late-night conversations and of games they played as little girls. One was a convoluted "how hot are you now?" game they'd play by adjusting the settings on each other's electric blankets.

"There's something about losing a sister," Susan said. "It's like losing a part of yourself. In a lot of ways, she made me feel good about myself." She added: "Each of us has put our memories of Sheila in a sort of protective, separate compartment, deep down inside somewhere." It was emotional for them to be talking again so openly about her.

Sheila was headstrong. When Mrs. Walsh took the girls clothes shopping, she said, "Susan had this tall, thin figure and was easy to fit. Sheila was harder. And she always wanted something that didn't look good on her. So shopping trips could be ruined."

The family was often reminded of how close Sheila was to Dr. Walsh. Mark said that as an early teen, he used to go on a five-mile race with his father, and Sheila sometimes pedaled along on her bike. The first time he outran his father, Sheila was very upset. "She was actually crying," Mark said. "She asked me, 'How'd you beat him with those little legs of yours?' She just had this bond with him. She was Daddy's girl."

"She knew how to work him," said Susan.

"To Sheila, he was a softy," Mrs. Walsh added.

As a dentist, Dr. Walsh had a reputation of being very gentle when he put his hands in a patients' mouth. He often had that same gentleness in how he dealt with his children, especially Sheila.

Susan and Sheila were in the same sorority at the University of Kansas-when Sheila was a freshman, Susan was a soph.o.m.ore. For her twentieth birthday, Susan received $100 from her dad. He died two days later at age forty-seven of a heart attack, and Susan ended up using the $100 toward plane tickets for her and Sheila to go home for the funeral. On the plane that day, they both were very quiet, their faces pale, their eyes red from crying. Two young men on the plane noticed these two pretty, red-eyed girls and tried to hit on them. "Hey, what have you two been doing?" one of them asked.

"They a.s.sumed we were stoned," Susan said. "It's weird, the things that you remember about moments like that."

After Dr. Walsh died, Sheila was grieving for herself, but also very concerned about how her mother was faring. "She was just so empathetic," Mrs. Walsh said. "And she was such a good listener."