Blog of a Newly Minted Housewife

Goodbye, Kimmie

I was down in San Diego when my sister called my cell phone. It was late, almost ten o'clock at night. She sounded upset, but the call dropped before I could even say hello. I knew she'd been having car problems and wondered if something had gone more wrong. But why would she be calling me for that? I was 500 miles away – too far to give her a ride or offer more than moral support. My phone rang again. "Hello?" I nearly shouted, knowing I didn't have a great signal. "Hi." She said, sighing. "I don't have a great signal here," I told her, cutting off whatever she was going to say next, "OK, call me back, on my cell." As I hung up my cell and picked up Greta's landline, I knew something was more wrong than a little car trouble. Still, I wasn't prepared for the conversation we had.

"This is officially the worst week of my life," she said when we finally got a good connection.
"What's going on?" I still hoped someone had backed into her car in the parking lot, or her dishwasher had overflowed, and she just needed a compassionate ear.
"Kimmie was in a car accident today. She's dead."
"WHAT??!!" Dead? Kimmie? No, no, it can't be. Not Kimmie. Not one of my friends. "What happened?"

Lisa told me what little she knew, what little I still know. Kim was in Lake Tahoe with her sister and her sister's family. The two had gone to run an errand, of what sort I still don't know. It doesn't matter. What matters is that as she rounded a curve on Highway 89 near Emerald Bay, a plumbing truck came into her lane, hit her car at the left front quarter panel and pinned it against the guardrail. Judging from the picture posted by the Tahoe Daily Tribune, she never had a chance. I take some comfort in believing she never felt anything worse than a little fear, that adrenaline rush you get when you know an accident is inevitable.

My friends that are also her friends already know this, have already read the article and looked at the picture if they wanted to. Me, I keep going back to it. Again and again on the day after her death, I read that article and stared at that photo. And I still couldn't believe it, still have trouble with the reality of Kim's death.

If there were any of my friends I would have had to guess would die this year, Kim was not even on the list. She has always been so full of life, so vivacious, so willing to jump in and help. Whether the task at hand was organizing a camping trip, throwing a baby shower, or just making sure her single girlfriends had a good time on Saturday night, Kim threw herself into it with gusto. She'd come up with decorations and themes and good food and drink.

Kim liked these crackers, these cracked grain crackers to have with Brie or goat cheese. They came in a plastic tray inside a white box and you could only get them in Southern California. She would stock up whenever she visited her mom, or have her mom send up a stash. And she always brought them out, these hard-to-get crackers, her entire supply, at a party, anybody's party. She didn't have to be the host, but she did have to have those crackers, and to share them.

Kim liked candles. She couldn't help but buy them whenever she went to Target or Kmart or Pier One or the Dollar Store. And there were always candles lit about her apartment, different sizes and shapes and colors and scents. I bet there are still enough candles around her apartment to light her entire memorial service.

Kim liked kids, especially the little ones. So many of our mutual friends had babies in the last eighteen months, Kim was hardly ever without a baby to dangle on her knee. She didn't have any kids of her own, but that didn't matter. She loved to spoil her "nieces and nephews." I remember what a soft spot she had for Sheridan, a little dark-haired girl. She always had a fun little present for that little girl, a Barbie® make-up kit or little pink shoes or just bubbles to blow.

Kim liked thongs, flip-flops, but not as much as some people thought she did. She had too many pairs to count, too many for me to count, anyway. And thong related jewelry, too, that other people would buy for her. I saw a pretty necklace with a tiny thong pendant at a shop on 4th of July weekend, and I nearly bought it for her. But I didn't. Because she once told me, eyes rolling, that someone had bought her another thong-related item. I can't remember now who it was, or who gave it to her, or even whether she liked it or not, but I remembered that eye-roll, and so I didn't buy the necklace.

Kimmie loved her dog, Reno, a black lab. She brought him on all the camping trips, dressed him in bandanas for every occasion, gave him lots of toys and room to roam. She took him swimming. She made everyone else fall in love with him, too.

Kim liked her friends. Strike that, Kim loved her friends. She would do nearly anything to make sure her friends were happy, that they were having a good time. She called everyone "sweetie" and "honey" and told just about everyone that she loved them. I'm not sure if she really understood how much we loved her back. As much as she loved giving, it wasn't always easy to give to her in return. But one time we got her good. One time, for one night, there could be no doubt in her mind how we all felt about her.

The night was her 40th birthday. Lisa, and Sheryl, and Ralph, and Liz, and I don't know how many others conspired to throw her a surprise party. Lisa reached back to college days, to when she first met Kim, for the toga-party theme. Kim's sister, Jenny, the one who was in the car with her, flew up from Southern California. We decorated my parents' house with fake ivy and flowers and candles. We set up food and copious amounts of drink and a present table and a poster with photos of Kimmie at all different ages. Then we got into our togas and hid in the backyard.

Lisa got her there on pretense of going to San Francisco for dinner and drink, but having to stop by my parents house to take care of my dog. She didn’t have a clue. The look on her face when she came around the corner of the house was priceless. She was shocked and surprised and actually burst into tears at the sight of us all there, ridiculously dressed, wishing her "Happy Birthday!" She hugged everyone she could reach. Lisa took her upstairs and outfitted her in a toga, her sister gave her a special decorated glass to drink from, and we celebrated Kim all night.

Kim wasn't perfect; none of us are. She smoked, she sometimes drank too much, occasionally she held a grudge. There were times she could drive you crazy. I used to really bug her about the smoking, but now it doesn't seem to matter so much. I wouldn't mind having her here to drive me crazy right now.

I've been trying to remember the last time I saw Kim. I know it was before I left on my trip. Was it at the Valentine's Day party she organized for the single girls? Or was it when I went into her work and she helped me order the iBook and iPod that made my trip that much better? Or was it some other time, a birthday or a simple and spontaneous gathering at someone's house? I don’t know.

I do know the last time I talked to her, though. Lisa threw a barbeque to welcome me back to California, and Kim was supposed to come. She was tired, though, and had fallen asleep. She called me to apologize, promised we'd get together sometime soon. I didn't think about it too much; I was sure we'd go out for drink before too long, and if not, well, there was a camping trip at the end of July and we'd be around each other for the entire weekend.

"It's all right," I told her. "There aren't that many people here anyway."
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"It's fine. Don't worry about it. I'll see you soon."
"OK, sweetie. Have fun. I love you."
"I love you, too," I told her. "Goodbye."