Rachel's Whispers

Rachel's Wispers

Rachel's Whispers

Three words defined Rachel's life: horses, horses, and horses. She loved everything about them. Her dad often kidded her, "Rachel I think you have horse hair in your blood."

She had grown up around horses, horse trainers, and the racetrack. A professional racehorse trainer, her dad had many credits to his name, and "Rach," as he called her, spent as much time with him as she could. She loved watching and, when possible, helping with the horses he trained. In fact, all she ever seemed to talk about were horses.

However, Rachel hadn't exactly lived a charmed life. A crushing loss at a tender age had changed everything in an instant. A brutal accident claimed her mom when Rachel was four years old, and only vague memories of her mom survived. What she remembered most were the wrenching feelings of loss the day her dad walked in the house, reluctant to bring bad news. He had wet smears of dirt on his face, his hands shook, and his voice was raspy, as if he had eaten a handful of crackers and they were lodged in his throat. He bent down and said quietly, "Rachel, Mommy isn't coming home tonight, sweetie. There was an accident. She's in heaven now."

Rachel started to cry. He comforted her as best he could. "I know it's hard for you to understand, but I'll explain it all to you when you're older. I'm here and I love you very much. Mommy loved you very much, too."

Rachel remembered her dad's attempt to provide comfort with words, but more than anything else, she remembered how woeful and frightened she felt. Her whole world had been ripped apart instantly. She remembered saying, "Daddy, I'm scared. I want Mommy."

Her dad had not replied. He sobbed and reached out his arms to hug her. They embraced for a long time. Eventually she fell asleep in his arms, exhausted from her sorrow.

Nights were the hardest. She often fell asleep softly whimpering, her dad at her side. She lost her appetite, her interest in any kind of play, and, worst of all, she lost interest in horses. She awoke in the early hours screaming, "Mommy, where are you?"

It broke her dad's heart too hear his four-year-old cry out in anguish.

Immersed in his own grief, he became more despondent as the weeks passed. His grief, compounded by Rachel's, plunged him into depths he had never known existed. He sat for long periods staring into empty space. Often he could not find the strength to go up to bed. In the morning Rachel would find him slumped over in his chair. In his melancholy, he thought about the unholiest of acts—ending it all.

Seven Years Later

Rachel's dad eventually kept his promise. It was late on a sunny afternoon. They were relaxing on the front porch, sitting together on a wicker loveseat and sipping iced tea. He leaned toward her and said, "I think you're old enough to hear the whole story about how Mom died. I'll tell you, but only if you're sure you want to know more."

Although apprehensive, she shook her head yes.

He spoke in soft tones, his eyes teary; remembering remained painful. He began, "Well, Rach, first I want to tell you how much your mom loved you. You look a lot like her, you know. You have the same sparkle in your eyes, her dimples, and that same wrinkle she had on her forehead."

Pausing, he felt the weight of what he was about to say, and it held him suspended in time.

Unable to stall any longer, he blurted out. "Your mom died in a terrible train accident." Composing himself, he continued, "The man at the controls, who we later learned was extremely depressed, had taken an overdose of medication. He was drowsy and had no business being at the helm."

She took this in, and after a brief hesitation asked, "What happened exactly?"

Taking a deep breath, he resumed telling the story. "The train operator failed to adjust his speed when the train came to a tight curve. He didn't slow down at a clearly posted speed sign. The train was going over sixty miles an hour in a twenty-five-mile speed zone. He simply wasn't paying attention to the track signals." His face grew sadder. "The rest you already know."