Chapter One

It was spring 2005, and I heard a sound at home that had been absent for a long time--laughter.

Two of Laci's longtime girlfriends, Stacey Boyers and Lori Ellsworth, were at my dining room table. Both were in their late twenties, the same age Laci would have been. They were dressed casually, they looked nice, and they radiated a youthful glow. I marveled at how much life they had in them. I pictured them as little girls at that table doing homework, snacking on cookies, and giggling at which boys liked which girls. Now they were reminiscing about Laci.

I gave Lori a cold beer, put a glass of Chardonnay in front of Stacey, and took one myself. Soon they were telling Laci stories that made them laugh, especially the latest one. Stacey started to describe what they'd done at the cemetery but abruptly cut herself off.

Seeming alarmed, she looked at Lori and, while trying not to laugh, asked, "Should I tell her what we said today?"

"Oh my God," Lori said. "You can't."

I looked around the table. There were four chairs and three of us. If Laci were in that fourth chair, she'd be the one most eager to hear what was making them laugh. I said exactly what Laci would've said to Stacey: "Go ahead. Tell me."

Stacey--whom I've known since she was eight--didn't require much coaxing, and neither did Lori, once they got started.

"Lori and I went to visit Laci today," Stacey said. "We were standing there, talking to her, like we always do, catching her up with all the gossip.

"Then we were quiet for a minute and I said to Lori, 'I know what's going on with her. I can hear Laci now, knocking on her neighbors' caskets, saying, Hello! Anybody in there? Who's there? I need to talk to somebody.'"

As she said this, Lori was turning red from embarrassment. She was probably thinking, Oh my gosh, how's Sharon going to take this? Here's what I did: I laughed. I couldn't help it. It had been so long since I heard the sound of laughter at home. At one time, it had been common. Laci had a terrific sense of humor. She laughed a lot. Listening to Lori and Stacey, I was reminded of all the times the girls had sat around the table, talking and laughing.

"You know she's down there talking nonstop," Lori said, laughing. "She's down there going, Hey, excuse me! Pardon me! We haven't met. I'm Laci . . .

"I want to tell you about my little boy," Stacey said in a Laci-like voice. "I want to tell you what I'm cooking today . . ."

Lori pretended to be Laci's neighbors.

"Who put her here?" she said in a deep voice. "Can somebody please move her! She doesn't stop talking."

They were right. That was Laci.

And I missed it. I missed her so much.

Without her, a part of me was gone forever, too.

I grew up in Escalon, a small agricultural town of about 2,000 people adjacent to Modesto in central California. I remember Escalon as a picture-postcard of rural small-town life: cattle ranches, farms, dairies, and orchards. The Sierras rose in the distance.

I was the second of four children. My father, Cliff Anderson, was a foreman on a peach and almond ranch, and my mother, Elta, was a full- time homemaker. In high school, I was an A-student, a cheerleader, and Homecoming princess. I don't know where I got the nerve to be a cheerleader. Unlike Laci, I was always shy, self-conscious, and easily intimidated.

During my freshman year, I started dating Dennis Rocha, the son of a dairyman whose Portuguese family had deep roots in Escalon. Dennis was already attending Modesto Junior College when a mutual friend introduced us at a dance in Turlock. We became serious very quickly. After I...

 

For Laci by Sharon Rocha
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