Gabby_ A Story of Courage and Hope - Alison Hanson [73]
This was just the sort of eye-opening adventure that appealed to Gabby, of course, and that made for common ground. “I once lived with the Mennonites in Mexico,” she told Claudia, and they talked for a while, comparing their experiences.
The girls, Gabby, and I did have some good times together. Claudia, Gabby, and I enjoyed hiking together to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Claire liked visiting Gabby’s parents, who live well outside of Tucson, in the middle of nowhere. We’d all go hiking out there, and when Claire complained that she was tired, Gabby was her cheerleader. “Come on, you can do it!” We’d struggle through the heat, the swarms of wasps and yellow jackets, the pokey cacti, and eventually reach a waterfall, where we’d eat lunch, and Gabby would tell Claire she was proud of her for not giving up.
Those moments were positive memories. But mostly, the girls weren’t interested in bonding with Gabby. And they didn’t.
“I understand,” Gabby said. “They’re kids and I love them. I’m patient. I’ll wait for them to come around.”
She continued to reach out. She’d buy them little gifts. She’d ask about their lives. She tried to have no expectations.
Then came January 8.
The girls had flown with me that day from Houston to Tucson. It was the first time they’d ever seen me cry. That afternoon, they visited Gabby—bandaged, battered, comatose—in her hospital room. They had never before seen anyone who was that close to death. It was shocking and scary, and they were both shaken.
Back at the hotel, just before midnight, Claudia was unable to sleep. She thought about how she had never allowed herself to get close to Gabby. She thought about the things she admired about her stepmother but had kept to herself. She wished she could go back in time and have a second chance. All she could do, through her tears, was to take out a piece of paper and start writing.
Dear Gabby,
You are the strongest, most incredible woman I have ever met. I love you so much. I am thankful to have someone like you in my life. I know we have not been extremely close in the past couple years and I am really sorry. That is going to change immediately.
I took such a wonderful person for granted and I feel horrible. I have been praying for you all day. I am going to visit as much as possible. Thank you for supporting me in everything I do and for believing in me. I can’t wait to see you again and give you the biggest hug and kiss ever. I can’t wait to hear your voice again. Stay strong. I love you. —Claudia
She rewrote the letter in neater handwriting and stuck the rough draft in her purse. She gave me the original, and weeks later, I read it to Gabby, who listened and nodded. Gabby was still in the early stages of her recovery, so she didn’t respond with words. But I sensed that she understood and appreciated Claudia’s efforts.
Claudia, meanwhile, kept that rough draft in her purse for months. She’d take it out several times each school day, just to reread it. It almost always made her teary.
She told her pole-vaulting coach that she was struggling with guilt. “I’m ashamed of how I acted before this all happened,” she said. The coach, Chad Hunt, offered perspective and advice. “Don’t punish yourself anymore,” he said. “You can’t think about what your relationship has been. You have to think about what your relationship with your stepmother is now, and what it’s going to be. That’s the only thing you can control.” (Claudia and Claire’s mom—my ex, Amy—also encouraged the girls to build new bonds with Gabby, for which I am grateful.)
Claudia chose never to discuss her letter with Gabby. She explained that she had made a decision: “I want to show her I’ve changed and that I care through my actions, not my words.” Among her friends, Claudia became an advocate for repairing relationships with parents and stepparents. “I took Gabby for granted for so long,” she’d say, “and I’m lucky I got a second chance to build a relationship with her.”
For her part, Claire continued to struggle with feelings of sadness and guilt.