LC

Still Here, In Hannah's Words

During high school and for some years afterwards, LC was my daughter Hannah’s closest friend.
Every year on the anniversary of her death I’ve reposted this: fifteen years on Tumblr, and now, for the first time, here. It was written by Hannah shortly after LC died, and perfectly captures the radiant whirlwind LC was.

LC’s suicide left many unanswered questions and one absolute certainty: the world is a less vibrant place without LC in it.

For Louisa Caroline (LC) Wagley
December 27, 1982-October 27, 2005

During the five years when LC and I were really close, she did a lot of damage to my car.

Our junior year of high school, LC, my roommate Karla and I, along with my brother Jake, left a school dance to drive around Simsbury, Connecticut. LC, who didn’t have her license, thought it would be funny to drive my car around the parking lot while Jake and I were inside Stop and Shop. Everything was going smoothly until she confused the gas pedal with the brake and crashed into a tree. The hood was totally crunched in and there was a huge crack in the windshield. At this point I’d only known LC for a couple of months, just long enough to know that her impulsiveness often got her into trouble. Anyway, I was incredibly upset. “Oh, my God, Hannah! I am so sorry!” I knew LC felt terrible, but I was furious. I didn’t talk the whole way back to school. “Hannah, seriously, you can punch me in the face if you want to.” For some reason, LC really wanted me to hit her. By the time I dropped her off at the dorm, she was practically begging, “Hannah, please, just punch me in the face.” Of course, I didn’t. As we drove away, Jake pointed out the giant dent in the windshield from the impact of LC’s head.
Other damage to my car was less dramatic. There were at least a dozen cigarette burns on the inside roof from our drives around Simsbury or New Haven, and I don’t smoke. LC also had a way of making a mess, spilling coffee and leaving notebooks and magazines and clothes behind, as well as a persistent nicotine smell that my dad despised. “No smoking in the car,” he’d say. I felt bad ignoring his no-smoking rule, but the fact was I needed those cigarette drives as much as LC did.
Our road trips and one summer spent driving all over the island of Nantucket helped pile up over 100,000 miles on the odometer and a mountain of LC’s clothes, scribbled notes and Styrofoam coffee cups throughout my humble Toyota Camry.
Still, despite the havoc we wreaked upon it, I always felt that car protected us. It had been through everything, from LC’s abuse to several idiotic accidents that I take complete responsibility for, and it still got us everywhere we needed to go, including all the way from New Orleans to Panama City Beach, Florida (not the most happening place in mid-January) on one tank of gas, which felt, at the time, like a miracle.
As crazy as it sounds, given our history of vehicular misfortunes, I keep thinking that if LC and I just stayed in the Camry, I might have held onto her. I keep thinking about those days with me behind the wheel and LC riding shotgun. I am so grateful to have shared the wild adventures, and to know those memories are safe. My only regret is that we didn’t make it far enough so we could look back together from some grown-up place and laugh at all the foolish, amazing things we dared to do.