The inside looks like I thought it would. Lots of granite columns in the lobby, marble floors and oversized dark-stained wooden doors, way taller than any normal human. It’s like everything has been expertly designed to make you feel insignificant. But despite the grandiose building, nothing makes me feel quite as small as comprehending the gravity of what I have to do and the implications it will have for everyone.
I thought I had at least another day to prepare, but when the lawyer contacted us and said the judge had called a special session one day early, my meager confidence shriveled. Sleep eluded me last night as I stared at the ceiling, begging Mama and Noli-Belle for strength.
The courtroom door squeaks open, and Dad, Em, and I walk down the middle row in single file and take the first three seats on the right. Jacob Lanford is already seated at the defendant’s table, hunched together with his lawyer. He sneaks a few quick glances at us over his shoulder. Behind them, in the row immediately to our left, a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a messy bun and two girls, the oldest looking to be about twelve, sit with their hands folded in their laps, eyes glued to the floor. The courtroom is no place for kids, but when the youngest girl gets up, kisses her fingers, and plants them against Jacob’s cheek, I get it. Family. Love. Support. The eight-year-old is well versed in what’s taken me a year to understand.
The door swings wide again and the prosecutor walks in, stopping to shake Dad’s hand and give a slight nod, an affirmation everything’s a-go. He slides behind the mahogany desk and eases his briefcase onto the top.
When the bailiff requests we all rise, my knees buckle, and I grab hold of the wooden railing like a crutch. Sensing my anxiety, Em interlaces her fingers with mine, physically assisting me to stay upright. The judge takes the bench, signals for everyone to sit, then clears his throat and looks at the jury.
“Early yesterday morning, I met with the prosecution and defense in my chambers to discuss a highly unusual request. It is the nature of this request that inspired me to call this special session. I appreciate everyone rearranging their schedules accordingly.”
The judge glances up from the bench, but no one moves. The atmosphere is heavy as he continues. “The prosecution presented a letter written by the key witness, Miss Camelia Ainsworth, that addresses the court. She has requested to read it aloud. The letter has now been read and reviewed by both myself and the defense, and upon doing so, it has been decided to grant said request. With that being said, the court recognizes Miss Camelia Jayne Ainsworth.”
The judge nods in my direction and holds the folded white paper over the front of his bench. I will my legs not to give way as a clack-clack-clacking echoes around the room. I’m unsure if the noise is coming from the hard bottoms of my sandals or my wobbly knees knocking together.
The paper unfolds easily in my fingers. The black type stares back at me, representing my innermost thoughts and feelings soon to become public record. I take a deep breath and run my tongue along my teeth, trying to generate some degree of moisture in my cotton-dry mouth. With a shaky voice, I begin reading.
To Whom It May Concern:
Eleven months ago, my life changed in the blink of an eye on a twisty two-lane road. What started out as a night of fun family time ended in a terrible tragedy that still haunts me to this day. Closing my eyes each night only means one more opportunity to hear my sister’s screams or see my mama’s lifeless stare. They echo in the quiet moments of rest and even in my waking thoughts when sleep’s elusive.
That day changed me. It changed my dad, my family, my relationships. And not just in our family, but in Mr. Lanford’s as well. But something—or someone—didn’t change. Two people will remain forever frozen in time. Consistent, steady, true in life, and now in death.
Eleanor Kate Ainsworth and Magnolia Belle Ainsworth. The people they were, the passions they had, the love in their souls still linger here. When I need direction, they are my compass, my true north. And they are the reason I’m here today.
But for you to understand my request, you must first understand these people, because without them—who they were—I wouldn’t be standing before you the person I am now. So, on behalf of the new Camelia Jayne “Cami” Ainsworth, let me enlighten you.
Eleanor Kate Ainsworth—always Mama to me and my sister, Ellie to my dad, and Wonder Woman to the hundreds of people she touched during her years as a pediatric nurse— was my hero. She had an incredible heart for all people. She loved gardenias and baking three-layer cakes and being a wife and mother. She used to tell me to fight hard and love harder. Always forgive and be free. Stand for something or fall for anything. But mostly, she just told me to live, because the ride is awesome but all too short. She had no idea how short hers would be.
But compared to Noli-Belle, she lived a hundred lives. Twelve years. One hundred forty-four months to be exact. That’s all she got. But man, she made them count. My sister was thirsty—for knowledge, understanding, and her place in this world. So many hours she’d lay on her back outside in the grass with that astronomy book, searching the skies for star patterns and mysteries of the great beyond. She noticed everything. She marveled at everything. She questioned everything. She wanted to be the first woman on Mars. Fearless. Brave. Believing. Four years younger than me, she stood head and shoulders above me. The world has surely missed out on the best she still had to offer.
I could be mad they’re gone. Angry, bitter, and belligerent. I could shake my fist at God and everyone around me, curse fate and point fingers about why these two incredible people were taken away. I could do that. I have done that. But no more.
There’s been a lot of talk about who’s to blame. The truth? We can twist, fold and scrutinize every detail and only discover the blame lies with everyone and no one. It’s a whirlwind of circumstances and decisions that mish-mashed together in what became the worst day of my life, my dad’s life, even Mr. Lanford’s life. I’ve spent the last year wondering what if. What if we’d never left home in the first place? What if we’d taken a different route? What if I hadn’t been the one driving the car? It’s an endless, maddening stream that’s terrorized me, while outwardly, I’ve shoved everyone away.
But then this summer happened, and I found out love can’t fix our problems, but it can heal our souls. I learned to love again, open my heart, let people in despite my pain and loss. Sure, I’m different now—we all are—but that doesn’t mean I’m shattered and no good. And if I keep letting fear and guilt dictate my life, then I might as well have died along with them.
Mama and Noli-Belle wouldn’t want that. On the roadside where they died, amidst the memorials built in their honor, lilies are blooming. In the aftermath of tragedy, there’s beauty. After the worst days of our lives, come the most joyful ones if we are open to the possibilities. I believe that now.
This was an accident—a terrible culmination of decisions, actions, and circumstances, and we’d give anything for a do-over. But that’s the one thing about life, right? There are no do-overs, and living in the past or cramming ourselves into a shell of who we used to be only creates more heartache from tragedy.
This isn’t the answer. Love is the answer. Forgiveness is the answer.
That is why I come before the court, imploring the powers that be to grant leniency to Mr. Lanford. He has a beautiful family at home waiting for a husband and daddy to return. My mama and sister will never come home, but theirs can.
Please choose to create beauty in the aftermath of this tragedy and restore the Lanford family. It’s what I want. It’s what Dad wants. It’s what my mama and sister would want, too.
Sincerely,
Camelia Jayne Ainsworth
There’s no sound in the courtroom, not even the shuffle of people shifting in their chairs. I lift my eyes to the crowd and immediately land on the oldest Lanford daughter. She reminds me so much of Noli-Belle. Her squared shoulders and strong chin tremble ever so slightly. She doesn’t cry, obstinate in the face of a family crisis. Our connection is magnetic. I don’t move until she does; a small grin breaches her lips, and without a sound, she mouths two simple words: Thank you.
After a few blank seconds, the judge breaks the silence.
“Miss Ainsworth, are you finished?” His stern grimace from earlier fades, replaced by a new tenderness that also resonates in his tone. But not from pity. No; if I’m reading him correctly, he almost seems proud.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Very well then. The court has heard what you have to say. With that, let’s take a ten-minute recess.”
The pounding gavel cues my feet to move, and I take off down the aisle, through the gigantic doors, and all the way to the gray stone steps out front. Dad and Em catch up, hot on my heels.
“CJ!” Dad grabs my arm, turning me toward him. “Are you okay?”
There are some things in my life that’ll never be okay. I’ll never get over the loss of Mama and Noli-Belle. I’ll never forget my summer with Memaw, and Jett will always be my first love. I don’t know how to forget those things, but now I know I don’t have to. They’re all a part of what makes me who I am, and they’re all parts of who I’ll become. There’s no way of knowing the future, but maybe that’s the point. All we can do is put ourselves out there, be willing to lay our hearts on the line, and see where it goes.
Dad and Em crowd around me, their eyes big and searching mine as if waiting on the coming meltdown. Only there isn’t one. I wrap my arms around them, tugging them both close to me, and laugh. “I’m good.”
“Suddenly she’s got it all figured out,” Dad laughs. “What do you think, Em? Is she good?”
Em looks over at me and winks. “She’s getting there.”
“I just need a little time,” I say, giving them another squeeze. “And the people I love most.”
“Exactly!” Dad wags his finger in my face. “So, let’s get you home.”