Stairway to Heaven

My husband and daughter had always been especially close. Ten-year-old Becky was her daddy's little helper, running after Don if he went to the store or handing him a tool as he fixed a leaky faucet. I had back problems and when the three of us went out walking, I'd often fall behind; Don and Becky would turn around, coaxing me to catch up. When Don started cleaning houses for extra money, he often took Becky along for company. The quiet of the house without them got to me, but it was good knowing they were together-- almost like worrying about one person instead of two.

That evening in April 1997, we were in the van on our way back to Fayetteville, Ark., after spending the weekend visiting my parents in Mountain Home, three hours away. As we pulled onto the curvy, two lane highway that would take us home, I slipped a tape into the player and glanced back to make sure Becky had on her seat belt. She looked so cute in her purple top and shorts, seated right behind her daddy.

, I thought, smiling at my husband.

I settled back and rolled down my window a bit. Despite the gathering dusk, it was warm and I felt wonderfully comfortable, watching the trees rush by, with the dark-blue fabric of the sky stretched low overhead. We sang along with the tape, and the miles passed quickly.

By the halfway point in our trip, it was almost completely dark. Becky was looking out the window, Don focused on the road. I felt my eyes slip closed-- once, then again. I sat up straight and took a deep breath. Still I felt my eyelids drooping.

I'd just spent a whole weekend relaxing, and usually I was wide awake on these night drives, wanting to keep Don company. But there was no fighting the drowsiness.

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