Lara

Those four letters are etched deeply into my heart and soul. Lara is my sister, who died when she was 22 and I was 17, and Lara is the name of her precocious, spirited granddaughter she never knew.

My sister got pregnant when she was a senior in high school. I remember the pregnancy test in the fridge, which she told my parents was a science project – not a lie, but certainly not the whole story. She confided in me when it turned out to be positive, and fretted about when to tell my parents. When she could contain herself no longer, she approached my mom when she was in the middle of a phone conversation with her friend, Paula. Lara whispered, “Mom, Mom!” My mom brushed her off, but Lara persisted. Finally, my mom told Paula to hold on a second and asked, “What is it?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Pause.

“Diana, what is it? Is it big?” asked Paula.

“Yes, Paula. It’s big, alright. I’ll call you back.”

My parents decided my dad would take Lara out for dinner to discuss her options. When my dad broached the subject as they perused the menu, Lara responded, “What options? I’m keeping the baby.” And that was that. They ordered dinner, and eight months later, we became a household of six: my parents, their three daughters, and now baby Natalie.

The petrified, young father was the son of a Mormon bishop, so this was quite a scandal for their family. The details are still fuzzy to me, but I know that our family went to court with their family, basically freeing them of all obligations, but also stripping them of all rights concerning Natalie. Apparently, the paternal grandmother was in tears, but they had made up their minds. The young father visited on Christmas and Natalie’s birthday, and maybe a few other times, but once he went on his mission, he faded from their lives.

Lara, undeterred, jumped into motherhood wholeheartedly and with a confidence rare in someone so young. I never heard her utter one regret about her choice.

I won’t go into detail right now about how we lost Lara, but when she passed, my parents took over raising Nat. Over the years, they transitioned from Nana and Pop to Mom and Dad. For years, I resisted introducing Nat as my sister, despite her wishes; I felt it was a betrayal to Lara. I finally relented when I realized how desperately she needed to feel like part of a “normal” family and that calling her “niece” made her feel like she was being kept apart. It also left people curious as to how I could have a niece; they only knew of Alana, who was four years younger than me. I also realized it is more important to comfort the living than to cling to my idea of what it means to honor the dead.

Now Nat is 34 and has a loving husband and two children of her own. Though she never initiates or is comfortable engaging in conversation about her mother, she named her daughter Lara. That girl is something else. What I wouldn’t give for my Lara to meet this Lara. She would be over the moon.