It was February of her freshman year. Remy had been working on a new spin, a reverse camel spin, in which she enters quickly and forcefully on an inside edge. She had been so excited about it she even asked me to stand at the rail to watch. I crossed my arms against the chill as she picked up speed for her approach and— It happened so fast, the thud echoing through the rink, causing two former Olympians to look over and gasp. Her edge gave out from under her and she flew up and out and back, smack on the base of her skull. We waited for her to get up. I felt blurry inside as I watched her rise. But rise she did. Two days later, Natasha Richardson hit her head in much the same way on the slopes and never came home.
In addition to having had brain surgery as an infant, Remy had had one other hard blow to the head in her lifetime. Her class had been rehearsing for the major rite of passage at our little K-8 school: the 4th grade play. They were doing a vampy musical version of Cinderella with lip-synced tunes from Abba. Remy was cast as the wicked stepmother, a role that she adored. This was the year she first declared that she wanted to be an actress. Every day the director, a school parent who was a successful film and TV star, would tell me she had something special. Teachers who’d snuck a peek at rehearsals said she was at a whole other level. I couldn’t say either way; Remy never wanted me to watch her in her preparations—not for theatre or skating or art. She liked to work on top-secret projects that she then revealed to me, watching closely for the level of delight and pride in my eyes.
On the day of her 4th grade fall, I had been at the school for Wednesday morning chapel with the kids and had just returned home, poured a cup of coffee, sat down to write. I was just thinking that maybe this would be the year she found her way to shine, when the phone rang.
“Heather, Remy’s fainted,” the principal said. “ She hit her head pretty hard. She’s sitting up now and conscious. They had just started their play rehearsal. I called an ambulance to have her checked.”
When I got there, she was sitting in a huge wooden clergy seat near the altar, surrounded by paramedics. The play was held in the church, which was covered in Spanish tile. She had been standing upright, evidently delivering a line with so much cackle it took the breath right out of her: she suddenly fell straight back, no bend, no slouch, no buffer, flat on the back of her head.
“Don’t take me to the hospital,” she cried. “They’ll cut my head open!!” It was the first time I realized how much she carried the memory of her surgery with her. (Elijah & the SAT)
Heather Choate Davis 