Stalking Harper Lee
HARPER IN MY HEART
In September of 2008, I had been struggling with depression and decided to take a birthday trip alone. What I needed was a couple of days to get myself back together, do some soul-searching, and reboot for the year ahead. But what was supposed to be a gift to myself turned into a surreal nightmare.
I was turning thirty-six. I hate the 6's — 35 to 36, 45 to 46. Once you hit the six, it's a downhill glide until you're waking up in another decade.
I had narrowed my choices down to Manhattan or Monroeville, Alabama. There's nothing like New York in the fall- the chill in the air, the sound of saxophones from street musicians echoing off sidewalks that smell like time. I imagined myself walking in Central Park, with red and gold leaves falling around me like little crowns.
But being from Alabama, I'd always been curious about Monroeville (the literary capital of the state). For Harper "To Kill a Mockingbird" Lee and Truman "In Cold Blood" Capote to BOTH grow up in that map dot -there had to be magic in the air. I'd been working on my book "Talking to the Sky" for almost three years and thought I might have a breakthrough there.
When it comes to massive decisions like getting married or buying a car, I tend to be impulsive. It's the little choices like ice cream flavors and fingernail polish colors that get me. I find myself playing weird games with the radio or digital clock. If I like the next song--Cracker Barrel, if I don't, sushi.- Looking at my watch, if it ends in an odd number, that's a yes and even mean no.
I couldn't choose where to go, so I flipped a coin and let fate decide. Heads, I would travel to Alabama—tails, the Big Apple. Seeing George Washington's silver profile, I slung clothes in a neon pink duffle bag. I hugged our three kids, Levi, Oscar, and Lola, goodbye and scooped up my French bulldog, Harper, who would be my travel buddy.
My husband, Chris, followed me outside and checked the air pressure in the tires. He kissed me goodbye and said, "Promise me you won't get arrested trying to stalk Harper Lee."
"I won't," I said.
He shook his head, "Just be careful."
I didn't tell him I packed a dress and knew where she went to church.
Harper Lee is one of my favorite authors—and I had done my research. Every Sunday, she attended First United Methodist Church, and she usually went out to eat at someplace called Dave's Catfish Cabin after the service. I fantasized about us sitting at a booth in that seafood restaurant, drinking sweet tea, and talking about writing. I imagined her giving me advice on how to finish my book. I knew Ms. Lee had spent years struggling with self-doubt working on her masterpiece, "To Kill A Mockingbird," that she had thrown the manuscript out the window of her third-floor apartment in New York City and had to chase the pages down the snowy street. And that she had thrown it in an incinerator once.
Harper Lee was a legendary recluse. There were rumors that she pulled a shotgun on someone who showed up on her porch—and that she told everyone who ever asked to interview her, "Hell no."
Out on the interstate, it was just me and my furry sidekick, Harper. She sat in my lap for most of the six-hour drive. She was the most loving dog I'd ever had, and she always made me feel better. I had the top down on my vintage, silver BMW convertible, and I saw so many hawks that I began counting them. After 15, I lost track. What could feel more like freedom than an open road, the wind in your hair, and watching hawks soar above you? I listened to the audiobook of "To Kill a Mockingbird" with Sissy Spacek narrating on the drive.
When I arrived in Monroeville, the Sky was orange and violet, and the sun was just about to set. I pulled into one of the only motels in the tiny town, The Best Western, and the first thing I noticed was a little mockingbird sitting alone on a telephone wire as if it was there to greet me. It was quiet and pleasant and reminded me of an imaginary Mayberry. The people were friendly at the Piggly Wiggly grocery store, and there were lollipops in a little red plastic braided basket sitting next to the cash register. After checking into my room, I dumped all my stuff out - Oreos, Coca-Cola, Pepperidge Farm, mint Milano cookies, Twix, Chex Mix, and Nicorette. Spreading all my notebooks out on the bed, I snuggled up with Harper, ready to work on my book. Everything seemed peaceful and perfect.
I'm a night owl, and after all the chocolate— I was extra wide awake. Then, at around 3 a.m., Harper had a massive seizure. I could not believe what was happening. I tried to call my husband, Chris, over and over. Watching her, I knew she was having a Grand mal seizure— the worst kind. I burst into tears. I thought she was dying. And then she stopped. I held her close to me and frantically looked for the phone book. When I finally found it, I began waking up every vet in that town.
The first man huffed, "Everybody's closed tomorrow. It's Sunday," and hung up on me. I called the next number, and a sleepy-voiced man asked me a lot of questions and said my best bet would be to drive to Pensacola or Auburn. It was 3:30 in the morning, and I didn't have a clue how to get to either place, he suggested. My car didn't have GPS back then-- and what I did know was that it would be dark two-lane highways, and I would get lost.
Who has French Bulldogs? I kept asking myself because maybe this happened to them sometimes. Harper was trying to walk around the room and bumping into the wall and desk. I sat her next to me, and she fell asleep.
I remembered reading a short story by the author Augusten Burroughs— and that he had a French bulldog who had health problems. I got on MySpace. It was 3:45 a.m., and I saw that Augusten was awake and online. I did not know him, but I messaged him, "My French bulldog is having seizures, and I don't know what to do!!!"
Then I saw a message flashback on my screen, "Aimee, it's Augusten. What's going on?" I told him what was happening and my location, and a few minutes later, he sent me three links to the closest veterinary hospitals. They were all almost two hours away. Harper was still asleep, but Augusten said, "I think you should go now. "
So I gathered up my things, and we got in the car. He had given me the address to an animal hospital in Montgomery. I called the motel office, and they printed me a MapQuest page, and I picked it up as I was leaving. I sat Harper in my lap and took off, looking for the interstate.
We had only been on the road for a few minutes when I felt something warm on my leg and saw that Harper was foaming at the mouth. It just kept coming like a long white beard of suds. Then, she began having diarrhea everywhere. I pulled over on the side of the road. It was pitch black with no street lights. I took a left, thinking I was headed towards the interstate, but instead, it became a dead-end dirt road, ironically called Mockingbird Lane.
Harper had another seizure. This one was worse than the first one, but it didn't last as long. When I finally found the interstate, Harper was looking at me, and her eyes were begging me to help her, and I was helpless. Another seizure came, and she thrashed in the seat next to me and kept slamming into the passenger side door.
I started screaming, and I was driving a hundred miles an hour, hoping that a cop would pull me over and help me. I went from praying she would live to praying she would die to thinking I might have to kill her to stop her suffering. This went on for almost two hours before I made it to the rinky-dink animal hospital.
I raced inside shouting: "Somebody help. Somebody, please help me!"
A man came out and took her from my arms and said, "We've got to get this fever down." I followed him into the back room, and he sat her down. I could tell Harper was not the same. The seizures had caused some major damage. "Please tell me she's gonna be ok." I was crying so hard I was almost hyperventilating. A woman appeared and put her arm around me.
"If you want to do what's best for your dog, you need to leave so the doctor can work on her."
I walked back into the medical room and saw Harper shivering on the silver examining table.
"I can't leave her. I just can't."
"Hun, he can't do what he needs to with you in here."
I walked over to Harper and told her that I loved her. She tried to walk towards my voice but fell over on her side.
I don't remember driving to the nearby hotel or checking into it. But two hours later, the vet called and said Harper had a massive seizure and died. I spent my birthday in shock. Chris rented a car, came to get me, and took care of everything, from Harper's autopsy, burial and cleaning my car. One of the hardest things I've ever done was get in the passenger seat. I sat where she had suffered, and Chris drove me home.
Augusten sent me a message on Myspace to check on me. I told him what had happened and thanked him for helping me. As much as I loved him as an author— I loved him even more as a person.
From the day I found her, Harper needed me more than any dog I had ever had. She stuck to me like velcro. She was always right beside me to make me smile when I was down or to cuddle up close to me at night.
Back in Nashville, for the first few days, my mind was like an endless loop… why did this happen… why did I go to Alabama? If I had gone to New York, animal hospitals are everywhere, 24/7. Harper would still be alive. That's what shock is— when you're stuck in a question, you can't stop asking. I've learned that sometimes there isn't an answer when the question is why.
It took a month before I could let go of her little furry, neon pink dog bed that I had purchased in New York at the same pet shop where I bought Harper. I made a shadow box memorial with her pictures and lavender rhinestone collar. The day I got her, I had gone to SoHo looking for a pair of jeans and found a puppy. I passed a store window and saw her cute little flat face for the first time. One look in her eyes, and I knew she was mine.
A couple of months went by, and I still could not digest what had happened. I decided to write Harper Lee a letter. She was 84 years old and notoriously private, so I didn't expect to hear back from her. I was trying to give myself some kind of closure. For some reason, I thought if anyone could tell me why this happened, it was her.
I'm 100% sure my letter to her did not make any sense. I was still in shock. I told Ms. Lee that I didn't know what the hell I was doing in Monroeville. I talked about how traumatic the trip was and that I didn't know what to do to let it go.
A week later, Chris walked into our bedroom and woke me up, holding an envelope. The handwriting was slanted and running off the page. My heart knew it was from Harper Lee.
I tore into it. Mrs. Lee liked my letter and thanked me for writing it.
She said, "I do hope that in Monroeville, you found something of what you sought. It is my hometown, and in my old and very infirm age, I hope to finish my life here. It is not only a good place to live-- it's a good place to die.
Sincerely, Harper Lee
I got chills reading the last line. It sounded just like the character Scout. I felt my spirit let go of some of my sorrow as I read her words. She seemed to understand more than I did about how I felt.
We corresponded for about six months until she had a stroke and could no longer write.
I came to realize that I would never understand why Harper died in such a horrific way. And that just like every other time in my life, when something traumatic and unexpected happened that I could not make sense of, I had to decide what it meant and what I would take from it. I could stay trapped in the maze of misery of why, why, why, or I could be grateful she was my dog, and I loved her every day of her life.
Harper brought me so much joy and light. And she brought two of my favorite authors into my life before she left. I decided to let the pain go and hold on to all the good memories we had together. I knew that even though she was gone, I would always have Harper in my Heart.
