October 12th, 10 years ago...

 

*Still flying high over the sea

I remember the day that Jodi was killed in Bali unusually well.

It was October school holidays and I was visiting my Mums house in Port Macquarie, as I did every school holidays. It was early in the morning and the news was on. Mum was up making breakfast for all 6 of us kids, and we were all lounged lazily across our lounge room, still wrapped in doonas and in our pajamas.

I remember us all seeing the news story, but didn’t think much of it. I remembered the terrorist attacks of 9/11 from the year before, my Dad had educated and explained to me in detail exactly what happened that day, so my 13 year old self had a fairly basic understanding of what was happening.

My Mum, who always has a flare for the dramatic, was upset because it had happened in such a beautiful place. She had travelled to Bali a few times, and loved the Balinese culture and people.

I specifically remember her saying “Oh not the Sari Club!”

I’m not sure how long we were watching the news story for before my Dad called, but I can’t imagine it was long, because when the phone was handed to me I was still positioned on the couch in my pj’s, my brothers and sisters still slouched around me.

The phone was handed to me and I began chatting to my Dad. It was nothing unusual that he was calling, we were so close at this stage that it was common for us to talk at least once a day on my trips home.

He asked me if I was watching the news.

 “Your Auntie Jodi is in Bali” was exactly the words he said to me, so calmly. I can’t imagine how hard it must’ve been for him t hold it together while talking to his only 13 year old daughter. At this stage I had no idea what he had already been through.

I remember this bit so clearly because to this day I’ve felt guilty about it.

I remember my first thought when he told me she was there, was that she would pop up on television being interviewed. I smiled, because to me that was exciting, and I remember my Mum looking at me, curious as to what news my Dad was telling me. As my Dad continued talking, it only took around 5 seconds further for it to register that this was not exciting news and I was not about to see my Auntie Jodi being interviewed on the morning TV.

My Dad and my Grandpa in the coming days, despite government warnings for Australians to stay put, travelled to Bali to search for their little sister and daughter.

One of the many reasons I look up to my Dad so much is this; he freely threw aside authority and warnings and put his safety on the line to actively search for his little sister. It makes me feel so lucky to know that I had someone who had such compassion so close to me.

Its only in recent years I’ve caught on to exactly what he must’ve gone through when he was over there. It still baffles me to think how hard it must’ve been to not only deal with the reality of what had happened in Bali, the gruesome things he saw in his search for Jodi, but to also truthfully but tactfully answer the questions of an inquisitive 13 year old.

I remember overhearing the hopeful conversations of my family members, some saying that there was every possibility that she could still be alive.

I remember my Dad mentioning the hope that she was wandering around with amnesia.

It wasn’t long, however, until I caught on to the fact that it was a high possibility that it would be a gruesome outcome. The first sign of this was when I heard my family talking about Jodi’s purple stone belly ring that may have been found.

Why wasn’t her purple belly ring still in her belly?

Dad and Grandpa returned home, their search unsuccessful. By this stage I was back home in Byron Bay, but not yet back at school. At this point I remember a lot of togetherness within the family. 

There was hardly a time when we were apart.

Once time for the funeral came around, I travelled down to my Grandparents, on my mother’s side, in Bonnet Bay, Sydney to eventually be with my Dads side of the family as the funeral arrangements were prepared.

I hadn’t yet seen my Nan, Jodi’s Mum, I waited one day before the funeral to be picked up by her.

I was waiting in my Grandparents kitchen, my Granny answering the doorbell. I remember hearing my Granny say the words ‘Lynn I’m so sorry” then a wailing cry from my Nan, that to this day, although I horridly know all to well, still literally pierces my soul.

I peeked around the corner and saw my Nan, in my Grannys arms trying to pull herself together before she saw me. For her sake, I ducked back into the kitchen unseen and ran around the corner into the dining room, turned around again, and pretended to make my way into the kitchen I had just left just as they walked in. For some reason I didn’t want her to know I had seen her crying.

The funeral was huge. There was family members there I never knew existed and familiar faces I hadn’t seen in years.

At this stage I hadn’t cried at all. I had though a lot about what was happening, I understood the severity, but I never wanted to cry in front of my family because I wanted to be the fun loving child that had always made them smile. I remember playing with my baby cousin Louise in front of my Nan, hoping she would do something silly to make her be happy again. 

I remember the first time I cried; 'Tears in Heaven" played at the funeral and seeing every single person in the world I looked up too around me so broken tore me up.

I talked to my Dad a lot, always careful with what questions I was asking but still wanting to talk about what had happened. Likewise it was obvious he wanted to confide in his daughter, who he was always so honest with, but was being careful of the details he was sharing.

I spent most of my time over the next few weeks clung to my Dad. We had to attend a number of different services, including ones in Parliament house, Cronulla and Byron Bay.

When I finally returned to Byron Bay for good, school had been back for a while. I was glad to be back, but remember my Dad wasn’t quite the same for a long time.

I’m only really registering right now, on this flight, all the nightmares he must have had about what he had seen in Bali, what he had to search through to find his sister, the gruesome things he must have had to see and not flinch.

To think he walked through mourges made of blue tarpes, with bodies piled on top of each other, waiting to be identified and accounted for, pieces of bodies scattered throughout. No person should ever have to deal with that. He saw it all and never spoke about it again.

It amazes me.

The night she was found, Dad and I were at home alone. It was late when he found out; he came to me to tell me the news before we left to Grandpas house.

I so clearly remember how broken and weak the strongest person I had ever known sounded to me.

It was closure for everyone, but nonetheless heartbreaking knowing that the hope my Dad clung too so tightly, was false.

In the next few years I became very accustomed to the idea that Jodi was my guardian angel, or something of the sort at least. I often whispered softly to myself if I was upset, scared or thankful, talking directly to her. 

I've never believed in God or anything, so I guess in a sense it was just a comfort thing.

It sounds crazy, but (as y’all should know) I have a pretty open mind with this kind of thing.

I always felt a presence when I talked to her, not a strong one, just a feeling of someone listening. Not the feeling you get if you simply sit and talk to yourself like a crazy person ;)

The most unusual moment I’ve had over the years, is sitting at the dinner table, specifically remembering how Jodi used to play with my hair, and at that moment my ponytail being pulled as if it was being tightened, and a chill up my back. I was probably about 14 at this stage. I spoke to her almost every day, it was just a comfort thing really. (In the scheme of some of the unexplainable things people experience regarding the spirit world, pretty insignificant really)

Fast forward a few years, after my Dad died, I instantly stopped talking to Jodi. It was as if once my Dad died, I figured I should be talking to him instead, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, because it meant he was really gone. Talking to him, the person I was closest to in the world, made his death real. Too real for me to deal with.

It was easy to talk to Jodi. I knew her well but our souls weren’t connected the way my Dad and mine was. Every time I tried to speak to my Dad there was no feeling as if he was around listening. I just felt crazy and sad, and like it was real.

So I spoke to neither of them. Ever again.

I'm still flying over the ocean now to Bali. I'm feeling like it might be the first time I feel something, anything.

About time, I've felt numb for years.