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The roses were just the beginning. Hilary threw her mother a full-blown anniversary party. "Fancy dinner at the dining-room table, Lenox china, the whole deal," says Ginny. Several friends showed up and, with Hilary's help, prepared salad and Dijon chicken. Hilary flitted about the party like the consummate hostess and, toward the end of the evening, produced several presents for her mother: linen Halloween dish towels, scented candles, and Nexxus shampoo and conditioner. Not knowing what else to do, the adults played along with the charade.
Three days later was the first of George's three memorial services, sponsored by Aon and held at St. Patrick's Cathedral in Manhattan. The next two were in New Jersey: one at St. Elizabeth's Church in Avon, where Ginny and Hilary worship every Sunday, and the last at the Protestant church that George had attended growing up. Since there was still no sign of a body, Ginny propped up a framed photo of George on the altar: he was basting a Thanksgiving turkey and grinning ear to ear. At the receptions afterward, Hilary was the one grinning. Again she played hostess, making animated small talk with different clusters of relatives.
Ginny was hearing mixed messages: on the one hand, Hilary's sixth-grade teacher, Michael Sanderson, called home with glowing reports about her latest perfect test score. But friends and relatives were becoming increasingly worried. Why did Hilary avert her eyes every time the subject of her father came up? What was behind the cheery facade? Why did she never ask why? Ginny scheduled several appointments with a psychiatrist, Gail McVey. She and Hilary talked mostly about books--Hilary and Ginny read one or two a week--and about memories of her father. After four visits, McVey gave Hilary a Harry Potter journal in which to jot down her feelings and told Ginny, "You have a remarkable daughter. She talks all about her father ... She can keep seeing me if she likes, but she's doing so well, I'm not sure it's necessary."
The facade was at least in part for her mother's benefit. "The last thing I wanted to do was anything to make my mom more upset," says Hilary. She worried about what Ginny would think if she got too emotional or, conversely, if she appeared to be having too much fun. Hilary stopped playing the piano and didn't pick it up again until the spring. Normally well behaved, she began asking permission to do even the most absurdly trivial things, such as riding her bike around the block or flying a kite. One day Hilary forgot to pack her Speedo for her practice with the Monmouth Barracudas, the highly selective regional swim club she belongs to. Scared of her mother's reaction, she soaked her hair in the sink to make it look as though she had participated and swore Patty, who was carpool mom that day, to secrecy. "Please, let's just pretend everything is fine," she begged.