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Hilary had good reason to be concerned: her mother wasn't eating. Ginny had a gag reflex every time she put food in her mouth. Some mornings she was unable even to brush her teeth without thinking she would vomit. About the only thing she could force down was Carnation Instant Breakfast--the same thing she gave Hilary after the orthodontist tightened her braces. Ginny was slender to begin with from years of power walking, but now the weight was melting off her twiggy body. By December she had lost 29 lbs. In hopes that humor might defuse some of the pain, friends started calling her the "Incredible Shrinking Woman." Sanderson took a somewhat sterner approach. He paid a call one day during lunch and sat on the porch with Ginny. "You're just wasting away," he told her. "You have to take better care of yourself."
While many widows were clinging to support groups and touring ground zero, Ginny bunkered down and hardly left the immediate environs of Avon. She had, and still has, no desire to see the site. ("What would I want with construction dirt?" she is fond of asking. "It's not my husband.") In part, she was sluggish with grief. But there was something else tethering her to home. Ginny has a terrible sense of direction--on top of everything else, George had been the family compass--and she was petrified of losing her way. Then one day Hilary's principal called to say he had heard about a special daylong grief camp for 9/11 victims: Comfort Zone Camp, based in Richmond, Va. Originally created for children who have lost loved ones, Comfort Zone rallied to set up satellites in New York and New Jersey just after Sept. 11. The first session was virtually next door to the northern New Jersey hamlet where Ginny had grown up. It was one of the few places on earth she knew she could find from memory.
So on Nov. 10, Hilary and Ginny rose early to give themselves plenty of travel time and embarked on their first mother-daughter trip. They found the place with no problem. The counselors announced they would be splitting up the widows and children for the day. (There were no widowers in this group.) As they went their separate ways, Ginny whispered to Hilary that at any time she could ask to be excused, and they would leave. The offer proved unnecessary; Hilary had her best day since Sept. 11. It was the first time she could really talk to kids her own age. Or she could not talk at all and play foursquare or just act silly. At the end of the day, they sat cross-legged in a "healing circle" and were invited to share a story about their fathers. At first, they all looked at their shoes. Then, just as she did at school whenever the teacher looked desperate, Hilary confidently spoke up, volunteering, "My dad was known for his Argyle socks, and we donated some of those socks to the rescuers at ground zero." She felt an immediate rush; soon the other kids were eagerly relating memories of their fathers.
Ginny felt emboldened as well: "It was the first time I'd actually identified myself with 9/11 and met anyone else who lost their husband that day. There were 40 widows there, and some of them broke my heart. There was a lot of anger, a lot of unsifted emotion, but nothing I said there was wrong. I felt very safe." Both mother and daughter were thoroughly drained by the day, but the first thing Hilary said to Ginny was, "I can't wait for the next camp!"