There’s a More to Heather Bish Than You Know

Photos: Stephanie C. Olsen Hair & Makeup: Marie Derbes Styling: Judith Celata, Fearless Angel Boutique

“Oh are you related to Molly Bish?”  the cashier asks as I hand her my license to prove I am over 21 and can buy this beer.

“Yes, she was my sister.”

By Heather Bish

The tsunami of emotions still catches me by surprise.

It starts on the way home from work. The Feeling. Somewhere from under my eyes, the sadness pressures tears. I let them slide down my cheeks. I wonder what I am crying about. Am I sad?

I am alone here. But I have found so much comfort in my aloneness.

That can’t be it.

There’s a howl trapped inside my body and sometimes I turn the music up so I can’t hear it escape my lips.

Am I still grieving?

Am I grieving the things I couldn’t grieve when they happened? When I had to be strong, and I couldn’t let the loss of her impact the balance of what I had going on in my life? Is that why when I get home sometimes, I lay across my bed - still made, with my shoes still on, sometimes my coat too, and I let the tears fall like the cascades of a waterfall, my body weak from The Feelings finally escaping their prison down deep inside?

I think this is what complex trauma looks like, and I am sad for the young girl who woke up one day to find her whole life changed. I am grieving for that young girl whose “before” life never seemed to screw back on the right way. I grieve her most.

I wonder sometimes, “Should I try to be her again?  Should I resurrect her dreams and try to follow them?”

In my “before” life, I seamlessly spent days with friends and companions, people who filled my time. We went camping and golfing on weekends. It was easy then. In my “after” life I just wanted to be with someone—anyone—so I wasn’t alone to face this new life without Molly.

I am not sure where I end and Molly begins. I watched my sister come into this world when I was six years old. I didn’t quite understand the process, but my parents felt it was important that I be there for her birth. Molly was born at home in the wee hours of August 2, 1983, on a Tuesday. She came into the world screaming. She lived a life out loud and when I heard that first cry, I promised to love and protect her forever. She became my baby, too.

She disappeared on a different Tuesday morning. My mother had dropped her off for her lifeguard job at a local swimming pond, in June of 2000. She was on her 8th day of work. When someone took my sister, she didn’t even have a moment to put her shoes on. Next to the first aid kit rested her police radio, beeper, and Adidas shower shoes. The search for Molly was the largest in Massachusetts history.

Molly was found in June of 2003, or rather, her bathing suit was found. 26 of her bones were recovered on over 50 acres; the largest recovery operation in the history of Massachusetts. The investigators used a unique anthropological approach. The murderer has never been found.

I could no longer see myself.

On June 27th, 2000, someone took away more than my sister. They took away my parents, my hope, my sense of self.

Thoughts would bubble through my mind: I am homesick for a time and place that no longer exists, a me that no longer is real. I would shake the thoughts away and keep going.

When I lost my sister, I lost a part of myself. I did not mind, I knew it was the consequence of love and sharing DNA. She was my baby, too. My dad would tell us, “The angels came and took her.” He’d say it so frequently that we not only believed it but also visualized it. It protected us from endless scenarios and treacherous nightmares. Adults are scared, too, and my brother,  John, and I were barely grown, unsure, and ill-prepared on how to navigate it.

***

That gap between my before and after will never be filled. The gap is where she is supposed to be. The person who supports me, despite my weaknesses and mistakes, the one who cheers me, understands me, and believes in me. I have spent the better part of 24 years trying to fill that hole, that spot where she once existed. No friend or lover can take the role of a sister.

On my 40th birthday I was holding “tip campaigns” with local college students to generate information on Molly’s case. I came to the spinning realization that I was not living an authentic life, or at least I wasn’t living for myself anymore. I bought a ticket as fast as possible to go across the country. I ran to a state where I knew they had the best waterfalls—my favorite—and decided that for my 40th birthday, I would be alone, in another time zone, another place, around different people. Where might I find that missing piece?

I walked the streets of Portland, Oregon where flower petals bloomed in early May. My senses were struck by the magic of the aroma. I hiked in the woods next to a city and spent lazy afternoons listening to musicians of all genres. In those short five days, I remembered I loved fake leather jackets, strolls through the unfamiliar streets, and cafes with fancy drinks. I sat alone for dinner night after night, chatting with strangers. I remembered who I was and who I wanted to be: Someone I couldn’t find behind the facades and walls I had built. Someone lost in the moats between what was and what is. This was the missing piece. Finding myself after years of becoming an investigator, a fearless protector, an argumentative fighter. All things I never wanted to be.

****

With pain in their hearts and determination in their ears, my parents started the Molly Bish Foundation to educate and advocate for child safety.

My brother and I, at 19 and 23 years old, stood on the side of that beautiful beach, a place John had previously worked for the past 3 years, and wondered where to go and what to do. I had an 11-month-old baby, I needed Molly to be okay, so we could all be okay.

Forever after, John and I became the siblings of Molly Bish before we were our own person.

My father’s words echoed in my mind: “Hope requires acting with perseverance, even against overwhelming odds.”

Becoming a warrior is not something one is trained to do. It is bestowed upon you, and you better have the grit to handle it. Seven years after Molly went missing, my father had a stroke and lost his short-term memory, his ability to see, to drive, and to fully participate in the world. Suddenly, the responsibility of the investigation and the Foundation transferred to my shoulders. At 30 years old, I was already a mother and a teacher, and now was becoming something and someone else altogether.

So, I picked up the sword and became a warrior.

I fought for my sister. I tried to find justice my way. I put up billboards across Massachusetts, I took out newspaper ads on her anniversary asking, “Who Killed Molly Bish?” I put up posters in all 351 Massachusetts towns. I even joined TikTok in my 40s to appeal to a new audience for help and support in this journey. Because I am a teacher, I don’t really know how to find a killer. But I can be a voice, be a presence, with hopes it leads to the smallest puzzle piece to solve my sister’s case.

I don’t think anyone would have believed that 24 years ago my most toxic relationship was developing, and it was not with a romantic partner, but with law enforcement. I believe it started like every relationship that sours:  when you have an expectation of one, and they don’t show up in the way you think they are supposed to. Communication and transparency with law enforcement is challenging, to say the least.  It has been my most toxic relationship. It has been full of empty promises, verbal punches to the gut, and lack of attention.

My plan of attack was based on different tactics when I matured, but when I was younger I would follow every lead. Sometimes I would end up at shady bars to watch a suspicious person tipped to me. An old friend of mine from elementary school would accompany me on these endeavors, and I was always grateful because I knew it was unorthodox and desperate. I felt much safer with his masculine physique next to me. There were nights when one of my best friends and I would follow a lead about horse tranquilizers. Once, we hung out after hours with an older gentleman in town who worked in the equine business, possibly having access to horse tranquilizers. We hoped to find them and steal one, but we never did, despite our attempts at searching his house when we “went to the bathroom.” I would be horrified if my daughter put herself in these circumstances, but I continued. I followed every lead despite the emotional and psychological toll. I thought I was okay because I went to therapy, practiced yoga, and even visited a Shaman.

And that is when I began to notice that I couldn’t separate our stories anymore. Molly and I were intertwined.

Molly and me.

***

23 years of navigating motherhood while trying to find a murderer.

Do I let her go to the birthday parties with those families I don’t know?

How do I let her take on her first lifeguard role and support her life away from me when the thought of her out of reach makes me want to throw up?

I raised my daughter to look over her shoulder, to think before every encounter, and to gravitate towards places that make her feel safe. Now, here we are 23 years later and she is all grown up. It feels like a country song; all of my loves have gone too soon, my family is in pieces, and my dog is moving across the country with my daughter—who has far outlived my sister in birthdays.

I’ve been living 135 miles from my home for about six years now. It became too overwhelming for me to live in a town and constantly drive past the road where my sister’s bones were found. I’ve spent this time engrossed in finding myself, understanding my losses, and rebuilding who I am.

Now in the “after,” in the years following my move from where everything happened, I am comfortably navigating my social media platforms to share Molly’s story. My story. I knew I couldn’t heal in a place that carried recollections of so many losses and excruciating memories. Even though many of the people who had experienced those same events stayed, I had to say a lot of goodbyes. I never imagined I would.

In 2016, I graduated with an Ed.D in Education. Most people earn doctoral degrees to expand their careers and gain skills for further career advancement. I enrolled in a doctoral program at Northeastern University to save my soul. I needed it for me. It was the one thing that wasn’t about Molly that I was giving to myself when nothing else made sense. It also offered me the opportunity to build credentials; I thought then, that maybe the detectives would talk to me like a professional, and not like some idiot who deserves to be bullied and intimidated into not asking so many questions or inquiring about specific persons or analysis.

I have fallen back into my trauma bonds and behaviors and had to pull myself out of some pretty strong coping mechanisms.

Now, when I make the trek back home and drive those streets, my stomach often jumps as if on a roller coaster, and I always attribute it to the hills that you won’t find in my new home near the seashore. But in my heart, it is all of the losses I’ve experienced. I know it is that tree where she died, that road that led to her demise, or that corner that took another loved one’s life. These spaces echo like a heartbeat in my ear. My anxiety reverberates with this danger before we even get on the Mass Pike.

I fell a lot more and made many more mistakes, and I probably will continue to learn this lesson for the rest of my life. But from those quiet moments now, when I can feel my sister, I remember; and I’ve decided that I need to be my authentic self, even if I am not exactly sure who that is anymore.

I am a warrior, and I am a teacher. How can I be both? I realize that may feel like a polar opposite comparison, or maybe it is symbiotic because you have to be a warrior for your students to succeed. I am a Special Education Teacher. My greatest joy over these 23 years of searching for Molly and the person who took her, has been my students. Kids demonstrate the best of humankind’s attributes. I love their imagination and curiosity. I find joy in my work every day and it has helped sustain me under the most trying circumstances. I remember when we were finding Molly’s bones over a period of a month, a student I had in class met me at the teacher’s entrance every morning to walk me to class. He arrived before I got there. He was cognizant of my emotional struggle despite his disabilities and challenges.

Molly’s was a high profile case for our area. So, when I could finally sit at a brewery listening to a band in my new town and no one cared who I was, it felt freeing. No one looked at my debit card and asked if I was related to Molly Bish. I felt anonymous, like maybe I really did have a blank canvas to create a masterpiece.   

The nostalgia for those old, good times cannot be recreated. Everyone is different or maybe they are just the same and I am different now. It is like two magnets repelling each other, the pieces no longer fitting. I don’t fit, I don’t belong there.

***

When you cannot trust those who are supposed to protect you, it impacts other trusting relationships. I have difficulty being present in romantic relationships. The gaslighting from the ones that are meant to help, has worn down my boundaries, protecting a pain that I can barely speak about. I am confident that I am not the only one with this residual impact.

How could anyone love another with so much trauma? My older years vibrate with this question. After Molly was found, my first boyfriend broke up with me because he said my heart was broken and I could not love with the same capacity as someone else.

I have been devastated for years. And yet, I think I love stronger sometimes.

Holding onto myself has been my continuous goal in the pursuit of finding the person who killed my sister. Some days are better than others, and I’m able to do it better than other times. It is a constant struggle and balance. My identity is truly intertwined with my sister’s, and maybe that is okay. Maybe that is our story. Maybe that is my story.  Maybe that is the cost of losing her.

I remember when I was terrified of grieving. I thought, if I let go I may never come back, never recover. I pushed down the pain, swallowing it in a big gulp of wine or beer, like the act would assure its passage from me. “Please pass this cup” I used to whisper to God every night, begging him and recalling the story of Jesus in the garden before his execution. He was afraid, and he asked his Father to let what he must endure “pass” him. I loved that story because it made me feel like Jesus was real, he was human and had feelings like us. He was afraid, too.

Sometimes, I feel I can’t pass the cup anymore. The grief that piled up year after year, loss after loss, has finally found its way out, and I want to let it go, so I do. I mourn all of it. I let the tears come just as the sun descends in the sky. It feels so sad, but this time, as every time before, I know that I will recover and will see the sunshine again.

I will never forget my sister or accept the terrible circumstances that occurred that took her away from us. She was left on the side of a mountain never to be found. I cannot accept that. It is hard to wrap one’s mind around spending 24 years looking for a murderer. That is half my life. I don’t seek justice to pacify a wrong; I seek justice to ensure this does not happen to anyone else. I feel injustice around me more often now. I can barely tolerate situations with rampant inequality. There are two choices when something terrible happens in your life: You make it better, or you make it an excuse. I never wanted it to be an excuse. I have worked hard to be “okay.” I realize that I may never be.  My mind has changed: I am changed, and my life has changed.

And that is where faith is. That space when you have run out of sense, and you have to hold on, despite the body’s refusal to stop asking questions and the mind’s search for peace.

When I am lost in the grief of facing a place that holds both the most agonizing and wonderful memories of my sister, I remember that all we are is the love we give to someone else. And when they hold that love, we are changed forever after.

Somebody took my sister from us on a bright summer day, yet her story continues with me and through me; she is me and I am her.

Forever after, I am Molly Bish’s Sister.