The Small Story

WEYMOUTH- At the center of all their loss, six-year-old Michael Sampson is smiling--running around the banquet room at the Elks Lodge, making dizzy circles on the dance floor, grabbing hold of the hands of his friends.

It's a gift to the adults in the room to see the way he smiles. He is so clearly his mother's son. 

"I just love looking at him," says Saquora Lowe, a family friend.


Several months have passed since 25-year-old Heather Smith died in a car crash, leaving this boy behind. The dozens of people at this fundraiser remember well what "Mikey" meant to her. Of course they do. He was her reason for rising in the morning.

The $20 ticket for tonight's dance is not easy for everyone here to afford. But these people already put years into raising Heather, from a shy, awkward shell of herself to the strong, single parent she would later become. These are the people she loved the most- the sister she protected from bullies, the friend she kept close after his brother died.

They are here, now, to take care of her son.

In a banquet room down the hall, a wedding is unfolding in someone else's life. But this room is having its own party, the kind of thing that would have made Heather proud. Twenty-somethings in tight clothing and great-grandparents in pastels, mixing on the dance floor to a DJ- leaning in, forming loose circles, linking arms.

Mary Ahern, 42, moves to the music with her eyes closed. She organized this fundraiser for Heather, her first child, the one she welcomed into the world at the age of 16. It was not an easy task, raising an infant at home, with the help of family, working odd jobs. But she wouldn't have had it any other way.

"There was never any decision, but the one that I made," Mary says, now a married homemaker. "She was mine, and I wanted her."

And what a girl she grew to be. Sweet, and silly, and the center of so much attention. There were strains between them at times, but when Heather turned 18, she wrote Mary a note: 18 Reasons I'm Glad You're My Mother.

In it, she thanked Mary for the big things, like "letting me be free". But she also thanked her for the small. She remembered the way Mary held her hand, when Heather was just a girl, held it tight, when she was anxious, and smiled.

As she grew, Heather collected close friends, and held them to her like family. In high school, her circle moved in and out of Heather's home as if it was theirs. They took to calling Mary "Ma".

Now here they sit at cloth-colored tables at the Elks Lodge, remembering all the times they said they shouldn't drive drunk, then did. It could have been anyone one of them that early morning in September, driving off the highway, and into a tree. It just so happened it was Heather.

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It's still crushing sometimes, knowing that it was her. Shayla Lowe, 26, nearly fell down the stairs when she got the call. She was an early best friend, the girl who famously toughened a meeker Heather up in middle school- forced her to carry Shayla's books, and hand over her pencils to Shayla, until she could finally stand up for herself and say "No".

From that point on, they leaned on each other as equals. When Shayla got her usual anxiety, Heather would calm it down with words: It's just you and me. It's going to be good.

And when Heather found out her birth father lived nearby, it was Shayla she asked to come with her to meet him. They took that nervous trip together in Shayla's 86 Chevy Impala, otherwise known as Black Beauty.

The thing about Heather: you always felt loved. She gave her time and her trust, even to her most troubled friends. She welcomed them into her home for weeks on end, sometimes risking eviction. But she never shied away from giving; she was always willing to pay the price.

In that way, and so many others, she was special to Austin Paiz, 23. He has lost so many friends through the years, most of them to drugs. It's just that kind of city, he says; police have said they see one overdose in Weymouth every week. Friends find trouble early; then they check out.

But Heather never did. She was right there for him, after the sudden death of his brother, when the grief was so deep, he didn't know what to do. Austin put a party together in his brother's memory- a party just like this one tonight- and Heather was there. He can see her now, ever the class clown, cutting through the dance floor, to get to him.

"Just the smile on her face," he says.

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For all her strengths, Heather was not the saintly type. She struggled with drinking at times in her life, and made her mischief in high school, just like anybody else. So when she got pregnant, and decided to be a mom, friends wondered which way it would all go.

Would she be one of those teenagers who leave their kids at home, to be raised by some other member of the family? Would she spend the money she made on drinks instead of diapers?

Heather wondered herself whether she could do it, whether she could raise this child well. But she was determined, and the transformation was a sight for everyone around her to see.

Before the baby, Heather was many things- a loud-mouthed, sweet-tempered friend, an independent, opinionated woman, a hard worker from the time of her high school days. But once Mikey arrived, she was first and foremost a mother.

"It clicked for her one day, and her whole world was him," says Saquora.

Heather checked herself into a home for young mothers, and lived there, under a curfew, for a year. She took the parenting classes, saved some money, found herself an apartment, and finally moved out to make a home for Mikey.

A few years ago, she left Weymouth, and settled in Providence. She took a job in the kitchen at McCormick and Schmicks, and discovered a passion for cooking. Just last summer, she was promoted to sous-chef.

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So many good decisions she made. Then this. But if Heather's family let the anger in, it would consume them. They are already dealing daily with the sadness, the disappointment, and the dull and steady ache.

"It's either going to make you or break you," says Rebbeca Smith, 21, her younger sister.

Everyone has a way of coping. For Mary, it's counseling. For Shayla, it's helping with the fundraiser. Rebbeca is trying crying, and keeping her sister close.

Shortly after the accident, she collected Heather's clothing, and stuffed it in a large plastic bag, so the smell of her would keep. It was a special smell- cocoa butter, and some indescribable scent from Heather's skin. She used to breathe it in for hours, as she loosened the cornrows from her older sister's hair.

But the best medicine is Mikey. Look at him run, face flushed and smiling, Heather's gold chain around his neck, Heather's image on his T shirt. Above the image, the words are printed: In Loving Memory of My Mom.

Mikey has his moments. Last month, he told Mary he was hoping to see a shooting star soon. That way, he could wish his mother back.

But most of the time, he is the happy child who sits in the laps of the people who love him, and plays with their hair. The thoughtful boy who listens carefully, and always says his pleases and thank yous. His mother taught him well.

"I think he will carry it for the rest of his life, what he learned from the five years he spent with her," Mary says.

Heather's younger brother, Josh, will carry it too. Heather told him early: you're a role model for Michael. Take care of him. Guide him when he needs you.

Now that she is gone, Josh, 11, takes that job seriously. He can't be there all the time to correct the boy- Mikey lives in Providence right now with his father's relatives. But on the weekends, Josh gives what he can.

Take the Sunday goodbyes. No one gets affection from Josh these days. Certainly not his mother. But Mikey is special. Mikey might need it. So every Sunday afternoon, as the bags are packed up for Providence, Josh calls Mikey over for a hug and a kiss. He reaches out, then pulls his sister's son in. 

Michael with his mother, Heather Smith, on a family camping trip last summer

Michael with his aunt, Rebbeca Smith, and playing with a friend

Heather's close friends, from left: Shayla Lowe, Austin Paiz, and Saquora Lowe