by VANESSA GIGLIOTTI
It’s hard to believe that over a year have passed since I received the phone call that would forever change my best friend Nancy’s life forever.
As she frantically choked my name down the phone and tried to swallow the horrific news that was about to envelop her chest, seven small words came out: “Ness, they’re dead. Dead. They’re both dead”.
The sudden robotic tone of her voice echoed. As my best friend, my rock and my partner in crime, Nancy’s news devastated me. Attempting to comprehend the mudslide of her words was overwhelming. I sank against the bedroom wall, waiting for the incomprehensible avalanche of truth to sink in.
There had been a horrifying car accident and there were two fatalities: one male and one female. Their identities were that of Nancy’s future in-laws – her fiancé, Renato’s parents.
Two significant people, who, only 24 hours earlier had been defined as parents, grandparents, son, daughter, brother, sister, uncle, aunty – were now purely identified as statistics. Two more tallies for the road toll.
These two people were set to witness their son get married on the Amalfi Coast, Italy in July 2012. The wedding had been planned, tickets had been booked and both families were ecstatic at the prospect of a combined European holiday with a destination dream wedding in Positano (the location where Nancy and Renato had met six years earlier).