UVA introduced me to a different world, with its own language, customs, and dress code; the first time I ever saw a popped collar on the Grounds, it was being worn by Paul Hicks （future father of Hope）。 Many of the students radiated privilege and hailed from places like Richmond, Chattanooga, Atlanta, and well-heeled Connecticut suburbs. They all seemed to have known each other before they got to UVA—from sailing camp, Miss Porter’s, Foxcroft, or “the club.” Secret societies were a big thing on campus, and no wonder: most of these kids had been in secret societies their whole lives.
I was curious about the sorority scene. Walking down the hallway to a meet-and-greet for interested first-years, I heard the high-pitched chattering of worlds colliding—the room teemed with pretty girls with perfect hair and names like Mitzi and Campbell and Kakie wearing wraparound skirts and Top-Siders. Even their Pappagallo purses had cool outfits—monogrammed covers that buttoned onto the bag just beneath the clacking wooden handles.
Suddenly I felt like everyone was staring at my flammable rayon blouse with the long, pointy collar that could send me airborne in a stiff breeze, my moss-green dirndl skirt and huarache wedges. Clearly, I did not know the secret handshake. I panicked and promptly left.
Then I got myself some headbands, khakis, and Fair Isle sweaters and rolled out Katie 2.0. Walking to class one day, I ran into my brother, who looked me up and down and said, “Katie. Who are you?”
I became a Tri Delt my fourth year. Which didn’t stop me from moving easily between groups: the quirky, cerebral, cigarette-smoking staff of the Cavalier Daily and the preppy set I ran with at frat parties and semiformals. I loved debating journalistic ethics at the paper and refining my social skills at cocktail parties on the Lawn, where I was lucky enough to live my fourth year. I’ll never forget sitting on blankets on the grass with my American Studies seminar, talking Twain, the ’20s, and Horatio Alger, literally feeling my mind expand.
NOW I WAS in Charlottesville for another reason altogether. Emily and I sat on the porch of her white house on Rugby Road. She was so sick and yet still so engaged. I had brought my copy of The New Yorker, the one with the instantly iconic black cover that revealed a silhouette of the Twin Towers, and read a provocative essay by Susan Sontag about what America might have done to bring this on. Emily sat on the wicker chair across from me and listened intently. I thought about how much I would miss these conversations.
Three weeks later, Emily was in bed in the fetal position, her eyes closed, her breathing labored. I kissed her forehead and told her I loved her; she managed to mouth the words I love you too.
At the door, I turned and took in the scene: Our family on folding chairs encircling the bed, my mother clutching a tissue, my siblings with their heads bowed, Ray and Jeff quietly despondent, George pacing nervously. And I was struck by the universality of the moment: a family huddling, waiting, and watching as death looms, ushering a loved one safely out of this life and into whatever comes next. This brutal yet necessary rite of passage.
EMILY’S FUNERAL WAS held at St. Paul’s Church in Charlottesville, across from the UVA rotunda. The grass was parched from a drought that summer, and the leaves were rustling.
It was standing room only. Mary Chapin Carpenter sang “Morning Has Broken.” Tom was there, which my mom resented. A piece of my parents died that day, and they needed me. I shouldn’t have brought him.
For years when I visited, my mom would look at me dolefully and ask, “Can you believe this happened to Emily?”
But her legacy would play out in myriad ways, including a scholarship fund for young women leaders and the amazing work being done at the Emily Couric Clinical Cancer Center at UVA Hospital.
For several years after she died, if I was in Charlottesville I’d still see the occasional Emily Couric bumper sticker from her senate campaign—it always grabbed me by the heart. Whenever I’m struggling on a personal level or with whatever’s going on in the world, I wonder, WWED? What would Emily do? Quickly followed by What would Emily be? What would Emily have become if this hadn’t happened?
53
Persona Non Grata
GEORGE W. BUSH and I got off on the wrong foot.
I loved his dad. He was gracious and charming and understood the role of the press—that it was our job to poke and prod. After that chance encounter at the White House, Bush 41 had sent me a nice note with a bumper sticker that said ANNOY THE MEDIA: RE-ELECT BUSH, which I put in a frame that still hangs in my office. Unfortunately, the Bushes weren’t a case of like father, like son: W. was a bit thin-skinned and often held a grudge.