As writers, we’re often asked, “How long does it take you to write a novel?” In the case of Christina’s Portrait, it was nearly 50 years. That’s how long it has taken me to find the words to express my feelings about the death of Mary Ann Henderson. If you’ve been following my website, you know that it was an event that shook our high school experience and forced us to look at mortality at a young age. Her friends and family still mourn for her even after nearly half a century.

Recently, I found what is my first rough (and I do mean rough) draft of trying to put this tragedy into words. It was a short story I wrote for Mrs. Loiler’s creative writing class in February 1978, which was nearly 17 months after her murder. This was an exercise where we went to the agricultural area of the school to practice using our senses to describe a scene. This location was where Mary Ann’s body was found the morning after her murder.

The resulting story is definitely teenage cringe. (You can read it here, if you dare.) I’m surprised how much of that story wound up appearing in Christina’s Portrait.

Both stories start at the same location.

1978 story:

…I was standing on the porch in front of the classroom in the agricultural area.

Christina’s Portrait:

We’re in the back of our high school, near the Phoenix Academy. They used to have a little farm here, back in the day.

Both have a spirit of the deceased who talks to the main character and encourages them to find peace.

1978 story:

Free within the light, the reply came, “I am she who was killed here a year ago. I have turned into my pure energy and have left this world to go into the cosmic tranquility.”

Christina’s Portrait:

“Why are you here?” The words sputtered out of me.

“Maybe I can help.” Both her familiar words and her sweet voice comforted me.

But Jenny’s voice was tense. “How can you stand there and talk to us? You’ve been dead for 44 years.”

“Oh no, Jenny. I’ve been living inside of you and Noreen all this time. But both of you kept me trapped—trapped in your anger, shame, and guilt. You made yourselves suffer because you didn’t allow yourselves to grieve.”

And both question if death is really the end.

1978 story:

“I sometimes wonder,” he said reflectingly [sic], “Where do we go when we die…”

Christina’s Portrait:

“…When we can go back to school, I’m thinking about doing a video about this ghost that supposedly haunts our campus.” I allowed myself to chuckle. “I know. They say there’s no such thing as ghosts. But maybe…”

A tear fell down my cheek.

“There’s something that remains after…after…”

My face bobbed and shook as I tried to hold the tears back. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want it to be the last thing she’d ever see.

Looking back at that 1978 short story and Christina’s Portrait, it seems I’ve been grappling with the same questions and how to answer them. I’ve had plenty of false starts along the way.

In 1984, I wanted to write a book about her murder. I asked the Henderson family for permission. They told me no. Even after eight years, the pain of her death was still too raw. It still is today. That’s why I’ve respected their decision ever since, and I wouldn’t write about Mary Ann Henderson’s murder specifically. I touch on the subject of consent in a number of places in Christina’s Portrait.

“Look, I appreciate how you and Maya want to tell Christina’s story. I know it’s a part of our school’s history. But it’s a story some people choose not to share. And that’s a choice you should respect.”

…

“Everyone dies, every death is heartbreaking, and everyone has someone they’re mourning for. But when someone decides to write about a death or point a camera at it, they have some sort of agenda to fill. Maybe they’re passing judgement on a group of people. Maybe they’re just trying to titillate. Or maybe they have something important to say.”

…

“If you still want to include Noreen’s interview,” Georgia explained in our Zoom call, “There are some legal considerations…”

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t feel right doing it.”

“Then what would happen to your video?”

“There wouldn’t be a video, I suppose.”

Still, the story wouldn’t leave me alone.

The solution was to write about the death fictionally. My first attempt, The Ghosts of Reseda High, didn’t gel. To make this story work, I had to make it more fictional, create new characters, and deviate substantially from actual events. At the same time, it wound up incorporating more of my high school experiences—especially what happened to some close friends and family—and uncovered the darker aspects of growing up in Reseda in the 1970s and how they tie to issues today. It also allowed me to reflect on my past as I turned 60. That’s why the one thing I couldn’t fictionalize was Reseda High School. It is the core of the story because by facing the painful parts of our history, we can heal and grow from them.

That’s how I wrote Christina’s Portrait.

At some point, it will find a publishing home and become a book people can buy and read. While Mary Ann Henderson won’t appear in Christina’s Portrait, she will, in a way, inspire others to discover the power of storytelling to heal their past—just as telling her story has done for me.