Digital Extra: The Station Fire

10:17 AM EST on Sunday, February 22, 2004

BY CATHLEEN F. CROWLEY
Journal Staff Writer

The wedding of Patsy Taylor's niece triggered it.

Until then, Patsy had pretended her sister missed family functions because she was working, instead of facing the truth: Kelly Lynn Vieira of West Warwick, the bride's mother, died from injuries she suffered in The Station fire.

A photo of Kelly with dark hair and rosy cheeks stood at the wedding party's table. The reception lasted into the early morning hours of Aug. 31, which was Kelly's birthday and another reminder that she wasn't there.

That night, Patsy finally began dealing with her sister's death, one drink at a time.

She got drunk, very drunk. And she kept drinking, she said. She'd sit at the head of her kitchen table and down a few White Russians inside her West Warwick house that was home to her husband, daughter, two stepchildren and one grandson.

"It was sporadic," Patsy said. "It started off on weekends and then the weekends turned into Tuesday."

She managed to do the chores, help with homework and take the children to basketball practice.

"I was mechanically functioning as a mom -- that's the best way I can put it -- but as soon as I was done with that, I was like 'Oh, I can have a drink now.' I would sit down and relax. I thought it was helping, but it wasn't."

Journal photo / Kris Craig PATSY TAYLOR has battled alcohol since her older sister, Kelly Vieira, died in the fire at The Station.

Holidays were the worst.

Patsy's big sister had always made holidays special, as she had since their mother died when Patsy was 16. Her sister was like a mother to her.

Kelly and her husband, Scott, had started a family right out of high school. She went to beauty school and worked as a hair dresser at JCPenney. She earned a college degree in physical therapy between her work shifts and taking care of her two daughters, Chandree and Crystle.

As Patsy's husband, Tim, said, "She was a time-management machine."

Kelly sent cards on anniversaries and birthdays, she attended her niece's basketball games, hosted all the family parties and found time to try judo. When other moms rested, you'd find Kelly dusting her house at 7:30 in the evening.

"She and Scott had just gotten to that point in their life that everybody strives for," Tim said. "The kids were doing good. The youngest one was graduating from high school and getting ready for college. It was time for them [Kelly and Scott]."

The fire stole that away. Scott escaped safely, but Kelly, 40, died at Shriners Burn Institute, where she was wrapped like a mummy in bandages. Patsy couldn't stop thinking about the way she had died.

"I was having some really horrible visions of what I thought may have happened that night, and drinking was making it worse," she said.

Tim, a machinist, tried to stay nearby when she binged, so she wouldn't hurt herself. He felt this was a storm he just had to ride. He had faith she'd pull through.

"My wife's a pretty strong person. I wanted to be with her and guide her through it," he said.

But it was their 12-year-old daughter who showed them the way.

Chelsea was dealing with her own problems. She missed her Aunt Kelly, who French-braided her hair for her basketball games. Her grades fell, she felt sick all the time, and she constantly fought with her mother, especially when Patsy was drinking.

The family asked the Kent Center for advice about Chelsea. The community mental-health organization sent a crisis-intervention counselor named Constance to their home, and she met with Chelsea for an hour each week.

Then, Constance would linger by the door and talk with Patsy.

She left literature about teen drinking and dealing with the death of a loved one. Later, she gave Patsy pamphlets on adult drinking and quietly encouraged her to attend a support group for families of Station fire victims.

"Little subtle messages," Patsy said.

Before long, the counselor was spending an hour with Patsy. But the drinking continued. In October, the near death of a family friend, who had been Patsy's guardian after her mother died, sent her to the edge.

Patsy was at her perch at her kitchen table. On a bureau across from her, a shrine of candles, poems and pictures of her sister was emerging. She was working on another White Russian.

"I was sitting here getting drunk one night, and Chelsea kept telling me to go to bed," she said.

When Patsy awoke in the middle of the night, she found a letter on the table from Chelsea. Many of the words were underlined.

"She said she didn't want to see me drunk anymore. . . . Subconsciously, I don't even remember doing it, but I got up and I emptied my bottles down the drain and put them back empty in the cupboard," she said. "I knew I had to do something at that point. I stopped and realized she's pleading with me and she's worried about me. I'm supposed to be the parent. I'm supposed to be helping her."

On Friday, Patsy observed the first anniversary of the fire sober.

"I can't say I haven't had a drink in the past month, but I haven't been drunk in the past month, which is big for me," she said.

Patsy hopes her story might help someone else.

"There is help," she said. "If someone is out there drinking their way through, there are better ways."

When she stares across the table at Kelly's picture, she's not trying to drink away her grief anymore.

"Now I say I'm going to make the best of today, for you."