03/04/2003

I asked what his sister had been like. Her name was Abbie Hoisington, and she was 28 when she was lost in the nightclub fire.

"Even as a little kid," said Kevin Hoisington, "she'd talk your ear off. She was the family chatterbox." Even her students, he said, called her Gabby Abbie.

The two of us met for lunch Sunday at Applebee's in Smithfield. In an hour, Kevin was due to join Abbie's students. She taught special needs teenagers at Burrillville High School. She'd recruited Kevin to help them during the bowling practices they hold every Sunday in preparation for the Special Olympics. Although Abbie is now gone, he has decided to keep helping her kids.

I asked if there is anything else he has done to stay connected to his sister. Kevin asked if I minded him pulling down the collar of his T-shirt a bit. There was a new tattoo on his chest. "In loving memory of Abbie Lea," it said. He and his two brothers, Matthew and Jonathan, had each gotten the same tattoo the Monday after the fire, not long after their sister had been positively identified. He said it makes him feel connected to her.

Now that most of the funerals have ended, I had wondered what it is like for the families. Kevin was kind enough to make time to talk about that. And about Abbie.

He's in software sales, and likes to surf year-round. He is 34 and has his own apartment. Each morning, he finds himself thinking of Abbie the moment he wakes. He then says a prayer for her, asking help for the family to get through so hard a time.

I asked what he had done the rest of this particular morning.

For a while, said Kevin, he sat on his living room couch, wishing he could call Abbie, just to say hi. They used to talk at least once a week. All five brothers and sisters did. Sometimes, Kevin said, the sadness can be almost paralyzing.

After an hour or so, he went to his computer, which each day has brought dozens or more e-mails from people who knew Abbie. On Sunday, there was one from a friend in England, who had seen Abbie's name in overseas reports of the fire.

Then it was time to go.

The waitress brought us our orders. Kevin talked about his family; the Hoisingtons, he said, are tightly knit. The kids were raised in the Edgewood section of Cranston. Even today, said Kevin, there were always big gatherings on all birthdays, and Abbie was known for making the desserts. She was also known for reminding her brothers and sister that she was the best kid in the family; she got a kick out of ribbing everyone that way.

She loved Irish step-dancing, and loved to shop -- had a ton of clothes, Kevin said. Her favorite jewelry was Tiffany 's. She got a necklace there with the letter "A" that she always wore. She was wearing it the night of the fire.

Mostly, said Kevin, she loved her work.

The kids she taught, in their mid to late teens, have significant disabilities, such as Down syndrome and cerebral palsy. "When I was her age," said Kevin, "I don't think I'd have had the patience to do it. But it was just her calling."

He thinks she got some of it from their parents, Leland and Bonnie Hoisington, who were both teachers. Abbie's approach, he said, was to look past her students' deficits. He said she expected her kids to do their work -- even called them slackers when they didn't -- which in turn made them feel they could.

Kevin came to Abbie's class last fall to talk about things like surfing. They invited him back for a Thanksgiving meal, which Abbie had the kids prepare. A few weeks ago, he began to help in their bowling practices.

An early night

I asked Kevin how he learned of the fire.

That night, he went to bed early, which is rare for him. A friend, Steve Horowitz, drove to his place around 10 p.m. to get Kevin to go to the Great White concert, but continued without him because the window lights were out. Horowitz survived the fire.

The next morning, Kevin's phone rang at 6:30. It was his aunt, Janice Levenson. She told him there had been a disastrous fire at the West Warwick nightclub. Abbie was there, and she was now missing.

Soon after, the family met at the Crowne Plaza support center. Despite the early hour, it was filled with people.

Kevin had a bad feeling. The news reports spoke of a desperate crowd fighting for a way out. "Abbie was only 4-feet-10," he said. "A little peanut."

By midday, the families were told that dental records would be helpful for identification. Kevin went with his sister Sarah to get them. They told themselves it could be a way to find out good news rather than bad. When they returned, they were directed to a special room. Inside, they submitted the X-rays to a table of police officers.

Anger at the singer

That first night, said Kevin, the lead singer of Great White showed up at the center. Many people were angry, and the police asked him to leave.

Kevin stayed at the Crowne Plaza until midnight, only going home when told there would be no more announcements about the missing. The family was back the next morning. Throughout that day, there was still no news. The Red Cross, said Kevin, was very good.

Like others, the Hoisingtons had called around to hospitals. Kevin spoke to a doctor at Massachusetts General about the two Jane Does. One was close enough to Abbie in height to prompt the hospital to call back for more distinguishing details. But the Mass General doctor told Kevin it wasn't likely.

The weekend, said Kevin, turned into an odd kind of limbo for those in the support center who still hadn't heard. Like other families there, the Hoisingtons tried not to talk as if things were final. They shared stories about Abbie. Kevin remembered how, if he'd bring home a girlfriend, Abbie would right away tell her all the inside stuff about him -- such as his break-dancing phase. He had to just sit there and take it, because there was no cutting her off.

"She was a little spark plug," he said. "She was hysterical. She really was."

A somber visit to the site

On Sunday, officials arranged a private visit for the families to the site of the fire.

"It was weird in a way," said Kevin, "because we're paying respects, but still trying to hold on to hope that they're still alive."

The bus ride over was quiet, except for the sound of crying. Most families had mementos to place at the site. Kevin's parents brought a big porcelain pig they'd given Abbie one Christmas. "Abbie's big thing was pigs," Kevin explained, "pig clocks, pig cooking timers, pig anything."

Kevin brought a photograph of the five Hoisington kids. On it, he had written "Abbie, we love you." Then he framed it along with Psalm 23, which he had cut from the Bible. It was raining during the visit, so the family had to wrap the picture in plastic. They also said a prayer for Abbie's friend, Lisa D'Andrea. The two, both teachers, had gone to the concert together. Both were lost.

The Hoisingtons returned to the Crowne Plaza, and finally, that Sunday night got official word around 8:20.

"That was tough," said Kevin. "When you got called into that room, you knew why you were going there."

It was a hotel function room. Kevin recalls three people being there: a pastor, a Red Cross social worker and another man who told them. Everyone in the room, including the three officials, held hands and said a prayer. There were others in adjoining rooms, including a priest, for those who wanted to talk some more.

Afterward, the Hoisingtons got their jackets, thanked the Red Cross people and left. Some families, said Kevin, seemed to need to stay at the support center, where they had been for days. The Hoisingtons felt it was time to go home.

The night before the funeral, almost 1,000 people signed Abbie's guest book during calling hours. One former special needs student left a letter with the family, addressed to Abbie. "Your smiles," it said, "used to turn my frown right side up."

Students' memories

As we talked, Kevin suddenly paused and looked out the window.

"You know," he said of the nightclub, "I don't think she'd ever been there before. She'd never go out on a school night. It was vacation week. Just one of those things."

He looked at the time. He had to get to Hearthside Lanes, the duckpin alley next door.

I watched as Kevin began to greet the students, but lost track of him as people came up to tell me about Abbie.

Marsha Wheeler had been Abbie's class assistant. "The kids loved her so much," she said.

One of the students, Megan McGrane, was shy about talking, but through her dad, told me that Abbie had been her best friend.

Annie Bisson, whose daughter has Down syndrome, told me Abbie taught her more each week than she had learned in a month from other teachers.

By now, Kevin was bowling with a 19-year-old student named Aaron, who can't fully use one of his arms. Patiently, Kevin lifted the ball to help.

"I know how she loved these kids," he told me.

Then he went back to giving them his full focus.

He knew it's what his sister Abbie would have wanted.

Mark Patinkin can be reached at mpatinkin@projo.com.