A Mother's Reckoning: Living in the Aftermath of Tragedy(19)
I might have been eager to avoid the full truth about the degree of Dylan’s involvement, but the complete denial insulating me in those early days was not sustainable. The magnitude and severity of the attack crashed over me with every headline and every call from our lawyer, newly overwhelming me each time. In addition to the fifteen who had died, twenty-four individuals were being treated for injuries at local hospitals. The status of the severely injured children was updated constantly. If they survived, they would likely sustain permanent disabilities as a result of their injuries. I had spent the latter half of my career working with students with disabilities, so I knew very well what that meant.
My mind reeled. How could there be no way to press a reset button, to live the last weeks of Dylan’s life over again, to change the outcome of that life, to stop what had happened? I ached for the other parents grieving their own children and praying by hospital beds, and had to constantly remind myself no magical thinking would rewind the clock. Not only was there nothing I could do to stop it: now that it had happened, there was absolutely nothing I could do to make it better.
All I wanted to do was to hold my son—and then to have one more chance to stop him before he committed his final, terrible act. The loop in my brain ran constantly, always starting and ending in the same place: “How could he have done this? How could he have done this?” We were left to face the catastrophe Dylan had left behind, without the only person who could possibly shed light on what had happened, and why.
? ? ?
Although Don and Ruth could not have been more hospitable, they were beginning to look almost as exhausted as Tom, Byron, and I did. It’s natural to want a break from even the most charming and welcome houseguests, and we were hardly that, although we did try to stay out of their way as much as possible, and to minimize the burden of our confusion and grief. I knew Don wanted to watch news coverage of the tragedy; I also knew I could not bear to hear it, and so I spent more and more time in the basement. Years later, Byron admitted he’d hidden behind a shrub outside of their house so he could have a place to cry without being seen.
When we had parted with our new attorney the night before in the parking lot of the convenience store, we had scheduled an appointment for the next day: he wanted us to come to his office to meet his staff. Our neighbors and close friends Peggy and George urged us to come to their home after the appointment with our lawyer. I said we would, after I got my hair cut.
Left to my own devices, I wear a man’s flannel shirt and jeans, and can count on one hand the number of manicures I’ve had. Early in my working life, though, I’d realized that if I had a good haircut, regularly maintained, I could look tidy and professional without having to fuss—indeed, on most mornings, without even having to resort to a comb. So I scheduled a standing monthly cut-and-color appointment. I regarded it as a necessary grooming chore, like showering or brushing my teeth. That month, my standing hair appointment fell on the day after Columbine.
I decided to keep it. I wasn’t thinking about how it would look to the outside world; I wasn’t thinking about anything. A haircut was the last thing in the world I wanted, but then, so was choking down the bowl of Cheerios Ruth had insisted I eat earlier in the day. Keeping the appointment, I reasoned, would get me out of Don and Ruth’s house for a while, allowing them a modicum of privacy and recovery time away from us. Also, it required nothing of me except sitting in a chair. I wasn’t up to much, but this I thought I could handle.
More important, it would make me presentable. I grew up with the understanding that personal presentation is a way to show respect. I might be most comfortable in jeans and an old T-shirt, but I dress up to go to the theater out of admiration for the performers. I wouldn’t dream of wearing sweatpants to temple, or to church. Over the next few days, we would have to have a funeral for Dylan, and I did not want to look like a scarecrow when I said good-bye to my son.
Tom drove us to Gary Lozow’s office, where we met his staff. So it was that we sat with a table full of attorneys even before we had made funeral arrangements for our son. Looking back on it now, I realize we probably could have refused to discuss legal matters until after the funeral, but we were stunned into helplessness. This juxtaposition of legal and personal affairs was to become a pattern in our lives after Columbine, and one we would negotiate over the years to come. The need to tend to legal concerns shadowed our grief—always. Fortunately, we had found an ethical and compassionate lawyer, who genuinely had our interests at heart.
At the meeting, Gary summarized the legal aspects of our situation: no lawsuits had yet been filed, but they were imminent. I sat there, numb, while the lawyers talked over my head. Still in shock, I could barely understand what was being said, and I simply couldn’t rouse myself to care. They were acting as if my future was at stake, but as far as I was concerned, I had no future. My life was over.
Leaving the meeting, I asked Gary about my hair appointment. Unconsciously, I had already begun to ask for his input on the most minor decisions, realizing I had no idea what the right thing to do was, and no barometer for how I should behave. I was still in zombie mode. He told me gently, “I think you should do whatever you would normally do. That’s what will help.” So I called my hairdresser and asked her if she could move my appointment to the evening, so I could see her after all her other clients were gone. She agreed.
Later in the evening, Tom dropped me off at the salon, and went to our friends’ house to wait. My hairdresser was cordial but visibly uncomfortable. We didn’t know each other well. It was my first attempt at trying to look and act normal for someone outside my inner circle of family and friends, and I saw immediately it was hopeless. I had thought getting a haircut would require little of me, but even that minimal social interaction was leagues beyond what I could manage. I wished I could put the poor woman at ease, but I understood she wouldn’t ever be able to see me as a normal human being after what Dylan had done.