A Mother's Reckoning: Living in the Aftermath of Tragedy(83)

“I’ll go down to the car and wait while you two work this out.”

I’d forgotten the car key, though, so I leaned against the hood in the cold morning air, remembering how Tom would insist the boys tuck in their shirts and polish their shoes for church while the minister’s own kids wore T-shirts and jeans. I was angry at him for harping on the hat. I guess I still am.

Eventually, Dylan came down to the car alone, his head bare. I wanted to say I agreed with him, and that it was okay with me if he wore the hat, but I did not. I only said, “I’m sorry the morning started out like this. I see you decided not to wear the hat.” Dylan sounded tired but determined to brush it off. “It’s not worth fighting about; it’s just not a big deal.”

I was frankly surprised. I’d expected a little more sputtering and complaining from a seventeen-year-old. “Wow, Dyl. I’m impressed,” I said, mistaking his willingness to withdraw from the conflict for maturity. I praised him for controlling his anger but I wish now he had stomped and screamed, giving me a glimpse of the rage burning inside him. Now I wonder if he had stopped caring about anything at all.

There was one more odd incident on our way home, which at the time Tom and I chalked up to Dylan’s desire to get back to his friends. The three of us stopped at a packed McDonald’s in Pueblo for a quick bite. A large group of teenagers had taken over a couple of tables against the wall. We’d just unwrapped our sandwiches when Dylan leaned forward, hardly moving his lips, and said urgently, “We have to go. Those kids are laughing at me.” I looked over. The teenagers were hooting and hollering and having a great time, and none of them was paying the slightest bit of attention to us.

“Relax, Dyl. Nobody’s looking at you,” I said. Besides, if a person didn’t want to be noticed, why wear a floor-length leather coat? But Dylan grew more insistent, casting quick, paranoid glances over his shoulder at the oblivious kids. He was so uncomfortable that we bolted our burgers and hustled out of there; the teenagers didn’t even look up at us as we left. The rest of the ride home was uneventful.

After our trip, Dylan jumped right back into his busy social life. Nate spent the night. One evening, after studying calculus with Robyn, Dylan asked if I would help pay for prom expenses. I was floored he was interested in going to the prom at all; so, I found out later, were his friends. He seemed amused himself.

The following night, March 30, I attended a pre-graduation meeting for parents of seniors and ran into Judy Brown. Since our phone conversation about the snowball more than a year earlier, we’d seen each other only briefly, mostly after school productions, and so we were eager to catch up. Before long, our conversation veered off into our mutual interest in art—my figure drawing sessions, and some classes she’d taken. We looked at some drawings I had stashed in my car before saying good-bye. Neither one of us mentioned Eric.

? ? ?

One of the most painful questions people ask suicide loss survivors is whether or not we ever hugged our kids. The question hurts, not only for the obvious reasons (only thousands of times; what kind of mother doesn’t hug her kid?) but, in my case, because of a specific incident—indeed, a specific hug—that took place in the last two weeks of Dylan’s life.

One afternoon we passed each other in the hallway at the foot of the stairs. Spontaneously, I threw my arms around him.

“I love you so much,” I told him. “You are such a wonderful person, and Dad and I are so proud of you.” He rested his left hand gently on my back, barely touching me. With the jokingly haughty air we sometimes used to thank each other for elaborate and ridiculous compliments, he thanked me. But I didn’t want him to make a joke of this, which I meant with all my heart, and so I took his thin jawbone in both of my hands and looked directly into his eyes.

“No kidding around, Dylan: I mean it. I love you so much. You are a wonderful person, and Dad and I are proud of you.”

He looked down, embarrassed, and whispered his thanks.

For years, I replayed this scene in my mind. Afraid that it would become distorted through repetition, I wrote it down. I can see it like a movie now, two figures in the hallway, his hand on the small of my back, me reaching up to hold his face. The memory of that hug is one of the most painful I hold—and the knowledge that, to this day, I have no idea what on earth Dylan could possibly have been thinking.

? ? ?

On April 4, I decided to whip up a belated, last-minute dinner in honor of the combined Easter and Passover holidays, figuring I’d scrunch the two and make it a double celebration, as my family had often done when I was a child.

When I mentioned it to Dylan, he laughed in an irritated way, as if at some private joke, and told me he didn’t want to attend. He gave in when I asked him to reconsider. I spent a happy day in the kitchen cooking, and a neighbor joined us for the meal. We never did get all the way through the service, but we had a good time.

The family celebrated Tom’s birthday in early April by going out for fondue. Byron and Dylan took one car, and Tom and I rode in another, giving the boys some time to bond. It was the last time Byron was alone with his brother, and he would later tearfully recall how normal Dylan had acted.

At dinner, Byron did most of the talking. Dylan was so quiet, I fretted he wasn’t getting enough attention—an old worry, familiar to many parents, that one child will feel less loved or validated than the other one. Dylan did get a few jokes in, one so funny I laughed about it all evening. Later, when I couldn’t remember what the joke was (neither Tom nor Byron could remember, either), I was crushed that I hadn’t paid more attention.