world remains safe.
I welcomed physical pain – my wounds were not healing very well. Ste. Anne Hospital gauzed me up and sent me on my way. It wasn’t until a few days later, staff at the treatment facility I was staying at started to notice a peculiar odor coming from my arm. After a quick check, it was determined my dressing had not been changed since I was admitted – almost a week earlier. The bandages had to come off. Easier said than done; as layer after layer of gauze peeled off, it was soon obvious that my arm was infected and the gauze was not coming easy. It took three hours of soaking in a warm bath of peroxide to get the pus scabs to let go. Even then, my screams could be heard throughout the facility as they eventually had to just peel it off. There was no time to be gentle. I welcomed the agony. It reminded me about how lucky I was.
It would also be months before I ride in the passenger seat of a car without curling up in a ball on the floor if we were driving after dusk. I would freak out and have a panic attack every time I saw a headlights coming towards us. My foster father showed a lot of patience towards me during that time. When I was not on the floor, I was usually screaming in fear. I had a hard time recovering.
I eventually found closure in the form of a letter that I penned to Brian’s mother. A year after the accident I was compelled to contact her. I wanted her to know how sorry I was; that while I didn’t know her son, I had met him that night and I was sorry I would never get to know how great he was. My tears mingled with blue ink as I apologized for my part in her youngest son’s death. In the words of a mature sixteen year old I wrote that if I could change, I would. With its mailing, I closed the chapter on that horrific night.
Around the one year anniversary of the accident, Brian’s mother found that letter waiting in her mailbox.
Healing Hearts
Two years later on my wedding day, I was standing in the presentation line when I was approached by a sweet looking older lady. While I didn’t know her name but I knew she was invited because of her connection to my new husband’s family.
“This is Mrs. Kauenhofen,” my husband said as he introduced us. “She lives on the chicken farm near my parents place.” It took me a few seconds to make the connection. My eyes widened as she congratulated me.
My husband’s words sank in – Mrs. Kauenhofen – I knew that name. I paled. Her face betrayed recognition also. She knew who I was. I waited for the coming condemnation. I expected her to yell at me, scream at me – something. How fitting this confrontation take place at my wedding – something her son would never have. Whatever I was expecting never came. Instead, she reached for me and I allowed her to take my hands in hers. Ashamed, I attempted to return her gaze. My heart was quaking.
“I got your letter,” I watched her lips, not hearing her words. Somehow my flustered brain registered the sincerity in her face. She was not angry. She actually looked happy to see me. I noted the tears threatening to spill over, to join mine. The wait seemed like an eternity. Yet, it lasted only seconds. As she took me into her arms in a warm forgiving embrace, I heard her whisper.
“Thank you for your letter,” she said. “You were the only one – other than family - who remembered the night that Brian died. You have no idea how much that letter meant to us. Thank you.”
Her words rained down on me like a blessing. The forgiving peace I desperately sought since that night was finally achieved with whispered words. After years of nightmares, and misguided guilt over taking another’s life, even accidentally – I felt relief. Her simple soft-spoken words gave my broken heart permission to heal. In the wake of a grieving mother’s forgiving words I was finally able to do something I never thought that I could do. I was finally able to forgive myself for the night that Brian took his last ride.
AUTHORS NOTE: I had a recent opportunity to speak to “Henry” – and he was very grateful for the communication. The one thing he wanted to thank me for, was finally setting him straight on one thing – in nearly thirty years, he was never told the actual cause of death. For some reason, knowing what actually happened has finally allowed him to find closure for himself.
I am grateful to God for presenting me with this opportunity to remember a life lost too soon.
***
Finding Gloria – First edition published April 2012
Behind Whispering Pines - published November 2012
FINDING GLORIA
Available in paperback, hardcover, e-book
Audio book coming soon
Watch the Official Book Trailer here!
TRAILER
Available elsewhere:
Moondust and Madness: a collection of poetry
Finding Gloria ~ Special Edition
Connect with Me Online:
Website: emeraldpublications.wordpress.com
Dawson Trail Dispatch: mariannecurtis.wordpress.com
Blog: moondustandmadness.wordpress.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/writerchick68
Email: [email protected]
Facebook: Marianne Curtis
About the Author:
Since the fall of 1997, Marianne Curtis has been writing for the Dawson Trail Dispatch. She has since published over 7,000 articles in the monthly publication.
While she prefers investigative pieces, Ms. Curtis does not limit her expertise. Over the years she has covered hardcore news, political issues, public interest groups, community events, sports and entertainment. She also does her own photography.
When Ms. Curtis is not writing for the newspaper, she enjoys spending time with her family, gardening and with her many friends.
Brian's Last Ride Page 5
