by Kim Goldman
I believe in my heart that my brother would be proud of me and the choices I have made. My brother was a freer spirit than I ever was; I am learning to live more that way.
My brother reminds me to live my life with courage, kindness, and compassion.
I have no idea where I would’ve ended up had he not been killed.
I wonder about that all the time, daydreaming about a life filled with celebrations, milestones, and families, the two of us leading the way.
I still let those visions flood my mind when I need respite from the anguish, but this is the life I am living today.
I get to make the best of it.
My brother taught me that. He taught me well.
I constantly thank him for his continued gifts, even in his death.
But this was not what I would have imagined in my life.
This was not part of our plan.
Over the years, I have learned to live with my grief, and managed to make room for it, so that it doesn’t swallow me whole. But I wasn’t always this way.
In the earlier years after our horrific tragedy, my dad and I were so consumed with the trials that I didn’t have a lot of time to process my emotions. We were being pulled in so many different directions; sadly, our focus was never on the loss connected to Ron’s murder, but on the struggle and constant pursuit of justice. And all of this unfolded under the watchful eye of the public.
At times during the criminal case, I found myself obsessed about death, but not my brother’s.
For the first time in my life, I thought about suicide.
I wondered what it would be like if I didn’t have to feel the pain anymore. It had to be easier than facing the world on a daily basis, hiding my grief because I was always crying, or managing my anxiety over how the trial would end. I constantly wondered what my life would look like without my brother as my big brother.
Experiencing the demise of my father’s strong spirit was almost more than I could bear as well. He was larger than life in my eyes: my hero, my confidant, my touchstone.
I felt him drifting away, but at the same time, grasping me so hard that I couldn’t breathe. He was so afraid of losing me, too. He clung to me like beach tar on the bottom of your feet.
I wanted to comfort him by telling him that everything would be okay, but how did I know that? Terms like “forever,”
“future,” “always,” were not part of my vocabulary anymore. Everything I knew as a constant in my life was wavering by the second. I was in a constant fog, but needed to stay focused.
Deep down, I had no purpose, no direction, no life outside of my family and the murders. I was so committed to honoring my brother’s death that I couldn’t fathom the thought: What if his killer walked free?
Every thought was consumed with the case, the jury, the lawyers, the pundits, the public.
My life as I knew it, and thought it would be, was forever altered. I didn’t have the strength to survive it anymore.
I was suffocating.
And so I would let my mind explore the possibility of being done with it all.
Driving down the freeway, I imagined slamming into the car in front of me. I envisioned driving off the side of the road on the winding canyons down to the beach cities. I considered crashing into walls, ditches, trees—anything that would end this constant state of misery and despair. I wanted to be done with the pain, the struggle, the constant ache that plagued me. And every time the suicidal thoughts would pop into my head, all I could think of was my dad.
The image of seeing my father broken down, paralyzed with sadness, was more than I could take. I couldn’t put him through the anguish of losing another child. I knew firsthand the devastation that death leaves in its wake; I couldn’t be the source of that agony for my dad.
I honestly didn’t think he would have survived if I died, too, and I wasn’t sure I could go on if something happened to him. So once again, my father served as a beacon of light and hope for me. He gave me the strength and the courage to make my way through another day, as he always has done.
In an odd twist of irony, my longed-for suicide almost became an assisted reality.
Unfortunately, as big as Los Angeles is, it’s also very small. After the killer was acquitted, I ran into almost everyone involved in that case.
One night, as I walked through the parking lot of the Forum for a concert, defense attorney Robert Shapiro slammed on his brakes, or he would have run me over in the pedestrian walkway. The sheer panic on his face when we locked eyes made me laugh.
Could you imagine the headlines?
“O. J. DEFENSE TEAM FINISHES THE JOB THEIR CLIENT DIDN’T!”
I also let myself daydream of killing the beast that destroyed my brother’s future. I created the perfect setting in my head where I was in control of his destiny. The morbid places where my mind could go shocked me to the core, but knowing that I am a softy protected me. I couldn’t hurt a fly.
As much as I dreamed of causing as much pain as possible to the killer, I could never do it. Again, thinking about what that would do to my father, I could never follow through.
Deep down, I also knew that any torment I’ve lived with was far easier to deal with than the torture my brother suffered the night he was stabbed to death. He stood like a man, fighting for his honor and for Nicole’s.
And so I breathe.
I find I take a lot of deep breaths.
I scream and yell in the car—in the shower—in my writing.
I rant, when I can, to unleash the anger. I cry as much as possible to cleanse my soul, and I yearn. I allow myself to yearn for my brother and have made that part of my healing process. I also allow myself to be irrational sometimes.
To some degree, sharing my grief with the world has been comforting, but also really awkward. I feel exposed and raw, and on display. Sometimes I feel judged and criticized for “still feeling” what I feel. It’s virtually impossible to explain how hard this has been, to be out in the open with such intimate feelings, with everyone watching.
There is no escape; there is no respite.
I cannot deny its existence. This event, these emotions, this aftermath, will be a part of my life forevermore. I cannot refute the events that happened, but I can deny them from depriving me of happy memories and happy tales to share with my son.
I can control my response to my brother’s murder. I can control my thoughts. I can control my behavior.
And most of all, I can control it from dominating and destroying my life going forward.
My time with Ron and my life with my father has been filled with joyful, comforting, precious hours. So I will work to select those moments like brilliant gems, polish them for my son’s entertainment, and share them with him gleefully and honestly.
My brother is a bright, shining spot in my life, and I will let his radiance show.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“A final comfort that is small, but not cold: The heart is the only broken instrument that works.”
—T. E. Kalem
* * *
I wake with a heavy head and a heavy heart. It takes a few seconds to realize why I am forcing myself to get up from the comfort of my chocolate brown sheets, nestled beneath the down comforter and my slew of pillows.
The room is dark and eerily quiet. My eyes can’t focus; my brain doesn’t immediately register what day it is, but my heart is jumping through my chest.
I can’t stay still any longer.
I can start to hear the faint cries of my Labrador puppy, Tilly, who needs to be let out.
I glance at the clock. It’s 5:15 a.m.
Ugh.
I sluggishly crawl downstairs, angry as I let Tilly outside into the backyard.
I don’t want to face this day, let alone at 5:15 in the morning.
Tilly follows me back upstairs and hides under the bed, which is her way of saying, “Go back to sleep, Mommy. I am good now.”
I get back into bed, now wide awake.
* * *
June 12 comes every year, with great anxiety and anticipation. There is no exception. There is no exclusion. I lay there in my room, which is usually a safe place for me to escape, although my sleeping habits are short of comforting.
I have had horrible insomnia since my brother’s murder, but I have acclimated to it by this point. It doesn’t seem all that unusual to get only a few hours of sleep each night.
Nonetheless, I went to sleep the night before knowing it would be a hit-or-miss whether I would wake up before the sun rose. And I knew that when I did—I would have to face the worst day of the year.
So there I was, staring at the ceiling, watching the fan blades go round and round, trying to zone out so I could fall back asleep with the hope that I could sleep the day away.
Then flashes of my brother immediately began clogging my brain—no matter what I did to stop the images: his baseball picture, the driver’s license photo, the black-and-white picture of us as kids walking hand in hand, autopsy, crime scene photos…
I tried shifting my position, counting backward, watching nonsense TV, burying my face in the pillow. Nothing was helping.
I started to get that nervous feeling in my stomach, and my skin started to itch. I felt like I could rip my skin off. I needed to take deep breaths, lots of slow and deep breaths.
“Mommy, come on. It’s time to wake up. Can I play Wii?”
I don’t know how long Sam had been standing over me, until I finally turned toward him. I can feel his warm morning breath on my face.
“Mommy, are you awake?”
His voice calmed me, but also made me angry: no turning back now. I needed to brave another day.
Sam laid down next to me and nuzzled his sweet face into my neck. It was my favorite part of mornings, when we shared a few minutes of uninterrupted mommy-son time. Everyone was still sleepy, vulnerable, loving, safe.
As Sam nestled in, I explained to him that today was a hard day for me because it marked the day, many years ago, that my brother had died.
Sam knew that today would be a mixed bag of emotions for us: a fun birthday with his friend, Johnny, and then a trip to the cemetery to see Uncle Ron. Sam knew what that meant, because we talk about Ron and his life and death a lot.
I explained that when the birthday party was over, we needed to leave so we could spend some time with Uncle Ron.
We were going to have a lot of fun with his friends, but he might see me a little sad later in the day, I explained.
Sam, in his most mature way, replied, “I know, Mom. We can laugh with my friends, and then after that’s over, my job will be to help you cheer up.”
I was immediately brought to tears as I realized sadly that my almost seven-year-old little man was the one I would rely on to help see me through this day.
What a burden and a gift.
It’s always uncomfortable to confront this particular day. It doesn’t make me mourn Ron more or feel his loss deeper, but June 12 marks the day that my only brother—my best friend, my hero—lost a battle for his life against a six-inch blade yielded by a psychopath, whose only intent was to kill.
June 12 marks the day that I feel every emotion tenfold—no matter what I do to guard myself against the onslaught.
This is the day that I give myself permission to let it all hang out and not be in control of my grief.
This is the day that I experience my brother’s last moments as he fought valiantly for his friend, Nicole, and for himself.
June 12 is the day that marks the beginning of a “new normal” for my family and for me.
* * *
This is my day—to feel all the shit, all the pain, all the anxiety, all the loss, all the sadness, and all the ache in my heart and in my soul. This is the day that I relive my brother’s every move, and his last breath, as he watched his killer walk away and leave him for dead.
This is the day that I wish my brother would have been a selfish bastard (which, I am sure, I called him a time or two in our life) and run away and not been a hero.
This is the day I hate!, hate! hate! with all my energy.
The phone calls and texts start early:
Thinking of you.
Ron was lucky to have you as a sister.
I am here for you, whatever you need.
Want a hug?
The tears well up in my eyes, making it hard to see, and my heart sinks.
I love that my friends remember this day, but I hate that they have to. I don’t usually reply or answer the calls, but when I do, I just cry. And my friends just breathe softly on the other end of the line, letting me know that they are still there, listening as I ramble on about how I am feeling and why “this year feels different from the last.”
In truth, though, the pain doesn’t ease; the tears don’t cease. One year merges into another—seamlessly and without relief. It is like the movie Groundhog Day playing on a perpetual loop, but without the laughs and without the resolution.
I usually hide in the closet so my son won’t have to witness a blubbering mess of a mother. I desperately want some privacy; I need to release the pent-up feelings that I subconsciously have pushed down to a deep, dark place all year long, to not appear weak or vulnerable.
Showering helps. Sam can’t hear me weeping, and since I am already wet, he won’t notice the tears streaming down my face. I used to hate taking showers when my brother first died. As much as it was a safe haven, it was the scariest place, too, because I knew what would happen once I got in there. It was the most vulnerable position I could be in, naked and exposed, in every sense of the word. Completely shut off from the world, left to my insanity and my grief.
I would sit on the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees, letting out a primal scream, hoping I could rid myself of the pain. As the water poured over me, I would wish with all I have that it would wash away the nightmare that had become my life. I would wish that when I exited the bathroom, I could start with a clean slate.
I don’t know how long I would sit there, maybe until I noticed my skin starting to wrinkle or until I realized that tomorrow was just another shower away.
* * *
Sam and I go to his friend’s house to celebrate their birthday. As I watch Sam frolic in the pool, I am brought to tears. The sight of him breaks my heart.
Watching his innocence, his love of life, his beautiful smile, his deep-set brown eyes, his freckles: All I can see is my brother when he was the same age. The resemblance, in my eyes, is remarkable. Watching my son has always given me the most amount of joy, but it comes with such turmoil.
Seventeen years later, it is still hard for me to reconcile the notion that my son and my brother will never meet. They will never hug. They will never laugh together. They will never throw a ball around. They will never share stories of our past or make their own memories.
I can’t help but weep for the relationship that Ron and Sam would have had. It would have been amazing. It is a future that I cannot give to my child. I know I can’t control that, but as a parent you commit to protecting your child from harm, sadness, and pain. You want to give them the moon, the stars, the sky. In my dark hours, I feel like a failure as a parent. I feel like I let Sam down. I have given him a reality of loss and grief and sorrow.
On this June 12, 2011, the darkness is blinding.
* * *
When it is time to go to the cemetery, my dear friend Michele decides to meet us there. She forced her way into coming, and I later realize how grateful I am that she did.
Sam and I make the forty-minute trek to Pierce Brothers, in Agoura, California, where my brother was buried on June 16, 1994. In the car, on the way to the cemetery, we blast our favorite songs and talk about the end of the school year and his soon-to-be third-grade status.
We make our way to Albertson’s for our ritual flower selecting. Sunflowers are particularly special to me. Many years ago a stranger sent me a picture of this bright yellow flower and said she h
oped that it would always bring sunlight to my brother’s life. I don’t know if it does, but every time I go, I bring them to him, just in case.
Then he picks out the cards to write personal messages. His reads: I love you very much. Hope you have a good day! Love Sam. Mine usually says: “I love you and miss you so much, it hurts. I wish I could feel your hug. Love, Squirt.
Pulling into the place where we laid my brother to rest evokes a powerful reaction each time I make the turn inside the gates. My brother sits under a beautiful tree atop a small hill. When I make the walk toward him, I am reminded of the day of his funeral. All of those memories overwhelm me to the point that I lose my breath for just a split second.
Sam’s job has been to fill the vase with water for the flowers and to get three rocks to place on the headstone. It is a Jewish custom to place pebbles on the headstone of someone who has passed away. There are a few reasons that people do this, but I believe that it’s to show that visitors have come to pay their respects, as well as the ancient custom of placing a stone to mark where the dead were buried, since they didn’t have headstones. In any event, it has become a beautiful part of our process. Sam always gets a rock for himself, for Papa, and for me.
“Mommy, this one is for you. This is mine. And this one is for Papa, and then this one is for Grammy. You can put yours and Papa’s down; I’ll do mine and Grammy’s. Are you going to kiss yours first?”
Barely able to answer, I nod my head. “Yes, baby, I always do.”
I gently kiss the rocks in my hand, and place them softly side by side on the headstone, below the dates July 2, 1968 June 12, 1994.
Sam mimics my gesture and lays his two rocks beside mine.
Michele joins us on the hill with her two dogs, who proceed to pee on Sam’s foot as he attempts to fill the vase with water. That moment brings laughter, which is a nice diversion from the somber mood and resonates in the air. Sam thankfully chuckled and commented how “disgusting” it was as he let his toes flow under the water. He then races away to fetch his rocks, leaving Michele and me to my grief.
There is no doubt that sitting graveside with my brother brings the pain to the forefront of my mind. It’s a different feeling than when I am just wandering around in my everyday life. When I am here, the pain is poignant, and tangible. Here, next to him, I feel the closest, but also so isolated and lonely.
