by Aria Johnson
When I spotted a gun in his lap that looked vaguely familiar, my brain began to process what had happened. Horrified, my mouth stretched open wider than I would have ever thought possible.
It was a silent scream at first. Next, a sound that was a lot like a siren, emerged from the depths of my soul.
I couldn’t recall dialing 9-1-1, but someone had—maybe a neighbor. They found me in a clump on the floor and assuming I was hurt, two people began administering to me. “No, no. I’m okay, but my son needs medical attention. Hurry! Please! He shot himself and I think he’s dying.”
For some unknown reason, I was placed on a gurney and rushed out of the house. I kept struggling to sit up and check to see if Brandon was okay. Surely my child wasn’t dead. My eyes had been playing tricks on me. It was a flesh wound, and the paramedics were going to fix him up and release him from the hospital tonight. Or perhaps they’d keep him overnight for observation.
But why weren’t they rushing out of the house with him? Every second counted and I became agitated wondering why they were taking so long. I kept asking for him, and the paramedics exchanged surreptitious glances.
Before they lifted me into the ambulance, I turned my head and saw two other paramedics coming out of my house carrying a gurney that held a black body bag.
“Nooo! No, God, no. Not Brandon. Why? Why? Why?” I tried to hurl myself off the gurney so I could get to my son, but I was strapped down. I became wild and feral, thrashing about and crying out his name.
“You have to calm down, Ms. Wilkins,” one of the paramedics advised, but I continued kicking and screaming. Suddenly, I felt the sensation of a sharp prick in my arm and the world became blurry before turning completely dark.
• • •
I was heavily sedated when the police officers came to my hospital room to question me. “Do you know where your son might have gotten the gun?”
I shook my head, didn’t bother trying to speak because I didn’t have the strength to formulate words.
“Was he depressed?”
Once again, I responded by shaking my head. He’d been happier than he’d ever been in his life.
“Did you find a note?”
I shook my head. I wanted to tell them I’d never made it over to Brandon’s desk, but the words wouldn’t come.
“Any idea why your son would commit suicide?”
Suicide! I grimaced and squeezed my eyes shut. That word had become the vilest in the entire English language.
“We realize you’re in shock and the doctor said you’ve been slightly sedated. Here’s my card,” said one of the men in blue. “If anything important comes to mind, don’t hesitate to give me a call.”
Refusing to look at the cops any longer, I turned my head and drifted back to sweet, merciful sleep.
In the morning, I awakened to find Veronica sitting in my room. “Claire, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do? Do you want me to call your mother in Indiana?”
Still not ready to talk, I shook my head adamantly. I didn’t want to see my bitch of a mother. She’d never liked Brandon and it was possible she’d be secretly delighted that he was gone.
“Claire, you have to pull yourself together. If you don’t, Howard is going to handle the funeral arrangements, and I know you don’t want that.”
No, I didn’t want that, and I could feel a solitary tear rolling down my face as I shook my head. I wanted to talk to Veronica. Tell her the horror of finding Brandon like that. But I was incapable of speaking. After screaming for so long and so loudly, there was a horrible burn in the back of my throat. Here at the hospital, bouts of nausea were triggered every time I pictured that bloody hole in Brandon’s head, and I was spending many of my waking hours huddled over the toilet, retching my guts out, and putting even more of a strain on my vocal cords.
Through a series of nodding and shaking my head, I conveyed to Veronica that I didn’t want a formal funeral. I couldn’t bear to see Brandon dressed in a suit and lying in a casket. She became my rock, and also personal bodyguard. I didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. I just wanted to be left alone in my misery.
When I was released from the hospital, Jeff stopped by to offer his condolences, but I didn’t want to see him, either, and Veronica sent him on his way. I had never gotten around to telling her about our affair, but he filled her in, even telling her about our plans to move in together.
But that wasn’t going to happen. Not now. Had I not been frolicking around Paris with him, I would have been home to provide comfort to my son when that despicable girl broke his heart, yet again.
• • •
Veronica put together a beautiful memorial service that was held at a church I’d never attended. There were only a handful of people in attendance, mostly coworkers and a few neighbors.
I didn’t invite Howard. I believed that both he and Ava had equal blame in Brandon’s death. Ava hadn’t bothered to extend any condolences, and I was glad that she had the decency to stay away from me.
I had no idea that a gun was in the house until I’d seen it on Brandon’s lap, and I’d never forgive Howard for negligently leaving it in the attic years ago when he’d moved out. It was an old gun that had once belonged to an uncle or some other relative. Although the gun had little monetary or sentimental value to Howard, what kind of father mistakenly leaves a gun in a home with a child? Suppose Brandon had stumbled across it when he was a little kid? Suppose he had accidentally shot himself back when he was only nine or ten? My God, seeing him lifeless and bloody at twenty was bad enough, but I would have not survived seeing him like that while he was young and vulnerable and relying on me to protect him from harm.
I wondered if Howard subconsciously wanted Brandon to find it. Did he hate his son that much?
Hurt and infuriated, I didn’t invite him to the service nor would I accept any of his numerous calls or respond to his messages of apology for leaving the gun.
With the help of a tranquilizer, I managed to get through the lengthy eulogy that the pastor delivered without crying out in anguish from the pain that viciously cut through me. It was an unbearable suffering that I wouldn’t have wished on my worst enemy.
But not even the strongest dose of Xanax could keep me quietly seated when Howard walked into the church with his elegant family in tow. They were fashionably late, I supposed.
The audacity of him showing up at our son’s service, when in life, he’d never given him the time of day. Outraged and half-crazed, I leapt to my feet and raced to the middle of the aisle, screaming obscenities at Howard and swinging punches.
“It was your fucking gun, you bastard. You left a loaded gun in the attic with the rest of your discarded things. You killed him and I hate you!” When my punches weren’t landing with sufficient force, I began clawing and kicking him in the shins.
I spat at his wife when she foolishly tried to come to his aid, and God forgive me, I even took a swat at one of his twins.
His wife grabbed the three children and ran out of the sanctuary, while I continued my violent attack on Howard.
I don’t know why Howard wasn’t better able to defend himself against me. Maybe the sudden attack took him off guard or perhaps it was the incredible strength and stamina that I possessed while momentarily crazed and out of my mind with grief. It took Winking Walter, the pastor, and a custodial employee to get me off of Howard, but I made sure I took a chunk out of his cheek before I was done with him.
Holding his bloody face, he exited the sanctuary firing curses at me and pressing buttons on his phone, calling the police.
I should have felt a modicum of satisfaction, but after I calmed, I was even more devastated that after releasing all that pent-up rage, I still didn’t have what I wanted: my son.
“Brandon,” I whimpered softly. “Brandon,” I cried out a little louder. “Braaaaaaaaandon!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.
Police arrived and after assessing the situation, an ambulance was called. The same
paramedics hauled me off to the hospital, but this time I ended up in the psych ward.
Chapter 14
I was retained in the psychiatric wing of Middletown Hospital for thirty days. If I’d had it my way, I would have stayed there forever. Being cut off from society was the perfect escape from reality.
The best part about being a mental patient was the drugs that kept me numb all day, sparing me the heartbreaking emotions that came with the unspeakably tragic loss of my only child. At first the clinical team tried to stick me in group therapy sessions, but since I contributed nothing to the conversations and merely sat there with my mouth agape and with my tongue lolling out the corner of my mouth, I was soon absolved of that therapeutic requirement.
And so I was left alone in my room where I sat staring out the window for hours at a time. Sadly, there was nothing outside the window that elicited even a modicum of interest or joy. Not the sunshine that glinted through the trees and not the parade of visitors, carrying flower arrangements or vibrantly colored balloon bouquets.
More drugs were administered at night, allowing me to sleep for twelve-hour stretches. For the first few blissful moments of awakening, I believed Brandon was still alive, and I’d swing my legs off the bed to go check on him. But when my feet hit the cold tile floor of my hospital room, I realized that something was wrong. Then unbearable grief would hit me with a tremendous force that sent me crashing to the floor.
In my mind’s eyes, as I lay in a crumbled heap, I’d relive the horror, and in my mind’s eye, I’d see a macabre montage of that terrible night: the gun on his lap, blood-caked curls, and Brandon’s dead eyes.
Too drugged-up and too weak to scream in anguish, I was reduced to whimpering like a wounded animal. Despite my lack of physical strength, I was capable of emitting those mournful sounds unrelentingly throughout the course of an entire day. But I was never left to suffer for too long. One of the nurses always came to my rescue with a magical pill that put me in a zombie-like state and relieved my suffering.
After thirty days, I was released from the hospital with an arsenal of prescriptions. Veronica not only picked me up and drove me home, but she also went through the mail that had been piling up during my hospital stay. Among the correspondence was an envelope so thick it threatened to burst open.
“This is a restraining order from Howard,” Veronica said gravely, holding up the document. “It says you have to stay five-hundred yards away from him, his wife, and kids or you’ll be arrested.”
Having only a vague memory of attacking Howard, I merely nodded in agreement.
She searched through my personal papers and located my insurance policy.
She let out a whistle when she realized the huge amount of money I would receive as the beneficiary. “I always thought there was a clause that denied benefits to suicides.”
I flinched.
“I’m sorry, Claire. I won’t ever mention that word again.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, feeling too frail and vulnerable to speak in a normal pitch.
Changing the subject, she waved a manila envelope. “This is the paperwork for your extended leave of absence. All you have to do is sign the places marked ‘X’ and I’ll fill in all the blanks.”
“Thanks, Veronica,” I murmured softly.
“Don’t worry about it, kiddo.”
Though anguishing pain was now part of my everyday existence, for some reason, being referred to as “kiddo” at my age, elicited a tiny smile from me.
“It’s good to see you smile, Claire,” she said, gazing at me and nodding in approval. “But . . .you’re skinny as a skeleton, and that concerns me. I filled up your freezer with frozen meals I picked up from the supermarket. It’s all crap; it’s terribly unhealthy . . .loaded with sodium and all kinds of preservatives, but it’s better than eating nothing. I’ll check on you every couple of days, but in the meantime, please promise that you’ll eat.”
“I’ll eat,” I whispered, knowing full well that I wouldn’t. I had no interest in food. The most I could get down was a few swallows of water and a couple bites of fruit.
“I’m serious, Claire. I’m getting the feeling you’re trying to starve yourself. I’m scared to ask how many pounds you’ve lost. You look so frail and malnourished, I’m afraid you’re going to end up hospitalized and hooked up to a feeding tube if you don’t start putting some food in your stomach.”
The threat of living with a feeding tube caused something to click, and I concluded that I had two choices: end my miserable existence or make an attempt to start living again.
I chose life because I was too much of a coward to gobble down a handful of pills.
• • •
I couldn’t expect Veronica to deliver my groceries for the rest of my life and eventually, I set up an account with a nearby grocer and had food delivered. In fact, everything I needed was delivered. I hadn’t driven my car since before leaving for Paris, and I kept telling myself to go out to the driveway and check to see if the battery had died. But each time I attempted to leave the house, I would only make it as far as the front door.
I suspected that neighbors wanted a glimpse of the poor woman whose son had taken his life, and for the sake of gossip, they wanted to see how I was holding up. I didn’t want to exert the effort to wave a hand at anyone or even flutter my fingers in greeting. I didn’t want any interactions.
Unable to bring myself to step outside, I wondered if I suffered from agoraphobia.
When the holiday season rolled around, my mother had the unmitigated gall to call and invite me to spend Thanksgiving with her. This was the same woman who treated my son as if he were an alien simply because he didn’t act like other kids his age, running around noisily and chattering nonstop.
When my mother had drunkenly made snide comments about Brandon, I’d never expressed my feelings. Instead, I’d stopped speaking—cut her out of my life without telling her how badly she’d hurt my feelings.
Today, I wouldn’t be the wimp I’d been in the past. I was liable to slap my mother senseless if she as much as mentioned Brandon’s name. But being charged with yet another assault was bound to land me in jail instead of the psychiatric ward. Therefore, in light of the fact that inflicting bodily harm upon my mother was not an option, it was best that I stayed far, far away from her.
Around mid-December, I received flowers from Jeff with a note that read: Thinking of you with warm feelings, Jeff.
He’d sent a Christmassy arrangement of red and white tulips that looked radiant amongst green Douglas fir. The bouquet was decorated with candy canes, frosted pinecones, and tied around the clear glass vase was a red satin ribbon. It was beautiful, and surprisingly, the flowers lifted my spirits, reminding me of the healing nature of plants.
But I still wasn’t ready to communicate with Jeff, and doubted if I ever would be. Hopefully, he was living his life and not waiting around for him and me to pick up where we’d left off.
Jeff was a good guy. He’d treated me better than any other man ever had, yet I couldn’t continue our relationship. I was an empty shell, unwilling to hold up my end of basic conversation and completely incapable of gaiety or laughter.
I was grieving, goddamnit, and I refused to apologize for it! I wished people would leave me alone and stop waiting for me to finally get on with my life. I had no life without Brandon. Without him, I was merely existing.
• • •
What finally drove me out of the house was the desire to be surrounded by greenery. After Jeff’s flowers wilted and had to be thrown in the trash, I went through a form of depression that had nothing to do with my grief, and I realized that I needed friends. Not human beings, but green friends. It was a known fact that the benefits of plants went beyond their physical beauty. They also reduced stress and people were generally happier when interior landscaping enhanced their environment.
In addition to an innate yearning to feel better, I also had an overwhelming desire to stick my fi
ngers in soil and begin nurturing something that would thrive under my maintenance and care. I could have easily ordered seeds and bulbs and soil online. But I was so eager to get started, I began throwing on clothes immediately. I sprayed Visine in my eyes that were bloodshot from constant crying. I grabbed my keys and said a little prayer that my car would start.
The motor was sluggish, but when it eventually turned over, I zipped out of the driveway with a sense of excitement I hadn’t thought possible. My grief hadn’t subsided, not in the least, but I was able to tuck it down deep enough to allow myself to get out of the house and accomplish a task that was important to me.
There was a premier nursery in the city with top quality plants and a vast selection of everything I would need to bring vibrant life into my home. But with the roads being slippery from a recent coating of snow, I thought it best to stay close to my neighborhood. There was a nearby Home Depot that had a fairly decent garden center and a large enough inventory for me to get started on my project.
Pushing a cart inside Home Depot, I whizzed past a series of aisles that displayed lighting, ceiling fans, plumbing equipment, and power tools. I briefly stopped and inspected a row of toilet seats, recalling that there was a small rip in the cushioned seat in the downstairs powder room. Looking for an elongated white, cushioned seat, I found myself humming along with the music that was playing in the store as I surveyed the choices.
Something was happening. The dark cloud of despair was lifting somewhat. Did I dare hope that I might slowly begin to feel like a normal person again?
Standing on my tiptoes, I reached up and rather clumsily pulled a cream-colored seat off the overhead shelf and stumbled backward, accidentally bumping into a shopper behind me. When I turned around to offer an apology, I found myself staring into the face of the last person in the world that I ever wanted to see—Ava! And if the shock of being face-to-face with someone I hated with every fiber of my being wasn’t bad enough, the sight of her protruding pregnant belly stole my breath away and nearly knocked me to my knees.
