These misperceptions and others bothered me. Tom was more immediately tuned in to his grief for Dylan, his beloved son and close companion. The two of them had spent hours at a time shooting the breeze about baseball scores, fixing up cars, building speakers, playing chess. Tom was heartbroken Dylan hadn’t said good-bye. It was one thing that our son could commit this appalling act, but he had done so with no explanation at all. A note, as insufficient as it would have been, would have been something.
My own focus was on the response of the community around us. Like many women, I was raised to think first about others, and to care about their good opinion of me. I had taken pleasure and pride in being an active and respected part of my community, in being thought of as a good mom. The censure beginning to emerge was excruciating.
The gentlest portrayal of us as parents in the media was that we were checked out, useless: bumbling and blindly oblivious. In other accounts, we had knowingly shielded a hateful racist, turning a blind eye to the arsenal he was assembling under our roof, thereby exposing an entire community to danger.
I completely understood why people were blaming us. I’d certainly be furious beyond measure with the parents of that child, had it been the other way around. I’d hate them. Of course I’d blame them. But I also knew that neither of those caricatures of us was true—and that the truth was far more disturbing.
• • •
On April 22, two days after the shootings, we learned from our attorney that Dylan’s death had been ruled a suicide. The coroner was ready to release his body.
With that announcement, a new and appalling problem reared its head: What would we do with his body? We assumed we would automatically be turned away from any funeral home in Littleton. Even if they didn’t refuse us, it was sickening to imagine we might further upset or dishonor the victims’ families, or interfere with their own ceremonies. I had no idea what to do.
Years earlier, I had served on a committee advising the mortuary science program at a local college on creating opportunities in that field for students with disabilities, and had worked closely with the head of the program. We had not spoken in years, but desperate and unsure where else to turn, I reached out to her for guidance.
When we connected on the phone, Martha’s tone was warm and filled with concern: I’d already been in her thoughts, she told me, and she’d been wondering if there was anything she could do to help, but she’d had no way of getting in touch. As soon as we got off the phone, she immediately contacted one of the most respected funeral directors in Denver. Martha and John would show an extraordinary measure of generosity and compassion toward us over those next few days.
Initially, Tom and I didn’t want a funeral of any kind for Dylan. It simply felt too disrespectful to his victims. I will be forever grateful to Martha and John, though, for convincing us to reconsider. They promised we would be able to keep the ceremony private both from the media and from enraged community members. Together, we planned a simple service, attended only by a few friends and family members. Byron would be there, of course, as would Ruth and Don, and the parents of Dylan’s two best friends, Nate and Zack. The pastor of the church we’d belonged to when Dylan and Byron were small agreed to officiate for us.
Tom and I understood cremation was our only option. The likelihood that a gravesite would be vandalized was too great, and we might not be able to stay in the area; if we buried Dylan and then moved, we’d be forced to leave him behind. I explained I needed to see my son one last time, and Martha and John told me the technicians would do everything they could to cover the bullet wounds in his head so we could see him as we’d known him.
I hardly remember making the arrangements. I do remember being amazed to hear myself speaking calmly about practical matters when the only sound I could hear in my own head was a continuous, endless screech of agony and disbelief. This was my son, the person I had nurtured, protected, and loved with all my heart. The thought that I would never hear his voice or touch his face again took my breath away. It took every ounce of strength I could summon to make preparations for our final separation. My parenting of Dylan was over. The love and work that had gone into the creation of this human being had ended—and in the most disastrous way.
• • •
Amid the nightmarish covert planning sessions for Dylan’s funeral, it became clear that our old cat Rocky’s health was worsening rapidly, and I became obsessed with getting him medical attention.
Ruth later admitted that my hysteria over the ailing cat seemed evidence to her I had totally snapped under the pressure. We’d been in their home for three days, and I’d been so weak I had to prop my head up with my arm at the table to prevent myself from collapsing under the weight of my exhaustion and grief. I could barely shower or feed myself, let alone care for my family—but I would not stop fretting about Rocky.
Driving myself to the vet was out of the question: even I was self-aware enough to realize I was in no shape to get behind the wheel of a car. With resignation, and simply because they had no idea what else to do, Ruth and Don packed Rocky into their car and drove us to the veterinary clinic in our neighborhood.
I am unapologetically tenderhearted where animals are concerned, but I can see now there was obviously more going on that day with Rocky than merely responsible pet ownership. There was so much suffering in Littleton for which I felt responsible, and nothing I could do about it. Caring for this one suffering animal was something I could do, a situation still salvageable.
Terrified of being recognized, I entered the clinic through a side door. When it came time to hand Rocky over to the vet, I found I couldn’t do it. Rocky was Dylan’s cat. He’d chosen him from a neighbor’s litter of kittens when he was in third grade. The big white cat had stretched out with us for all those family nights on the couch as we watched the Pink Panther movies together in the den. Letting go of Rocky felt like letting go of Dylan. I struggled to communicate to the doctors without sobbing and asked them to do what they could for him, and to keep him until I was able to come back. Finally, I allowed a vet to take the frightened cat from my arms.
As I made my way across the parking lot, heading for the sanctuary of Don and Ruth’s car, I heard someone running after me, calling my name. I turned to see one of the clinic’s staff members heading toward me, and for a moment I wasn’t sure whether to walk toward her or run away. Gary had warned us repeatedly we would need to be careful for our safety: there were many people in Colorado and around the world who held us responsible for the shootings, and who would be happy to see us dead. The day before, a large delivery of hot food had arrived for us at his office—a gesture of sympathy and goodwill from a stranger, like the boxes of mail we were beginning to receive there. Gary wouldn’t allow us to eat a bite of the food for fear it was poisoned. Even years afterward, I would find myself on heightened alert whenever I had to give my full name to schedule a delivery, or to a teller at the bank. But that moment in the vet clinic’s parking lot was the first time I had ever recoiled in fear from an interaction with anyone in the place where we lived.
As it happened, I had nothing to worry about. The petite woman threw her arms around me. She told me she’d raised boys, and knew how unbelievably stupid they could be. It was a sentiment many, many mothers would share with me over the years. Though I towered over her, I let her hold me while I sobbed, soaking both of us with my tears. Later I realized I didn’t even know her name.
That woman was not the only person to show us generosity. Even before we left Don and Ruth’s, our longtime friends and neighbors closed ranks around us. The newspaper ran a photograph of our friends hanging a poster on the gate at the foot of our driveway:
Sue & Tom
We Love You
We’re Here for You
CALL US
The sight of those familiar, dear faces felt like a Radio Free Europe message transmitted across enemy lines. The memory of so many kindnesses, both large and small, humbles me to this day. E
ven as our friends and family showed their love and compassion for us, though, I felt sure they must also be wondering, What on earth did you people do to create such anger in a child? How could you not see what was happening?
I was asking those questions myself.
CHAPTER 4
A Resting Place
On Saturday, the twenty-fourth of April, we cremated our son.
Martha had offered to pick us up and drive us to the funeral home. Her experience with the bereaved was a gift, and she talked easily with us as she drove, but the paralyzing dread I felt intensified with every mile. Still, my social training prevailed and I tried to keep up my end of the conversation, even as I trembled violently and unsuccessfully fought back tears.
Both Martha and John were genuinely concerned about our security and privacy. They assured us there would be no posted sign or guest book available outside the room where Dylan lay, which had a single entrance and no windows. But even with the precautions, a member of the press had called the funeral home minutes before we arrived, so we entered the room furtively, casting glances over our shoulders like frightened prey.
No words are adequate to describe the pain of seeing Dylan’s body in that casket. The expression on Dylan’s face was unfamiliar, which Byron later confessed made it easier for him. That unfamiliar expression was perhaps the only thing that allowed us to get through that first, horrific, unreal moment. I smoothed Dylan’s hair and kissed his forehead, searching his face for clues and finding none. Tom and I had brought a number of Dylan’s childhood stuffed animals, and we placed them in the coffin so they rested against his cheeks and neck. Byron and Tom and I held one another’s hands, and together we held Dylan’s. We were finally by his side, a family again.
It was a chilly spring day, and I was overcome by a compulsive, almost biological need to make Dylan warm. I could not stop rubbing his ice-cold arms, exposed by the short-sleeved hospital gown he was wearing. I had to hold myself back from climbing into the casket so I could cover him with the warmth of my body.
Martha had recommended we each take some time alone with Dylan. Byron went first. As I waited in the main sitting room of the funeral home, I braced myself to be alone for the last time with what remained of my son, and I began to panic. A surge of animal protectiveness came over me. How could I allow Dylan to be destroyed, to be burned in a fire? I jumped out of my chair and started to pace, my mind racing. The other options—above- and below-ground burial—brought me no comfort. I tried to think how we could steal his body out of the mortuary and sneak him to safety. I can’t do this, I thought over and over, in an endless loop. There was a fireplace in the funeral home’s sitting room. It looked cheerful and inviting on that cold, snowy day, and I was drawn to it. Eventually, I was able to recover some calm by looking into the flames. Most of my panic turned to resignation, and then my grief resurfaced. How sad, I thought as I stared at the fire, that this is the way I must warm my son.
Since that day, I have experienced a number of recurring dreams about Dylan: dreams where I have a second chance to keep him safe, and fail; dreams where I lift his shirt to expose hidden wounds; dreams where I am simultaneously protecting him and protecting others from him. But there was a particular dream I only had once.
In it, I see Dylan’s bloody bones scattered across a forest floor. I collect them, one by one in my arms, afraid to put them down lest they be stolen or lost, but there is no safe place for them, so I am left helplessly clutching the sticky, blood-soaked bones to my chest.
There is a famous Buddhist tale about a woman called Kisa Gotami. The story begins when her baby dies. Unable to accept his passing, she demands medicine from the doctor, who knows full well that nothing will cure the child. He sends her to the Buddha, who tells her to go out and find four or five white mustard seeds from a household where no one has suffered. Kisa Gotami goes door to door, explaining she needs medicine for her baby. Many people offer to give her mustard seeds, but every time she asks the householder if they have lost someone close to them, the answer is always yes. Eventually, she goes back to the Buddha.
“Have you brought me the mustard seeds?” he asks.
“No,” she tells him. “But now I understand there is no one who has not lost someone they love, and I have laid my child to rest.”
It would take me years to find a resting place in my mind for Dylan—and even longer to uncover some of the answers that would permit me to find one for myself.
CHAPTER 5
Premonition
Dylan, wherever you are, I love and miss you. I’m struggling in the chaos you left behind. If there is any way to absolve you of these actions, please point the way. Help us find answers that will give us peace and help us live with this life we have been thrust into. Help us.
—Journal entry, April 1999
On the evening of Dylan’s funeral on Saturday, we stripped the beds, packed up our pets, and left Ruth and Don’s basement apartment in order to return to our own home. Byron followed, in his own car.
We approached our house with trepidation. The media swarm had not abated. Journalists had surrounded the houses of our friends, bombarding them with business cards and messages. One blocked a friend’s driveway when she refused to speak to him, and then followed her as she ran errands until she threatened to call the police. More than once, a friend called to tell us in a whisper that a famous news anchor was sitting right there in their den.
I understood the world was united by a single question, which was to know why the shootings had taken place. I understood they expected us to provide an explanation, though we had none to give. All we wanted was to be left alone to mourn the loss of our son, as well as those he had killed and injured. Thankfully, our driveway was deserted as we approached that night; after a fruitless four-day vigil, the journalists had given up and gone.
Our homecoming brought no relief. I’d expected us to feel better, just by virtue of being home again and closer to Dylan’s things. Instead, as soon as the front door closed behind us, I felt more vulnerable than I had at Don and Ruth’s. Our large picture windows looked out over the spectacular Colorado scenery surrounding the house. We’d never covered them; privacy wasn’t an issue out where we were, and we hadn’t wanted to obscure the views. Now, all I could think was how unprotected those windows made me feel. Once the house was lit from the inside, anyone outside could see right in.
The lamp Tom had left burning in a front window while we were gone served as our only source of illumination as we moved through the deserted house. Tom found a flashlight, but, confusingly, our entire supply of batteries was gone from the kitchen drawer, so we resorted to the half-burned taper candles I’d saved in case of a power failure. Out of habit, I still kept the wooden matches on a top shelf, away from small children who had outgrown me years earlier, but the matches, like the batteries, were gone. The police had confiscated anything in the house that might provide evidence of bomb-making.
Rummaging around in the darkness, I found a set of old sheets, a few flannel blankets, and newspapers destined for the recycling bin. I groped around in drawers for thumbtacks and masking tape. We tackled the kitchen first, standing on chairs and using the light of the open refrigerator to hang a set of makeshift curtains. With candles lit from the gas stove, the three of us moved from room to room, using whatever scraps we could find to block sightlines into our house. Only when we were sealed in this patchwork cocoon did we finally turn on another light at the very back of the house.
After helping us to get settled, Byron went back to his own apartment. It was hard to let him go. I was sure his physical similarity to his brother and our distinctive last name would mean he’d never again have a normal life, and his grief and confusion frightened me far more than my own. I’d lost one son, and was terrified by the new possibility that I might lose another to despair.
I wonder, too, if I wasn’t clinging to Byron because the simple fact of his presence restored me to myself. Despite everything,
when I was with Byron, I was still someone’s mother.
Now alone, Tom and I wandered through the darkened rooms. Driving home, I’d imagined I was going to ground, like a hunted animal, but I felt more like one so badly injured that it crawls into a burrow to die alone. Our house no longer felt like a home. Covering the windows had changed the acoustics in the rooms, and the absence of sound in our suddenly childless home felt like an absence of oxygen. I kept thinking I heard the refrigerator door open, one of the many fantasies I would have over the years that Dylan was still with us, in body and soul.
From the ground floor we could see upstairs to the mezzanine, where furniture, books, and papers spilled out of Dylan’s room into the hallway. His mattress, stripped of sheets, leaned against the second-floor banister. The bed itself was in pieces next to it. As much as we had wanted to be close to his belongings while we were at Don and Ruth’s, neither of us had the strength to go near his room that night.
It hurt too much to remain conscious, so Tom and I went to bed. We kept the light on, because our bedroom overlooked the road and we were afraid the press or a vigilante would notice if we shut it off. When its glare made it impossible for us to sleep, we finally agreed we were being foolish.
• • •
It’s hard to imagine we slept at all that first night home, but the mind eventually shows mercy and shuts down. As it would be for years, waking was the cruelest moment of the day—the split second where it was possible to believe it had all been a nightmare, the worst dream a person could ever have.
Mother's Reckoning : Living in the Aftermath of Tragedy (9781101902769) Page 7
