“The tour is for me and my boys—not you,” she said.
Finally she’s leaving me in peace!
I said to myself as I fixed my gaze on the view I’d found so interesting just a few minutes before. A short time later, Mom returned with the boys and led us back to the car.
Just inside Utah, we came to the Bonneville Salt Flats. It was our first real stop where I’d really be able to roam around. Ironically, there was nothing there. The miles and miles of flat, tightly packed salt reminded me of the emptiness and solitude I had become so accustomed to: apparently strong, yet fragile—much like me at the time.
We went for a short trip to Old Salt-Air Park. Mom said it was one of the best amusement parks she could remember. She used to go there as a child with Gram and ride on the carousel and be treated to candy, she told the boys. It was almost as if she had found a pleasant memory, and it was one of the few times I recall her talking about her own mother without exploding in a fit of vulgarity. There weren’t many times that I recalled Mom talking about her childhood and saying something nice about it.
Then we made it out to the site where the rest stop at the Old Salt-Air Park once stood. It used to be a proud building, Mom said. Now it was nothing more than an unkempt tourist site. Like most others did, we stayed a few minutes, then drove on. It was almost comforting to see one of her childhood memories reduced to rubble. In my own twisted way, I took pride in the fact that she was disappointed.
The ride from there to the new house was only a few more hours. Now inside Salt Lake City, we were driving down one of the main streets, just behind Temple Square. A left turn, and we were headed up to the avenues and into an old cemetery. As Scott drove, Mom kept on about this large stone angel—a landmark that would lead her to the graves she was looking for. Scott was becoming frustrated, as she ranted on about this angel. Then I saw it. Near the top of one of the long avenues that dissected the cemetery and off to the left a bit, near the middle of the rows of graves, stood a large stone angel. We parked and made our way toward it, but then Mom veered off in a different direction, Scott and Keith trailing behind her as she talked.
Quietly I walked up to the still, silent statue and marveled at the detail and the beauty of it. I had no idea whose grave it marked or what it symbolized. But I knew that someone must have felt very special about the person buried there. I looked closer and read what was written on it: A child was buried beneath the stone. She had a simple, pretty name and had died at a young age. The words told of the love that one mother could have for her child.
I was frozen with wonder, and at the same time elated to see the grave in all its glory. The angel’s face was emotionless and her pose was restful, almost as if she was happy to be there, at that moment in time. And for that moment I, too, was glad to be there. I had seen something that I knew I would remember till the day I died. I felt a quiet and a calmness in my heart. It seemed in no way odd that I found comfort among the headstones and the graves.
As I stood in front of the angel, I looked into her face and saw there an expression of joy and peace. I must have stood there all of twenty minutes before I finally walked away. I looked over toward Mom and the boys, and it struck me that perhaps my idea of committing suicide was wrong. There was something about the angel that kept me thinking I had made a wrong decision.
I made my way back to the boys. Mom was telling them of family members who were buried in the cemetery. As I approached, she stopped short and ordered me back to the car. I felt somehow comfortable as I passed by the angel again, and rubbed my hand on the cold stone. As I did so, I whispered:
Thank you
.
W
HERE TO
N
OW?
One of the most important conversations I had with God occurred at the very moment I reached in my pocket for the gun. I wasn’t scared, I wasn’t afraid—I was simply lost.
Mom had led the neighbors and anyone else that would listen to believe that I was dangerous and mentally unstable. I was certainly losing the little stability I had. I was desperate. I learned later that some of the answers I had been looking for were in the silence I heard as I waited for God’s response to my pleas for help.
T
HE DRIVE TO SANDY CITY, UTAH,
from downtown Salt Lake was short. Within a few minutes we were driving down 13th East, looking for Mulberry Way. Not far into the subdistrict was our new home. We pulled into the driveway, and Scott immediately opened the two-car garage and the door to the backyard. He made it a point to let me know what the garage was for.
“Our cars,” he said.
“You don’t have a car,” I replied.
“Mom’s buying me one,” he smirked.
We walked through the garage and into the downstairs. The first room we passed on the left was our oldest brother Ross’s room, Keith told me. It was by far the largest room in the house, and Ross had been gone for well over a year now. He was in the services somewhere inside the U.S.—I didn’t know where. He’d made it out of the house of madness, and he wasn’t coming back. I was sure that the furthest thing from his mind was any thought of coming “home”—to the old house, the new house, to the old town or the new one; it was all the same—insane.
At the end of the hall was a half-open door, displaying old orange and red shag carpet. It screamed of the 1970s and reeked of urine and mold. I stuck my head into the room and looked around. Scott had come down the steps to where I was now standing. “That’s yours and this one is mine,” he informed me, pointing to the next bedroom.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, as I went in and closed the door behind me.
I opened the window that led directly to the backyard. Looking around, I saw that one of the baseboard panels was hanging off the wall. I’d discovered the perfect hiding place for the gun. I carefully lifted the panel, took the gun from my pocket, and placed it on the cement floor inside the small space, then covered it with the baseboard. Once I was sure I was alone, I felt for the top of the sock on my right foot and found the few hits of acid-laced postage stamps I had left.
I let the stamp dissolve on my tongue, waiting for the almost spiritual hallucinations I was more than used to on my frequent acid trips.
Before long we’d had the furniture delivered and installed in our rooms. I spent some time out of sight, in my room, organizing what little furniture of mine had made the trip. It didn’t take long—all I had was a twin bed and a coffee table. There was no closet to place what clothes I had, so I simply laid them out on the table and went upstairs to find Keith. Keith’s room was next to Mom’s, and about the same size as mine.
The next few days were spent unpacking and settling in. The time passed quickly. After dinner each evening I went to my room and lay on my bed thinking about what I was going to do.
I’m not sure I can actually go through with it,
I thought to myself one night as I drifted off to sleep.
At some point in the night I awoke—to silence. I was sure that I had heard something, though, and had been woken by the noise. Cringing, I expected the door to my room to open and to see Mom standing there. But it was the newness of the room and the unfamiliarity of the house that had startled me. Within a few short minutes I realized that there was no one there, and that I was safe.
Over the next few nights the same silence woke me over and over again. It was as if I was supposed to be awake and expecting something to happen. It wasn’t long before I realized what was breaking my sleep: it was the habit I had formed as a safeguard when Mom would come into my room at the house in Daly City.
In my old room I kept several large objects I had collected from the neighborhood trash. They were a safety mechanism—nothing more. Placed carefully in the center of the room, they allowed me time to escape from Mom. Each morning she would chase me around the house before school to punish me for what I was going to do wrong that day. The furniture and other heaped-up items allowed me a brief opportunity to gain time on Mom as she pursued me. Once I was close enough to the front door I could usually make it outside to the front yard, then run for school. Occasionally, I made it out of the house without a beating.
It was becoming annoying. Odd as it may sound, the silence was still waking me. Pondering what to do, I wandered upstairs and looked around the living room. It was at the front of the house and had a large window that looked directly onto the street. I felt about in the darkness, and found a wooden rocking chair off to the left. I sat down. I hadn’t noticed it before, and couldn’t place it in the old house. I just couldn’t recall Mom ever having had a rocking chair. Bewildered, I sat and wondered what else I hadn’t noticed. Across from the window, in front of the TV, was a recliner. Something else I hadn’t registered in the old house.
Sitting in the rocking chair, looking out the window, I resumed my ongoing conversation with God. Before I spoke, I cleared my thoughts and looked for that feeling of warmth and comfort.
Please, please, just take my life and bring me home. I’m afraid to do it myself. I just can’t stand my life any longer. I’m begging you!
It was as sincere and honest a prayer as I had ever offered. Sitting there awaiting a response, I actually felt that this time I would finally receive an answer, that I was about to leave my miserable life behind. A feeling came over me that I can only describe as calmness; I was comfortable with the thought that I was about to receive an answer. I sat in that chair for over an hour, waiting. As the time passed, I began to doubt those previous feelings of comfort and wondered if I was simply wasting my time again. I began an inventory of all the other times I’d believed that God was listening and that I was being heard—and I realized, again, that I was alone.
When I opened my eyes I saw that dawn was nearing, and I would have to return to my room. Thinking about the room, I could envision myself lying on the bed, stoned out of my mind. I felt like a vampire that roams the night and must return to the safety of darkness and the sanctity of drugs. I had to return to the darkness of my room before it was noticed that I wasn’t there.
I lay awake and wondered what I had to do to be acknowledged by God.
What am I not doing? Why am I alone in this?
I asked him.
Before long the sounds of the day were pressing in on me, and I was told to go and clean the garage and help sort it out. I dressed, then went to the garage, where I found stacks and stacks of boxes heaped all over the floor. Mom and Scott were already working on them. I’d hardly made my way up the steps when Scott announced: “You should be doing this, and
we
should be out buying my car.”
Without acknowledging him, I walked over near Mom and awaited my instructions. As I expected, I was asked to stack boxes along the far wall, the ones that Scott and Mom had already gone through as they determined what needed to be unpacked and what didn’t. I felt really angry when I saw Mom looking through a box that contained a few of the small items I’d had in my old room.
“Put this on the bottom of the stack—over there,” she commanded, promptly closing the box when she realized I’d seen what it contained, just those few mementoes from what seemed like a lifetime ago.
By dinnertime, the work was nearly done. All the while Scott and Mom kept up a conversation about the things they wanted to buy and the furniture they needed to replace.
At one point I joined in, and asked: “Will I be able to get those eyeglasses now?”
I had been after Mom for over a year to get a pair of glasses. I could barely see the blackboard—or anything at all farther away than ten feet—but as always, Mom shrugged it off as “unnecessary.”
This time she never even gave me the satisfaction of another refusal. They both just continued their conversation, not even acknowledging that I had interrupted them. I didn’t really expect her to allow me to have them, and truly I didn’t care; I knew I wasn’t going to be around much longer anyway.
Once the garage was fairly organized, we quit for the day and ordered out for pizza. After dinner I went back to my room and took an inventory of my thoughts, my feelings, and myself. Would I ever stop being miserable at simply being alive? Lying on my bed, I glanced over at the baseboard where I had hid the gun, and retrieved it. Placing it under my pillow I calmly said:
That’s it—I’m done
.
I was tired of being left hanging, tired of being who I was, and most of all just tired.
Shortly after dark I had awoken once again to the silence in my room. I reached my hand under the pillow and felt the cold of the gunmetal. I pulled out the gun, looked it over, released the magazine from the handle. Looking into the clip, I saw that there were several rounds. Then I placed the magazine back in the handle, released the slide back in place, loading one round in the chamber.
Confidently, I walked out of my room and up the steps to the living room. As I passed by, I saw that Scott and Mom were watching TV. Moving out onto the deck just off the kitchen, I noticed the small bench surrounding the tree in the center of the backyard, and sat down on it.
Well, I guess this is as good a place as any,
I thought.
Reaching my hand over my pants pocket, I felt the metal and wondered:
What will they do when they hear the shot? Will they even look in the backyard to see what it is?
Who cares!
I said to myself.
Was I really about to remove the gun from my pocket? I’d resolved that once I did that, I’d use it as quickly as possible.
I didn’t want to think about it or wonder about it anymore. I just wanted to be able to actually do it. I closed my eyes—and froze. For a moment I wanted to hold on and see if this last chance at being heard by God might come to something. Secretly, I wanted God to send an angel down to stop me—
some
kind of intervention, anything. I kept my eyes closed and listened to the silence that filled the backyard.