I finally got out of the chair with my hair still wet, as I always did. As I went to pay, I remembered my cash supply was limited: the Browns had lent us some money to walk around with so we wouldn’t have to reveal our identity through checks or credit cards, but I was loath to spend any of it before I knew when we’d next be able to get to the bank. So I asked if my hairdresser would allow me to mail her a check instead of paying cash as I usually did.
The subsequent silence startled me; I sensed mistrust in her hesitation. Then she summoned her courage and explained it was the salon’s policy to request payment at the time of service. A flush of shame crawled up my throat as I fumbled with the bills and paid her. I was not the person she knew before the tragedy; I was the mother of a criminal now. Dylan’s actions had changed who I was to others, as well as to myself.
Still preoccupied by my dwindling money supply, I was caught off guard when my hairdresser asked if it was okay to tell people she’d seen me. I flashed on that other mother sitting in the salon chair, and the fleeting moment of connection I’d felt with her over the simple grooming ritual we’d shared. Foolishly, I told the hairdresser it was okay to talk about my visit. Perhaps she would be able to create a bridge between me and the community ripped apart by my son.
Those were still early days, and it frankly did not occur to me that she would talk to the press. She gave an interview that night. It was a generous gesture, an attempt to help us: she described my shock and grief, my insistence that we hadn’t known anything about what had been planned. But the story took off, and suddenly I was Marie Antoinette, getting in some self-indulgent “me time” while parents grieved over children lying dead in the school. The story got national attention, and I got hate mail from as far away as Texas.
This narrative fed into a story the media had already been cultivating: that Dylan was a spoiled brat raised by negligent, self-serving parents. News reports focused on Dylan’s BMW—never mind that Tom had picked it up for $400, vandalized and virtually undrivable, so he and Dylan could fix it up together. Aerial shots of our house made it look like a massive compound but didn’t mention it had been a handyman’s special with a mouse problem we’d gotten for a song because of its neglected condition.
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.
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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.
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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.