He stood up and said, “Yeah, I’m just tired and have a lot of homework to do. I’m going up to my room to get it done so I can get to bed a little early.”
“All right,” I said. “You want me to make you something to eat?” He was also very thin in those last months. He ate well at home, but I wondered if he was getting enough when he wasn’t there, and would often offer to make him French toast or an omelet between meals.
He shook his head and headed upstairs. I returned to tidying the kitchen, trusting in the kid I’d raised, satisfied he knew he could tell me whatever was on his mind, and confident that he would do so in his own good time.
It’s not that I didn’t know that something was wrong, but I had no idea it was a life-and-death situation. I was just worried Dylan was unhappy.
There isn’t a day since the tragedy that I haven’t relived that interaction, that I don’t see myself following him up the stairs. A faraway look—I have heard suicidologist Thomas Joiner refer to it as “the thousand-yard stare”—is a warning sign for imminent suicide, and one often missed. Hundreds of times I’ve imagined myself demanding, cajoling, wheedling, bribing Dylan: Tell me what’s going on with you. Tell me what it feels like. Tell me what you need. Tell me how I can help. I’ve even imagined barricading myself in his room, refusing to leave until he tells me what he’s thinking. Each one of these fantasies ends with me taking him into my arms, knowing exactly what to say and how to get him the help he needs.
? ? ?
For my fiftieth birthday, I arranged to meet a friend for a drink after work. I told Tom not to worry if I was late; I suspected my friend might be planning a get-together. Indeed, I found a dozen close friends and coworkers at the restaurant—plus Tom, who’d organized the party. The fact that he’d done such a kind thing warmed me.
As I settled in for a conversation with my friends, Tom leaned over and warned me not to fill up on snacks. “We’re going out for dinner,” he whispered.
Dylan and Byron were waiting for us at home, dressed up and ready to go. Byron presented me with a houseplant, and Dylan gave me a CD. Ruth and Don met us at the restaurant—yet another surprise. I was as happy that night as I can remember being, completely oblivious to the terrible disaster looming on the horizon.
Don took pictures as we were leaving the restaurant. Dylan had been quiet all evening, visibly self-conscious and uncomfortable as he always was in social situations, but polite—and, as usual, happy to have a good meal. In the pictures, which I saw for the first time only after his death, he looks annoyed.
Early the next morning, the three of us set off for Arizona. Although I’d slept barely a few hours, I was looking forward to spending time with Tom and Dylan. Tom relinquished the wheel to Dylan on the second day; we hoped to use the trip to help improve his highway skills. The first few hours were a trial. With his crooked glasses balanced on his nose, and his baseball cap turned backwards, Dylan tilted the seat back in a semi-reclining position and drove with only the index finger of his left hand touching the wheel. I sat in the backseat, clutching the door handle and praying silently until I finally asked him to slow down. Tom tried to keep both of us calm, though I noticed he did not need his usual reminder to fasten his seat belt.
Little by little, Dylan’s driving improved and he ended up driving for several hours. Eventually I was able to fall asleep, and when I woke up, Dylan was driving like a pro. He seemed pleased when I complimented him, though he was probably just happy I’d stopped nagging. He listened to techno CDs through earphones until Tom asked if he’d play something for us. Tom preferred jazz and I usually chose classical, so we were both surprised by how much we liked what he played. All of us were excited to see Colorado’s mountains give way to the desert vegetation. When Tom took the wheel, Dylan grabbed the camera so he could take pictures out of the car window, and said again how much he was looking forward to going to school in the desert.
Our tour was successful, and by the end Dylan had made up his mind: he wanted to go to the University of Arizona. We could skip the other school on our itinerary and head for home. We stopped for gas and asked Dylan to pose next to a saguaro more than three times his height. He looks remote and unkempt in the photo, developed after his death, standing with his arms uncomfortably out from his sides; to me, now, they look poised over invisible guns. At our hotel, Dylan watched a movie in his room while Tom and I made an early night of it.
The next morning, as we were all getting ready to join civilization at the continental breakfast, Dylan pulled his old baseball cap, one of his favorite possessions, over his long hair. We’d made the cap together: he’d carefully snipped the “B” (for Boston Red Sox) off another hat grown too shabby to wear, and I’d sewn the letter to the back of a new hat, so he could wear it backwards and still display the logo. It turned out remarkably well, and he never wanted to be without it.
Tom stepped in with his 1950s dress code standards and asked Dylan not to wear the hat to the hotel’s breakfast buffet. Dylan argued that we were on vacation, and it couldn’t possibly make a difference to anyone if he wore the hat. I shot Tom a “don’t sweat the small stuff” look, but didn’t want to sabotage his authority, so I gathered up a suitcase.
“I’ll go down to the car and wait while you two work this out.”
I’d forgotten the car key, though, so I leaned against the hood in the cold morning air, remembering how Tom would insist the boys tuck in their shirts and polish their shoes for church while the minister’s own kids wore T-shirts and jeans. I was angry at him for harping on the hat. I guess I still am.
Eventually, Dylan came down to the car alone, his head bare. I wanted to say I agreed with him, and that it was okay with me if he wore the hat, but I did not. I only said, “I’m sorry the morning started out like this. I see you decided not to wear the hat.” Dylan sounded tired but determined to brush it off. “It’s not worth fighting about; it’s just not a big deal.”
I was frankly surprised. I’d expected a little more sputtering and complaining from a seventeen-year-old. “Wow, Dyl. I’m impressed,” I said, mistaking his willingness to withdraw from the conflict for maturity. I praised him for controlling his anger but I wish now he had stomped and screamed, giving me a glimpse of the rage burning inside him. Now I wonder if he had stopped caring about anything at all.
There was one more odd incident on our way home, which at the time Tom and I chalked up to Dylan’s desire to get back to his friends. The three of us stopped at a packed McDonald’s in Pueblo for a quick bite. A large group of teenagers had taken over a couple of tables against the wall. We’d just unwrapped our sandwiches when Dylan leaned forward, hardly moving his lips, and said urgently, “We have to go. Those kids are laughing at me.” I looked over. The teenagers were hooting and hollering and having a great time, and none of them was paying the slightest bit of attention to us.
“Relax, Dyl. Nobody’s looking at you,” I said. Besides, if a person didn’t want to be noticed, why wear a floor-length leather coat? But Dylan grew more insistent, casting quick, paranoid glances over his shoulder at the oblivious kids. He was so uncomfortable that we bolted our burgers and hustled out of there; the teenagers didn’t even look up at us as we left. The rest of the ride home was uneventful.