Reaching for Beautiful: A Memoir of Loving and Losing a Wild Child

one

It is a chilly Sunday morning in January. I’m drawn down to the living room by the warmth of the fire. I settle into the loveseat facing the fireplace, wrap a blanket around my shoulders, and take a sip of my Starbucks. Christmas is behind us, but I haven’t yet taken down our decorations, wanting the kids to enjoy them while they are home. I look over at our five stockings lying empty on the bench by the hearth and study each one closely. My mother’s needlework of a snowman for my baby William, 16, who’s sound asleep in his room, of a pink pile of presents for my only girl Caroline, 19, currently visiting her college boyfriend in St. Louis, and of a Santa for my firstborn Christopher, 21, who’s home from college and off at his friend Simon’s lake house.

I pick up Chris’s stocking, admiring Grammy’s stitchery. Santa is making a list and checking it twice. I chuckle to myself, Naughty or nice? and think about how, with Chris, it’s a toss-up and a little bit of both! I rub my fingers along the black velvet backing and notice that our Christmas tree, laden with too many ornaments, has begun to sag.

The tree is looking less fresh than it did a week ago. I’m going to have to take it down before it collapses. Soon its lonely skeleton will have to be tossed to the curb. My favorite ornaments take me down memory lane—the hand-made cut-out snowflakes and glitter-covered glass balls look a little more faded with each passing year, but I cherish each one and hope they last forever. I step over to the corner of the room to sweep my hand across the wood floor underneath the tree, collecting sharp prickles of pine needles in my palm. I squeeze them and inhale what little of their scent remains.

My husband’s phone rings, and I hear him answer from the kitchen.

"What do you mean missing? Who is this? Joe’s loud voice interrupts the quiet. My heart begins to pound from inside my ears. I can’t see Joe from the living room, but I’m on alert. They probably just ended up at some girl’s house near the lake, he tells the person on the line. But then I hear him say, as if in disbelief, Wait, how many kids are missing? He pauses. Four boys took out a canoe? I’m on my way." My heart pounds louder.

I race to the kitchen, where I watch Joe slurp a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. I’m incredulous. Why isn’t he already out the door? He sets the bowl down, heads to grab his coat, and tells me, Simon’s dad called to tell me Chris and three other boys took a canoe out last night. They left their phones in the boathouse. I can’t imagine what those knuckleheads got up to. I’m going to head up and find out.

Joe has come to Christopher’s rescue so many times. I guess he thinks this time is like all the others—that there will be an explanation for this. Maybe the kids canoed across the lake to a nearby bar and passed out somewhere. Who knows. With Chris, anything is possible. Joe hurries out the door to take the hour drive up north to Wisconsin from Illinois, reassuring me that he’ll track them down. Chris went up yesterday to spend the night, and we’re anticipating him home this afternoon. A bunch of guys were gathering at Simon’s lake house on Lake Beulah. My brother Rick has a little summer house there, too, but he rarely gets up to it from Chicago.

I feel unsteady and start to pace. I wander from room to room without seeing. Uneasiness weakens me. I’m faint and can’t stop wringing my hands. I rapidly roll my thumb in circles against one of my gold rings while trying to think. I’m clenching my teeth and have stopped breathing.

I’m as afraid as I have ever been.

Because I know.

I can’t remember ever not being afraid. I can trace my fear back to childhood, when my dad’s presence could set alarms in my highly sensitive nervous system. He walks through the side kitchen door after work, heads straight to the liquor cabinet, and reaches for a bottle. He can’t see me, but I can see him through the banister slats as I peer down from the top of our staircase. I watch him pour brown liquid into a crystal glass and gulp it down before I tiptoe back to my room and close my bedroom door.

Back in my room, painted robin’s egg blue, I open my closet and my brother Charlie, two years younger than me, jumps out—all gangly arms and legs.

I scream, Dad, Charlie jumped out of my closet again! Tell him to stop scaring me! I know my mom is busy cleaning up in the kitchen. I wait for my dad, then call out, Dad, can you help me?

When he gets upstairs, I point to where, beneath my hanging clothes, it’s possible there could be someone else hiding. Instead of reassuring me that it’s just my vivid imagination getting the best of me again, he steps into the back of my closet, pulls my clothes aside, and proclaims, Sal, the only thing in here is a fruit witch, but she won’t hurt you. He cackles as I jump backward. He continues to laugh as he leaves my room.

I close the door behind him, try to get ready for bed, and hope that the green-faced fruit witch lurking in the dark corner of my closet will leave me alone.

Once I became a mom, the seedlings of fear that sprouted in my childhood began to reappear. I was feeding Christopher’s new baby sister when I realized it had become too quiet. I turned the house upside down, but Chris was nowhere to be found. I plopped Caroline in the car seat and circled our suburban neighborhood in our minivan, calling his name out the window and asking neighbors to keep an eye out for him. I called the police and tearfully described the blue striped T-shirt and denim shorts he was wearing, his sandy blonde hair, and his big cheeks. My eyes darted back and forth as I gripped the steering wheel. I drove slowly around the block and imagined what it would be like to tell my husband that I’d lost our son.

I couldn’t find him anywhere. Back home, I stood outside the car, motionless on the driveway, as if my feet were sinking into the concrete while waiting for the police to arrive. Without a word, neighbors gathered, sensing my alarm. I kept my eyes peeled in the distance.

Suddenly Chris came running around the corner with another little boy and a tall woman hurrying them along, compassionately shaking her head. I ran to him, pulled him against my chest, and squeezed him so hard he groaned. Surprise widened his eyes as he studied me blinking away my tears.

Mommy, Mommy, I go see Mowrlie! He stumbled over his words in his excitement to tell me where he’d been. Our neighbor’s black Lab had caught Chris’s eye. He had followed the dog around the block and into their backyard to play. Chris was always distracted by whatever grabbed his interest—tractors, planes, anything that moved—and wanted the freedom to go after it.

I try to sit down on the floor, but my heart is racing, so I resume pacing. Then it hits me. Maybe Chris will turn up like he did as a little boy. Maybe he and his friends took the canoe out to my brother’s place on the other side of the lake. Maybe they found a way to get in and then spent the night there. He’d been there before and thought it was cool that his friend had a place not far from his uncle’s.

I’m walking back and forth, talking to myself, not knowing what to do, when William comes upstairs and immediately stops in his tracks.

Bugs, Dad went up to Wisconsin. Your brother took a canoe out with some friends last night and we don’t know where he is. Can you call Uncle Rick and see if, by any chance, Chris ended up there? I’m too frantic … pull out my phone, access Rick’s contact info, and hand it over to William. I know this is a stab-in-the-dark attempt to make sense of a senseless situation. Rick doesn’t answer, so William leaves a message and then stays close as I call Joe. Joe suggests mentioning it to Simon’s dad, too, and gives me his number. He’s still en route to the lake, nearing the border of Illinois and Wisconsin.

I reach out to Simon’s dad and leave a message. Hi, it just occurred to me that the boys could have ended up at my brother’s. He has a lake house across the lake from you. Just thought you should know. Joe told me you’re in touch with your son and everyone who’s looking. Please, keep us posted.

William sits next to me on the loveseat, where I try to catch my breath. I am exhaling in short bursts, and I start to feel faint. Tears begin to fall even though I don’t want my youngest to see me like this.

Mom, it’s going to be all right, he says as he pats me gently on the shoulder. Don’t worry, Mom, he pleads. It’s okay. He is scared, too, so I try to calm down for his sake.

You’re right, sweetie. I’m just freaking out. Don’t you worry either. It isn’t like me to get hysterical. Emotional, yes, but not breathless. My heart is desperate with its knowing, but I berate myself for not having faith that my beloved boy is all right.

Rick calls back. Sal, I just checked. No one has been to my house. Are you sure there isn’t anywhere else he could have gone?

My heart drops deeper in my chest. I can’t speak. The possibility that Chris is safe, that momentary sliver of hope that grants me all I’ve ever wanted, slips away. Frightened and on autopilot, my words fall flat. I’m faking it. I’m sure there’s some explanation, Rick. I’ll keep you posted.

Yeah Sal, let me know.

I can’t get off the phone fast enough. Rick knows me as well as I know myself. He and I have always had a sixth sense when it comes to each other.

William stands by my side, looking helpless as I walk in circles. I am retreating into myself, so he heads back down to his room. Everything gets fuzzy. My thoughts race. Chris wouldn’t have hesitated to go on an adventure. If the other kids wanted to go out on a canoe in winter, he would have been all-in. Ohhhhh sweetheart. Where are you?

Joe calls, and I pick up before the first ring even comes through. Do you have Peter’s mom’s number? We can’t get ahold of Peter’s parents. Simon’s dad isn’t calling me back.

He hasn’t returned my call, and now he isn’t returning Joe’s. He must know something.

He tells me he’s getting another call and puts me on hold.

When he clicks back over, his voice is softer than usual.

Honey, that was Simon’s uncle. They found an overturned canoe.

My heart sinks as unbearable images of a canoe tipping into the ice and cold take hold.

"The other parents haven’t even been contacted. What the hell is going on?" Joe says to himself before he hangs up. But I’m not listening.

I fall to the floor, get on my knees, and beg, GOD, TAKE ME INSTEAD! PLEASE GOD. My shaking hands reach up to a God I rarely ask for anything. I plead, just let him be okay. I will give my life for his. It’s been a good life. I’m ready. Take me. I will do anything for him to be safe. PLEEASSE!

Minutes pass like hours as I wait for Joe to get to Wisconsin and let me know that our son is all right. Fear screams in my chest. Rick called my brother Charlie, who lives in the next town, and told him what’s happening because the next thing I know, Char runs through the door and is standing at my side. I adore my brother and am reassured by his presence, but the fact that he has arrived here so quickly isn’t a good sign. I look up at him from the floor, where I’m still kneeling as Joe calls again. None of them made it, Sal. I hear only the words He’s gone before my world explodes and my heart shatters.

Visions of my beautiful child and his friends falling from the canoe into an icy-cold lake consume me, and there is nothing but agony and torture. I want to turn back time, save him, go instead. I’m terrified. No longer in my body, thrust into darkness, I cry out. Then I mumble to Joe that I am sorry and begin to hyperventilate. NOOOOOOOOO, NOOOOO! I rebel. I’m ranting as my sister-in-law Carolyn arrives. She sits beside me as my brother rubs my back. But I am not here. I’m floating into pitch blackness.

I can’t sleep. When I finally succumb, I dreamily relive a moment in time.

I’m in rolled-up jean shorts and a T-shirt, with long, straight blonde hair hanging down my back. My little girl legs and bare feet dangle over a worn seat of wood, tanned arms reach up to the twisted ropes attached to a strong tree. I slip closer and feel the weight of my body held beneath an outstretched branch. I tighten my grip, extend my toes from just above the water, reaching for the deep blue sky, and pull my heels back from bright fluffy clouds to the lake. The afternoon sun reflects in ripples of light across the water. Back and forth, launching higher and higher, enveloped in pure peace, I swing. Letting go with each bend of my knees. A soft breeze whispers across my face as I fly free.

I open one eye and look at my hands. They aren’t holding tightly to the ropes of a tree swing. They’re clutching the corners of my pillowcase. I’m no longer free. Pain assaults my shoulder blades. My middle-aged hips stick to the mattress. I am gradually waking but can’t move.

There is a weight on my sternum, like the heel of a hand pushing my chest beneath my ribs. When did this dark shadow enter my room? How could I have missed its lurking, waiting to pounce against my bones?

My breath quickens in repeated exhales, then stops altogether as I try to get my bearings. My chest tightens. I slowly roll into a fetal position.

Where are you? Where have you gone?

Turn off the dawning.

Wrap me back up in my dreams.

Do not unlock the daylight. Keep me from falling.

Flung from my swing, I tumble down a cliff onto rocks that pierce my skin. My wounds are open and bloody and covered in dust. When I finally land fully awake, I am sobbing.

Nooooo God. Please. No. No. Not my son, so very much alive.

Not my beautiful boy, my beloved child.

You. Cannot. Have. Died.

two

I’m plunged into remembering. Every cell of my body feels eviscerated and weak. The dread makes it hard to lift my head from my pillow. I drag myself from bed, smothered in grief, and head downstairs to the loveseat across from the fire. I hate the cold and so did my baby. I wrap a soft blanket around my shoulders. I study the ice clinging to the barren trees outside the living room window. I try to keep the haunted images of my child dying at bay as I stare at the trees’ stark black arms reaching across the gray winter sky. They seem to be shaking their fists at God.

Why?

My sweet, summer-loving boy is gone. I want to go too. If I’m stuck here in my worst nightmare, I’m going to stay right here by the fire. If I refuse to inhale the frosty air that lies outside my door threatening that bad things can happen, maybe yesterday won’t be real.

William must be down in his room, Caroline is on a train coming home from St. Louis, and my mom and stepdad are driving down from Wisconsin. I turn to see the door swing wide open, and Chris’s dear friend Avery runs into my arms. She and her mom have walked over from down the block. I haven’t seen her for a little while, so I take in the pint-sized twenty-one-year-old college girl who’s now sitting in my lap. It feels good to me to gently brush her hair from her face and hug her as we cry together. I’m in shock, but I don’t realize it for what it is yet. I’d rather comfort her without having to think about why she’s here.

Some of the first to stop by to visit are other mothers in my community who’ve lost children of their own. Two friends walk in—one lost her son only a short time ago. She enters poised and gives me a quick hug, then the two of them walk back outside and return, tugging a packed cooler between them. She suggests placing a notepad outside the door in case I decide to pace myself with visitors and not answer. She knows that our community will show up in droves, particularly as the news of this tragedy has traveled quickly. I look up at her wizened eyes as tears flow from mine, marveling at her ability to be alive.

Other friends stop in, including a couple who used to be our next-door neighbors. Their son, James, and Chris are the same age. I picture James as a lion and Chris as a bunny for their first Halloween. I see them dancing in their smocked sunsuits on our deck. When Cindy runs toward me sobbing, it scares me. She is the friend who, when I was overwhelmed by our little boys running circles around us, remained unfazed. She is always stoic and rock solid. It must mean this is real, but it can’t be. Where have you gone? As more people drop by and my mom, who’s just appeared, begins to shelve casseroles in the fridge and put flowers into vases, I reply to texts and try as hard as I can to respond graciously to every condolence. This is the only way I know how to be tethered to the earth even though I’ve entered an abyss.

I want to die. How can I possibly go on living in a world without my son in it? So very much alive, so much excitement for everything he did. My thrill-seeking, sweet boy. How will I survive? Nothing feels the same. I don’t know who I am, where I am, where he is. All I can think about is how I’d do anything, give anything, to see him, touch him, hug him again. I scramble for any way to bring him closer, saving every photo that’s posted on social media I haven’t seen before. I study each one and obsessively ask his friends to send me what they have. A Facebook friend reaches out and suggests I begin writing about my grief. I like to write, even though I’ve never taken the time to journal, so her idea appeals to me. I take out my phone and begin texting him as if he were here, and it gives me relief.

My world has gone from color to black and white. I can’t ever lay my eyes on you again. I’m lost without you calling me Momma. I’m trying to bear it with grace, but I am bereft of innocence, of meaning, of you.…

I have always been driven by my feelings. Now, my feelings are all I am. I hope writing can become a way to express my yearning. I have never known such an ache. I want to stay connected to my boy. I don’t feel him with me, he is out of reach, so I muster faith and focus on all the love that is overflowing from my heart for him. I try to talk to him and hope he hears me.

I got sober a week after I turned twenty-five. I was wild and free-spirited, and my foray into drugs had frightened me enough that I’d landed at an outpatient treatment center for alcoholism. The professionals who assessed me surprised me by insisting I needed their program. When I downplayed how much I drank and explained that I was just there to give up the drugs, they advised that my whole life would need to change—and somehow it did.

Without my high school friends Stacey and Tom, I would never have imagined I’d find myself at a sober dance on a Friday night. They pulled me along. There we were in a church gym at the edge of the city. Still baffled that it was possible to have fun without