August 16, 2005                                                                                                                                            

Three years ago today, Rick ended his life. I’d like to tell you what happened.                                     

These words are hard to write, for myriad reasons. One, I still don’t really believe that Rick isn’t coming home. Two, I still get so angry that I can’t breathe… and anger isn’t going to change anything. Three, he didn’t have to die. He should still be here. The list could go on and on… but I am going to write the words, tell his story. I owe him that.

It’s hard to know where to begin. At the beginning makes the most sense, but then this would be a book. I guess I have to begin close to the end.

Rick and Elizabeth were to be married September 7. On August 8, she broke their engagement, mainly because he didn’t come to the surprise dinner she had planned for his birthday (he had asked to spend the day alone). Rick was living in Georgia, close to his father. He worked for the “church” that his father attended.

“Mom, I’m not good enough.” “I beg your pardon??” “I’m not good enough.” “Says who??” “Preacher. Preacher said that I’m not a good enough Christian, that God made Elizabeth break our engagement because I’m not good enough.” It was August 9. We spent a long time on the phone that day. I told him that no one could judge his relationship with Mr. God except Mr. God, and himself. I got him to laugh a couple of times. Elizabeth had gone to Washington. We talked a lot, about what he should do, about how he felt, about his brother. He had spoken with her on the phone. She told him that she loved him.

As the days passed, there were more calls. He finally decided to go to Washington, speak to Elizabeth, try to work things out. He said that, if it didn’t work, he would come home (our home), grab his bootstraps and pull, and get on with life. It was August 14. He sounded better than he had in days. He had told me, in a earlier conversation, not to worry about him. He said, “Don’t worry, Mom. I won’t do anything stupid.”

I had wanted to simply go get him, and bring him home, from the beginning. He very gently pointed out that he was 28 years old, capable of handling things on his own. Still, I had a nagging urge to just go get him. I wish I had listened to my inner voice.

August 15, he called again. He said that “Preacher won’t let me go.” I asked what he meant; he said that Preacher had “forbidden” him to go to Washington. When I questioned him further, he said that “Preacher has to watch his flock. He won’t let me go. Dad and MamaPat said I can’t go, either.” I told him, in my usual subtle way (he’s rolling his eyes at that! If I’m anything, it’s blunt!) that he was being fed a crock of ****, he was a grown man, and needed no one’s permission to do anything. I told him that, as long as what he wanted to do wasn’t illegal, *no one* could tell him no. When we hung up, his plan was to get on the plane the next day, and go.

When I got home from work on Friday (the 16^th), there was a message waiting for me. He didn’t call my cell. He didn’t call Tommy’s cell. He didn’t call either of us at work. He left a message at home, knowing that I would believe him, knowing that, by the time I began to worry, it would be too late.

“Mom, I’m coming home. See you soon. I love you.” Looking back, I wonder why I believed him. I wonder why I didn’t listen to my instincts, and go get him when I could have. So many “I wonder….’s.

When he didn’t come home Friday night, we started to worry. We tried all day Saturday to reach Rick, or his “father”, to see where he was, if he was okay. My soul knew then that he was gone, although I still, crazy as it is, hold on to the hope that I’m wrong.

Sunday, we finally reached his “father”. He had no idea where Rick was; in fact he sounded unconcerned. We asked if he had filed a missing person’s report. He said that he had tried, but couldn’t, since Rick was an adult. (The Sheriff later told us that they would have begun looking for Rick Friday if they had been informed…. His “father” had never called anyone.)

Monday afternoon, we received the call that they had found his car, parked on a bluff overlooking the Flint River. His “father” moved his car before the Sheriff could check it… I still don’t know why. They began looking for him almost immediately.

The area where he left is car is adjacent to a hunting preserve. There are over 500 acres of woods, going down the mountain to the river. There is also a state park, filled with woods. Tommy and I started looking for him at first light on Tuesday.

When I wasn’t looking for my son, I was tucked in the back of our SUV, waiting. That’s the place that I learned all that I know about what happened on Friday the 16^th. No one knew I was there. We were parked right next to command central for the search. I had the windows down and the back open. I have a Mom’s ears… I can hear almost anything.

After Rick called us on Friday, he told his “father”, his step-”mother”, “Preacher”, the youth “minister”, and several other people that he was going to kill himself. They told him that they would pray for him. They told my son that, if God wanted him to live, he would. They told him that he needed to trust God more. They told him that, if he didn’t, God would forsake him, and let him die. They didn’t call me. They didn’t try to get help for a distraught young man, one whose twin brother had died by suicide. They told him he wasn’t good enough. “Preacher” told him that he was “cursed”. I’m not certain by whom; Rick’s note was simply a sympathy card with the words, “The curse ends with me.”.

There was much discussion among the officers about the “church” and “minister”. I learned many things that I‘d rather not know. When they eventually discovered that I had heard them, they were careful to go far away to talk.

5 days after he disappeared, his former fiancée told the sheriff that Rick had told her that he was going to kill himself, and his body would never be found. I’m not sure why she didn’t tell them when they contacted her on Monday to see if she had heard from him. I don’t know why she didn’t call me, to tell me he was in danger.

He took steps to *not* be found. He shaved his head, so the blazing red hair wouldn’t be a beacon in the green. He parked his car, then crossed the road, hiked down the mountain through the hunting preserve, and lay in a secluded spot by the river, all in a raging thunderstorm. His scent was so thoroughly erased that the dogs couldn’t find him (not to mention that his car, and any clues it might have contained, had been contaminated by his “father”.)

People from Georgia, Alabama and Tennessee looked for my son. It was so very hot and humid. People suffered from heat exhaustion, spider bites, snake bites, and sadness. They wanted there to be a good end to the search, but feared that there wouldn’t. The sheriff was kind, but truthful. He told me that there was a definite possibility that they would walk within feet of Rick’s body and never see it, because the woods were so dense. He was right. When Rick’s body was eventually recovered, the searchers had passed right by it.

I don’t know how long it took him to navigate those woods in a storm. I don’t know how long it took for Mr. God to reach down and gently carry him home after he took those pills and drank that wine. I often wonder, did my son lie there, thinking that Mr. God didn’t care enough to prevent his death? Did he think that no one cared? I would have moved Heaven and Earth to save him. I *know* that he knew that; that is why he told me that he was coming home. I wish I hadn’t believed him, but I did. Because of that, he died.

So there it is, Rick’s story, all in one place, one I wish I didn’t have to tell. I try not to be bitter. I try not to speak badly of my son’s “father”. I wouldn’t speak badly of him to them when they were alive; I try to honor the fact that they loved him. I’ve simply told you what I overheard tucked in the back of an SUV on a hot mountaintop in Georgia.

Please, remember that words are very powerful things. What seems innocuous can cause irreparable harm.

Rick, my little Roo, I love you. I miss you. I would have done anything to save you. Forgive me, please, for not coming to get you. Of all the mistakes I made in your short life, that one is the worst. I’m cleaning out the pond, little love. I’ll leave those rocks from that bloody river right where you put them. I’m going to plant a butterfly garden there. It will be beautiful, like you. I know that you aren’t coming home….at least my brain does. Maybe it’s because they wouldn’t let me see you, my disbelief that you’re really not living on Earth anymore. But, just in case I’m wrong, I won’t change the phone number. Maybe, someday, another message will be there. “I’m coming home, Mom. I love you.”

Run with the wind, my love. Run with the wind.