We buried him the next day with Gram and the rest of the Quinn family, Mom to be buried beside him at her own passing. Aunt Clara determined he should be buried in the same cemetery as the LeBeau’s, where his family rested. His body lay, safely nestled with the Quinns, the people who were more a family to him than his own.
His parents misused him in life, as a child, helped mold him into the bitter soul he became. Why on earth would he want his final resting place with them? I couldn’t decide who I was most angry with at the moment, him or them. Maybe someone should have slapped them around, called them names, and told them how worthless and unloved they were.
Maybe someone did. Maybe that’s why they did those things to him. Family tradition? I know we’re not supposed to talk or think ill of the dead. But I wanted to shake them, rattle their coffins until their souls stirred, awakened and distressed, the way my father lived most of his life, thanks to his childhood.
My dad took a twelve-gauge shotgun and blew a hole in his chest, where his heart used to be. Were we supposed to accept that, understand and live with that for the rest of our lives? How did we not see it coming? How did we miss the signs? Were we so delusional, hoping and believing he would get better, we completely missed the fact he was capable of killing himself? It seemed like he was coming around.
My mind went back to the conversation I had with him shortly after Mom left, when he said one day he would get up the nerve to end it all. Was that my warning? Was there something I could have done? There had to be.
He planned it out to a tee. It was February and freezing cold. He put on a full bodied snowmobile suit, with his boots and gloves, went to the woodshed, propped the shotgun up on a neatly stacked pile of wood, stood in front of it, and tipped the trigger with his finger. The box of shells from which he loaded the gun, brand new, only one shell missing, with the packaging perfectly intact, was stowed away neatly in its place in the closet. He literally planned the whole thing.
It wasn’t as if it happened in some fit of anger, guilt, remorse, or something, where he just grabbed it up and blew his heart out, spontaneously, in the moment. He actually planned it out, step by step. How morbid is that? How heartbreaking is that? To think he went through it alone, planning his own death, by himself.
The police investigation verified it a suicide, and the coroner’s report, thankfully, led us to believe he died instantly upon impact, as physically painless as possible. But what must he have gone through mentally, psychologically, standing in front of a shotgun, by himself, preparing to pull the trigger? I can’t even imagine. Was he mad, sad, cold, crying, calm, or terrified? What the hell must have gone through his mind?
Nobody should die alone. Everybody should have someone as they depart from the earth, someone who loved them, someone to hold their hand. Shouldn’t they?
My father died alone. He left nothing, no explanation, no letter, nothing. I searched the place up and down, inside and out, the house, the barn, the woodshed, and the vehicles, everywhere, sure I would find something, a letter, a sticky-note, anything with some commentary, some final goodbyes. He left nothing. Did we mean that little to him, nothing? Was that the significance of the lack of a suicide note?
He had the forethought to go to the woodshed to kill himself, so as not to leave a mess in the house. He bundled up, dressing heavily to absorb the majority of the blood he would lose upon impact. He even left a list on the calendar of dates he paid the utility bills and the taxes, and what future dates they were due. He left a note on the steering wheel of the truck, stating it needed new spark plugs and the date he last changed the oil, but he didn’t have the time to leave a suicide note? No I love you’s. No I hate you’s. No goodbyes, nothing.
Kat asked me why I thought he did it, a question with endless theories. I guess he could have done it to get even, to have the last word, to manipulate and hurt us, even in death. Maybe he did it because he truly believed he couldn’t live without Mom, or because he couldn’t live with himself anymore. It would make sense he died somewhat a martyr, ending his own life to set us all free, knowing he couldn’t change, or wouldn’t.
Some theorize people who commit suicide are mentally unstable, crazy. I chose to believe it was a choice, maybe irrational, maybe not, but a choice. It sounds strange, doesn’t it? A choice would be a decision, maybe about what you’re having for dinner, not taking a shotgun and blowing a hole through your own chest, right?
But if I believed he made a choice, he had a say in his own destiny. He had some power over his fate. I tried to put myself in his shoes, imagining I did the things he did and said the things he said. I could see why he would do it, why he would feel suicide was the only option.
I don’t know that I ever knew my dad to love himself. The way he abused himself, his body, and others, I think he felt awful inside, completely wretched. Can you imagine living with that? Looking at it every day in the mirror? Knowing when you go to bed at night, you’re going to wake tomorrow, the same person.
We are least forgiving of ourselves. Even though we forgave him, he never forgave himself. He never forgave his parents. He held onto that anger, hate, and resentment. Whatever his age when his parents damaged him permanently, I think he froze in time, developmentally. His body and his mind sprouted, but his emotional growth was paralyzed, trapped in time. That’s how he behaved, like a young child, selfish and needy, ineffective in his coping, throwing temper tantrums, expecting the world to revolve around him.
The problem was, he had the intellect and physical attributes of an adult, making for a powerfully dangerous combination. I think he got caught up in trying to do the right thing, finding it easier to do the wrong thing. He fought his own demons for years. Maybe he grew tired of fighting, tired of hurting people, attempting to change, only to revert back to bad habits. I could understand that. I’m not excusing it, or condoning it, but I don’t blame him. I don’t hold it against him.
Suicide’s Legacy
At Kat’s a few days later, I ended a phone call with Adam, another of life’s parallels. I remembered the night we rode from Denver to Dallas and he told me about his mother committing suicide. I phoned him that afternoon, searching for insight.
Kat and I had very different ways of coping. I searched, reflected, and talked. She simply wanted to put it behind her. She overheard me talking with Adam, sparking further conversation after I hung up the phone.
“Harley, killing yourself doesn’t make sense, you know,” she said. “You can talk about it all you want, but it’s never going to make sense.”
“Maybe it wouldn’t hurt you to talk about it,” I pointed out, returning the receiver to the phone.
“Killing yourself doesn’t make sense,” she repeated.
“Maybe not to you or me, but it must make sense to someone, because a lot of people do it.” I had no idea how many people, in fact, until we became affected by it personally.
Mom came into the living room. “This is no time to get into an argument, girls.”
“So you think Dad made a conscious, logical decision to kill himself?” Kat continued.
“It had to be his decision. He pulled the trigger.”
“Just be thankful he didn’t take any of us with him,” Mom interjected calmly, in her usually reserved manner.
“I don’t want to believe it was a decision. It makes me feel better to think, maybe, he was crazy or something. He freaking killed himself. Who the hell does that? It’s morbid. I don’t want that legacy for me, you guys, for Megan.” Kat started to get teary-eyed.
“I’m sorry,” I said immediately.
“It’s okay.” She tapped both sides of her face, halting further tear formation. “Do you smell that?” she asked, sniffing the air.
“Oh, I forgot about my casserole.” Mom quickly made her way to the kitchen. “Megan requested that for dinner tonight.”
Kat and I followed after her. She opened the oven door. Smoke quickly began to fill the air, setting off the smoke detect
or. Mom backed away from the stove, coughing. I grabbed a pair of oven mitts, pulled the casserole from the stove, and quickly shut the door, attempting to trap the rest of the smoke inside. Kat prudently turned the oven off and picked up a hand towel, fanning the smoke detector, making it stop momentarily. The casserole was charred, completely black on top. Kat and I looked at each other, then to Mom. We all burst out with laughter. It felt so good to laugh.
It was either laugh or cry at this point. I always wondered what the connection was between crying and laughing. How is it a person can laugh so hard they cry or cry so hard they end up laughing?
“I like my casserole like I like my fish...blackened,” Kat said, snapping me on the butt with the dishtowel. We howled. Mom laughed lightly, her facial expression changing as though she might cry. Oh, no, don’t cry, I thought to myself. It’s okay.
“I wanted pizza anyway.” I headed to the freezer, pulling out a large frozen pizza. “Dinner will be on the table in minutes. Just in time for Megan when she gets off the school bus.”
“Do you want me to get the fan?” Kat asked. The smoke detector continued to sound.
“What I want is for you girls to sit down,” Mom spoke low, controlled. We just looked at her. “Now!” she said. We did as she told us, completely thrown by the rise in her voice, generally so pleasant and soft. She picked up the hand towel, fanning the smoke detector hastily until it stopped beeping. Kat and I watched wide-eyed, sitting at the table beside one another. Pulling a spatula and a knife from the drawer, she attempted to cut into the unforgiving casserole.
“You girls have to stop coming to my rescue. I know you’re used to it. You’ve done it all your lives...and I’ve let you.” She continued while trying to salvage dinner, “I’m supposed to look out for you. What kind of mother keeps her children in an abusive home?”
She picked up the casserole, slamming it down into the garbage can. “What kind of mother lets a man misuse her children?” she cried, holding herself up on the counter.
Kat started toward her, getting up from the table. I grabbed her arm, coaxing her back down beside me.
“It took me thirty-two years to leave your father. Thirty-two years of my life! I kept you girls in such a mess.” The smoke detector started up again, incessantly beeping.
“How could I choose a man over my children?” She hoisted the frying pan from the stove, beating the noisy smoke detector from the wall, until it crumbled into a pile on the floor. The sound stopped. You could have heard a pin drop.
“I had every excuse in the book.” She put the frying pan gently back onto the stove. “I finally get the nerve to leave and what does he do? He kills himself!” She slammed her hand down on the counter, hanging her head momentarily, regaining control of her tears before continuing. “I feel so guilty and ashamed. I am tired of being ashamed.” She grabbed at her shirt, clenching it in her fist over her heart. “I thought we would all get our closure, you girls, me, your father. How the hell do you get closure from a ghost?”
Suicide, death, it doesn’t affect the deceased, only the living, those of us left behind. Death in any form is difficult, but suicide’s a real bitch. It’s demoralizing. Most of us put a high value on life. When someone close to us, someone we love, decides life is no more valuable than death, it contaminates our thoughts, makes us reevaluate life, its meaning, purpose, worth.
Some say suicide runs in families, like any other disease. Does that mean my fate is a bullet through my flesh by my own hand? Suicide used to be a topic distant from me, tragic and nonsensical. Now it’s forever a part of me, a little piece in the fabric of my family legacy.
Writers like Shakespeare have glorified it, romanticized it. Others like Plath made it a part of their own destiny, suicide. Maybe it is the only way for some. I wouldn’t propose to tell anyone how to die, no more than I want to be told how to live. But their choices will forever affect those they leave behind.
All of my life, I have borne the weight of my father’s shortcomings. And of my own choosing, I probably will continue to do so, pushing myself, trying harder next time, fully attempting to prove worthy. My dad was one of the most capable, talented, intelligent people I ever knew. But he threw it all away. Chewed it up and spit it out. For what? Addiction? A lost childhood? He could have been so much more. He wouldn’t take responsibility for his life. He wouldn’t own it, but I do own mine.
People say suicide leaves a legacy of pain, guilt, and shame. It’s true. Sometimes it hits me out of nowhere, like a bad car accident, leaving me to lie scarred and broken from the wreckage. It hurts. But I think I’ll choose my own legacy. Essentially, a legacy is a hand-me-down, right? I can pick and choose what I want to keep as my own. I could have accepted my father’s alcoholism or his abusive behavior as my own. So far, I have not.
Those were the legacies he accepted from his parents. I accept that my father committed suicide. I have no other choice. I can’t change it, so I accept it. But I do not have to own it. It is his suicide, not mine.
Live & Let Love
Three months later, mid-May 2007, Santa Fe was enchanting, much like the New Mexico license plate reads. I never intended to stay, just a pit-stop on a random road trip I started after leaving Georgia. I had been here since February, working as a news writer and field reporter for the local news station. It turned out to be a great place to reflect, regroup, and revive, starting anew.
I couldn’t quit wondering where Dad was. Was he in heaven? Purgatory? Some other place people go after they die? The words Adam spoke to me about his mother, now my own concern. Did people who commit suicide go to heaven, or to the afterlife, whichever, wherever it might be located? I heard somewhere that distressed spirits have difficulty passing over. I think my father was distressed most of his life; was he in his afterlife?
I don’t know if he believed Jesus to be his savior. I heard him say so many conflicting things. Sometimes he acted as though he believed in God. Other times it seemed as if he didn’t believe in anything. He lived a tortured soul for as long as I knew him, and I wanted to believe mercy would be bestowed upon him, that he would find safety and warmth, and feel loved at the end of it all. I just wanted him to be at peace.
I had to be in a dream, but it seemed so real. I was in my parents’ home. It looked the same as it did my entire childhood. I stood in the living room, crying, wondering where he was and if he was okay. Dad walked into the living room from the kitchen, plain as day. He wore his usual flannel shirt, blue jeans, leather work-boots, and a cap. He walked to me, put his arms around me, and said, “It’s all right. Everything is okay now.” He smiled at me, and disappeared into the ray of light shining through the kitchen window.
I awoke, sitting straight up in bed, my face wet with tears, crying as I was in my dream. I don’t know if it was coincidence or my subconscious hungry for solace, but I ran with it. I allowed that dream to be my proof that Dad was okay, believing he found peace. It was over.
I ran to the closet, pulled open the door, grabbed my guitar, and leaned against the casing, playing it for the first time in nearly a year. Inspired by Dad, Gram, everyone I knew who had passed, I strummed along, making up lyrics as they came:
I call you,
Wanna hear you say hello again.
You’re not there,
You never will be, this is the end.
I see you,
Only in my dreams, you’re happy then.
Your light still shines,
You know, I miss you my friend.
I know you’re safe in the arms of the angels,
Maybe I’ll see you again, when my time is done.
Let my love forever keep you,
In the meantime, I’m gonna live and let love.
Later the same day, Mom called. She had flown back to Georgia to prepare the house for sale. We took a vote on it, and none of us wanted to keep our family home. We figured it was a good time to let go of everything. Get rid of the things in life that weigh you down, r
ight?
“Hey, Mom,” I answered the phone.
“Well,” she said, and that gave it away. Her tone of voice, her manner, everything, she was about to tell me something. I didn’t know what, but it was something that mattered. “I just came from the police department. You remember the officer who investigated your dad’s suicide?” I nodded my head, as if she could see me through the phone. “He called this morning and asked me to pick up your dad’s things.” She paused. “Are you there?”
“Uh-huh. Yes, I’m still here.”
“I couldn’t hear anything.” That’s because I was waiting for the bombshell, whatever it was she worked her way up to telling me. “So I go to meet him, and we have a nice talk. He was very understanding, very sympathetic. He handles a lot of suicide cases, you know. I didn’t realize so many people take their own lives.” Okay, Mom, get to it already, I’m thinking to myself, growing more nervous.
“So anyway, he hands me your dad’s clothes. And then he hands me this folded up piece of paper. I look at him kind of thrown off, as if to say, what’s this? And he says, ‘That’s the note.’ I said, what note? And he answers, ‘The letter...your husband’s suicide letter.’”
My legs buckled as I stood there listening, thankful there was a note, but completely afraid of what it said. I found the nearest chair and sat down. I had made up my own reasons over the past few months as to why he killed himself. I came to terms with those reasons, began to accept them. Now I would hear the truth. What if my father’s truth was completely different from what I thought? Was his truth too brutal or painful to accept? I was beginning to free myself from my own guilt, we all were. Did he blame us?
“Harley?” Mom inquired.
“I’m here.”
The Boots My Mother Gave Me Page 29