by Karl, Victor
My grandfather walked in and knelt on the floor next to us. “Rico” he said, “your mom and dad are dead but you have us, we are here for you and will take care of you. This your home now and we will make sure your parents will always be remembered for the great parents and giving people they were.”
A trying, confusing, and tearful week later, they had a viewing at McPearsons Funeral Home, and mass at St Anne’s Catholic Church a day later. I was mortified at the McPearsons event. There were two closed caskets sitting side by side which contained what was left of my parents. This meant no last look or visual picture of either of them. I had to rely on the hundreds of photos of them from over the years, placed all around the room. Tears came to my eyes whenever I looked to close at these picture memories of my parents. Celia and Michael Carter Senior were well-respected and active people in their community, church, arts and other charitable activities. Celia volunteered at my school and taught CCD at Saint Anne’s church. Mike senior was the CEO of a successful Internet marketing firm. The line for condolences literally went out the door and halfway down the block. On the line were a couple of distant cousins from my father’s side of the family, but in my family there was no one else.
Mom was an only child; Dad had one brother who died suddenly and unexpectedly a couple of years prior from Meningitis. His parents passed away at an early age while in their 60’s within a year of each other. In other words, I had no brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles or close cousins. It was just me and my Grandpa and Nana. Lucky for me, I could not have asked for more loving and fun grandparents. They were always taking me places and even allowed me to bring a friend along at times. My favorite was spending a good part of my summer in their old Victorian home in Loveladies, on Long Beach Island in New Jersey. I loved my grandparents before my parent’s accident and I loved and adored them even more afterwards.
Did I say life could be cruel…yes; it could and do so in spades. Fast forward to 10-years later, I am just about to head out to a Friday night keg bash at an off campus home where a couple of my buddies shared a large, albeit somewhat decrepit home. The house I live in, with a couple of roommates, has one major drawback. The owner lives about a block away, so having a kegger there was not going to fly.
Just as I reached for the door handle, my new iPhone starts to ring with, “I love you, love you soooo much,” in an annoying whiney voice ripped from some YouTube site. This was the handiwork of my on again off again girlfriend Fiona, who must have snuck it on there when I wasn’t paying attention. Sliding the touch screen to answer the phone, I simply said, “hellloooo!” A quiet voice asked, “Am I speaking to Mr. Michael Carter?” I said, “Yes you are.” Then as I stood there with shock spreading across my features, as Officer Sampson of the Peapack, NJ police department informed me that both Edna and Charlie Rickel died in a car accident at 6:49 pm on route 206 in Bridgewater, NJ.
When I hung up the phone, my thoughts immediately drifted to memories of my grandparents. I had loved and admired them for so many reasons. Even though they were in their early 80’s, they were still so vibrant and active in all aspects of life. Mostly in a daze, and on autopilot, I caught the Marta just up the road from the Georgia Tech campus. After making a call to a limo service for a ride from my destination, Newark airport, I tried to get hold of my friends Bill and Fiona. Both attempts to contact my friends went to voice mail. I was too frazzled to leave a message for them. A short time later, I arrived at Hartsfield International airport via the Marta. Still in a daze, I found myself on the last AirTran plane out to Newark. Once on the ground my limo driver was waiting. The driver asked me if I had any bags, I shook my head no and only then realized that I had brought none of my things including my laptop or schoolbooks.
Using the 40-minute drive time out to my grandparents place in Peapack Gladstone, I called the number provided by Officer Sampson and left him a message stating that I was now in town and wanted to meet with him next morning to talk about the accident that took my grandparents. A dark cloud of pity washed over me as I realized that there really was no one I could lean on in this situation to help me figure out what steps I should be taking. What about a funeral home, mass, cemetery and about 20 other things that came to mind as the car pulled into a big circular drive and stopped in front of the main doors of a beautiful classic 100-year old colonial home, which had been my home for the last 10-years.
Paying the driver, I exited the car and with trepidation, entered the main foyer. This home now seemed to be devoid of the loving ‘life force’ that had been so much of Nana and Gramps philosophy in life. The house now seemed colder and darker with their energy now gone. Climbing up the classic oak staircase to the top landing, I walked down the dark hallway, opened the last door on the right, fell into my bed, and was asleep in less than a minute.
With bright sunshine streaming in through the windows into my eyes, I thought with some hope, that I had a bad dream. As I opened my eyes to a squint, I realized that it was no dream as I took in the surroundings of my old room. Looking at the clock, I saw that it was just after eight so I jumped out of bed and headed for the bathroom to take a leak and shower. As I passed the large mirror on the way to the bathroom, I caught a reflection of myself. Staring back at me was a stranger. The eyes were not the bright and mischievous eyes of the person who owned them just 24 hours earlier. They were the eyes of a person who lost a part of their soul. The face normally held an easy smile, which was probably why making friends came effortlessly. The smile, plus the 6 foot 2 muscular 220-pound frame and black curly hair, ensured that many of his friends were of the female persuasion. Right now, there was no smile and the face was of a stranger that showed tension clashing with normally relaxed features.
Tearing himself away from the mirror with renewed fears and concerns, Rico headed to the bathroom. After 10-minutes, he emerged in a cloud of steam, grabbed some clothes from his closet and was dressed in another five minutes. Feeling slightly more refreshed after taking a shower, he logged onto his grandparent’s desktop computer and Googled the address for the police station. The address seemed familiar and he realized that his grandparents had to pick him and his friend Bill up from there one evening after some underage drinking. This was the only time that I could remember Nana getting really pissed at me.
Heading into the three-car garage, I looked for my favorite car. The 1984 Mercedes SEC 500 sedan was not there, however the pickup and smaller sedan were. The thought quickly crossed my mind that SEC 500 must have been the car they were driving when the accident happened. Squeezing past my quads and dirt bikes, I opened the door to the 2008 Dodge Ram pickup. Opening the sparkling ashtray, no one smoked in the house, I found the keys where they were always kept. Hitting the garage door opener and backing out into the driveway, I pulled away from the house. Watching the door close as I drove away, I also took in the neat manicured lawn and flowerbeds that had been Nana’s passion and where I had spent hours helping her.
I had a growing pit in my stomach that had started when I first heard the tragic news. After thinking about that feeling, I wondered if it was partly due to not eating anything since yesterday evening. Pulling into a local deli, I grabbed a sugar free AMP and two buttered rolls and The Newark Star Ledger. I know…breakfast of champions, but the fact is I loved this stuff including gallons of diet Pepsi. Throwing the paper into the passenger seat and pulling back on to road, I drove the bucolic streets towards the station. I took a bite of the buttered roll and almost instantly felt a little better, but could not get rid of a feeling of hollowness. There is nowhere outside the NY metro area that makes better bread and bagels. Being in the Atlanta area for the last few years gave me an appreciation of how good the bread was in this area.
Taking the last bite of my roll and gulping the last ounce from my can of AMP, I pulled into the Peapack police station, slash municipal building parking lot and into a Visitor’s parking space. This being Saturday, there was not a lot of cars around and I hoped one of the cars belo
nged to Officer Sampson, since I did not get a confirmation from him that he would be here.
Walking into the visitor’s entrance, I stopped due to a locked door. A male voice came in over a speaker system and asked, “Can help you.” I mentioned my name and that I was looking to speak to Officer Sampson about my grandparent’s accident. The voice asked me what the name of my grandparents was. I informed him their name was Rickel. The person must have recognized the name and immediately offered me condolences. He also said that Officer Sampson would be right there and to walk into the station when the door lock buzzed open. After walking into the brightly lit room, I observed a fairly young and rugged looking man, about 26 or 27, in street clothes walking down the hall towards me. Officer Sampson walked up to me and shook my hand as he introduced himself and added, “Mr. Carter, I am sorry for your loss,” with genuine anguish showing on his face.
With a nod to an area of desks, Sampson asked me to follow him. “Have a seat Mike; I want to go over the report with you.” After sitting down in the chair in front of the desk, the Officer placed a 10-page report in front of me. “Matt, this is the current report minus some of the paperwork still being compiled. The pile will grow significantly due to a fatality being involved. Let me give you a few minutes to read it and then I can answer any questions you have.” The first thing I noticed after opening the file was the redacted information in the report. I guess they did not want to give anyone any information that could result in family members going after the other party. Getting sicker to my stomach as I read each page of the report, I quickly summarized that my grandparents were on their way back from dinner at their favorite local restaurant. Even though they were wealthy, they loved to take advantage of “Early Bird” specials. They also liked an early meal since they usually hit the sack before nine at night.
The report further stated that party #2, Nana and Grandpa were party #1, was travelling South on Route 206, while Party #1 was travelling North on 206, which is not a divided road. The vehicle of party #2, a 2009 Chrysler 300 Sedan, crossed over into the lane of party #1 creating a head on collision with party #1 driving in a 1984 Mercedes 500 SEC sedan . Estimated speeds of both parties were 45-50 miles per hour. The report stated that upon arrival on the scene of the accident by the EMT squad, it was determined that both male and female occupants of the vehicle of party#1 had expired. One male, in the vehicle of party #2, was alive but with weak vital signs. The fire department and rescue squad resorted to using the Jaws of Life to extract the lone occupant of the vehicle. The EMT’s stabilized the injured party onsite and transported the driver to the Bridgewater Hospital.
The other driver survived mainly due to airbags, but was in critical condition. A note appended to the report stated that the blood alcohol content was 1.6, which was well over the legal limit. How did someone get that tanked that early in the evening was what I wanted to know? With an unconscious sigh, I put the report down and with my elbows on the desk started rubbing my temples. The reality of the situation was starting to set in and the stress was building in me. “Mike, Mr. Carter,” I heard. I looked up at the officer who then asked, “Do you have any questions regarding the report?” Shaking my head no, I did ask him where my grandparents where. He said “Mike, in situations like this the bodies are brought to the Somerset County morgue where the families can be make arrangements for them. The Officer then asked if I had any other family members that I could call. With a sort of a croak and a laugh at my predicament, I explained to him my family situation and said, “I have no idea what I should be doing at this time.”
A half hour later, I left there with numerous phone numbers and contacts including those for lawyers, funeral home directors, vehicle holding yard and even grief counselors. Everyone at the station got together and of ran down the process that most people might do in my situation. I must have said ‘thank you’ a million times since I felt that they were really going out of their way to help me. I felt a little better after I left, but I also realized as I was driving back to the house that there were 100’s of other loose ends that needed attention. Thoughts of what to do with the house, belongings, lawyer stuff and simple things like making sure bills got paid, flashed through my head at a frantic pace.
Glancing over at the newspaper, I suddenly slammed on the brakes on pulled onto the shoulder of the road. Grabbing the newspaper, I started scanning the pages to see if there was any report of my grandparent’s accident. Right there on page 2, was a headline, ‘Somerset County Couple Killed in Somerset Accident.’ The article went on to rehash what the accident report had covered, but also named the driver of the other car as Brian Riordan, 42 of Stroudsburg, PA. The local Pharmaceutical firm he worked for had recently promoted the driver Riordan. He and a couple of co-workers had gone over to a local tavern after work and the rest we already know. The article did go on to say how my grandparents were long-time residents of Peapack and were actively involved in local charities and events.
Chapter 3: Friends
The first thing I noticed when pulling into my grandparent’s driveway was the number of cars. With the hint of a smile, I realized that at least one of the cars here belonged to Fiona. She was my on again off again girlfriend for the last 6 years. We were currently more off again since we both had too many irons in the fire that we really did not have the time to date anyone exclusively. The real story behind us was that we were better at being great friends than boyfriend girlfriend and had always supported each other whenever needed. The other cars I didn’t recognize, but as I stepped down from the pickup truck, the front door opened and a trail of people came out of the house into the drive.
First out of door was Fiona, who literally bounded down the front steps and ran towards me. Now Fiona was gorgeous, long brownish wavy hair, big blue eyes that always sparkled with some hidden humor and a tall lithe athletic body. She came up to me and jumped into my arms, I did notice that there were tears in her eyes. “Mike”, she said, “I am so sorry about Nana and Gramps, I know how much they meant to you.” Hugging her and choking on my words, I said “Fiona, I was hoping you were around, I really needed that hug…I know how much you cared about them yourself.”
With one arm still around Fiona, I saw Fiona’s mom, Meagan, right behind her. A little shorter than her daughter, Mrs. Paschel shared many of the same features. “Michael, I don’t know what to say, they were such nice people and cared so much about you and our community. We are all going to miss them so very much.” She said this as she hugged me on my free side. “Thanks Mrs. P,” I said. Next, and slapping me on my back, were two friends from high school and former team mates on the football and wrestling squads, Sean and Steve. Behind them were my friend and neighbor Taylor and his girlfriend Kristen. Fiona saw me looking around, knew what I was thinking, and started to tell me that Bill was on a boat off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard doing his marine studies and could not catch up with us. “Mike, Bill wanted me to tell you that he is sorry he cannot be here for you right now and he will miss your grandparents.” Everyone was talking at the same time about the accident, how sad it was and asking how I was doing. All this attention rather freaked me out. Mrs. P was the only one that seemed to notice this and speaking the loudest, ordered everyone to let Mike breathe a bit and head back inside to the kitchen.
Walking from the foyer towards the back of the house, I was glad I had other people around me. I knew I had to make some important and tough decisions and there was nobody I trusted more than those that were here with me now. Nana’s favorite place was her kitchen since she loved to cook and bake, which was probably the reason they always had people over…all she needed was the slightest excuse to cook for someone. The kitchen’s large old-fashioned trestle table with benches on the sides and chairs at the ends, dominated the room. This table could sit ten easily and accommodate two more if needed without anyone feeling cramped. Even though most of the house is traditional, the kitchen was a modern marvel of built in stainless steel appliances, a double
wall mounted oven, commercial grade Viking gas stovetop and about 50 feet of black marble with gold flakes. Handmade Cherry cabinetry finished off the kitchen with enough storage space that would have made anyone envious.
The conversation went back and forth for about a half hour as I recanted my discussions earlier with the Peapack police department and caught up on what everyone had been doing since I last saw them. Meagan then steered the conversation around to more sensitive but important topics. “Mike, you know that my father passed away last year and with my mom already gone, I became the executor of his estate. I was ill prepared for everything that needed addressing back then, so I am sure that you have a numerous questions regarding what you need to do. Do you know who you grandparent’s lawyer is and if they had a will on file?” The first part of the question I actually knew the answer to. My grandparent’s lawyer, Julius Filamore, was actually a very good friend of my gramps. They shared a space at the annual Steeplechase event for the last 10 years and he was a regular at their house, eating Nana’s dinners and sipping from gramps scotch collection. He was also a great person, and I actually smacked myself on my forehead and mentally chastised myself for not remembering to call him first.
When I relayed this information, Mrs. P confirmed that we should get his number and call him before making any funeral arrangements. Mrs. P added, “The older a person gets the more meticulous they get about defining how they want to be handled in the case of death.” I walked to the phone in the kitchen to look for an address book or even the Verizon telephone book. While I stood there thumbing through miscellaneous papers, I noticed the message light blinking on the phone. After debating with myself for a second on whether or not I should listen, I reached over and hit the play button.
The first couple of calls gave me a chill since people were leaving messages to my grandparents as if they were still alive, such as confirming lunch dates and the weekly Bridge game. The messages then changed to condolences, as word of their death must have traveled. The last message was from Mr. Filamore to me. He sounded very subdued as he conveyed his condolences and said, “Mike, I have just read over your grandparent’s last will and testament and need to go over a few items with you as soon as possible.” He continued and said, “They were very well organized and had detailed almost all aspects of how they want things handled in the event of their death.” Call me as soon as you get this message no matter what time it is.” He then rattled off his home, office and cell phone number, which I hurriedly wrote down.