A Black Body Bag: “But I Need to Say I’m Sorry”
I awaken to see the alarm clock with its bright red numbers. It’s 2:00AM. I walk the halls, checking each of my daughter’s rooms to be sure they’ve all returned home. One daughter is missing. I begin to worry, but remember she said she might be at Brian’s apartment.
As I return to bed, the phone rings.
“Mom, an accident. Brian’s hurt. I only found his shoe…At the hospital…they won’t let me see him.” It’s my daughter, gasping for breath as she speaks.
I tell her to sit in the waiting room. I’ll be there soon.
As I drive to the hospital I wonder if my child was also hurt. I’m angry with myself for not asking.
At the hospital, my daughter rushes to me. “Mom, we had a fight. He ran away. Hit by a car. I only found his shoe. They won’t let me see him.” She is hugging his shoe. I’m grateful that she doesn’t seem harmed.
A nurse takes me to his room. There are no sounds coming from the monitors still attached to his body. I look closer. It appears his neck is broken. Someone enters the room with a large black bag.
My daughter runs to me when I return to the waiting room.
“Where is he? Is he OK? Did you talk to him? I have to go to him. I need to tell him I’m sorry.”
Before I can answer, I see out of the corner of my eye, a large black bag being wheeled down the hall. I grab my daughter and try to move her away from looking in that direction. No eighteen-year-old girl needs to see that.
It’s too late. She turns just as the black bag is passing by.
“Mom, that’s not him. It can’t be him. I have to tell him I’m sorry.”
Someone brings a bag with Brian’s belongings: a leather jacket and one shoe.
She is trying to run into the hall. I hold her back. She collapses, sobbing, on to the floor.
These are the last sounds she makes for the next three days as she lies in bed wearing Brian’s jacket and holding on to his shoe, much as she held her stuffed animals when she was younger.
At the wake, Brian’s parents angrily demand my daughter tell them how it happened. What were you arguing about? Why didn’t you stop him from running away?
I hear their questions and move to stand beside her. She tries to speak but is sobbing and shaking.
I understand their need to know these details, perhaps to have closure. But she is not ready to answer any questions. Her mind is too consumed by the shock and grief of what has just happened. She needs space to try to accept the unacceptable.
So, I answer their questions, knowing that, for my daughter, closure may never come.
