One Saturday Morning

“It’s like hell with the lid off…”

There’s really no way to describe that day. It will probably sound stilted and stiffly factual, because it was so shocking. But I am going to try.

I was sitting in my studio at my art table and Steve was out in the living room reading. It was probably around 10:00 am. I was reading my journal and thinking about Joel. He almost never stayed anywhere but home with his friends here. But he had happened to be staying at his best friend’s house that Friday night. Steve’s reading was interrupted by a knock on our front door. When he opened it, there stood two women in suits and a man. They told him they were police officers and showed him their identification. He asked them in and they sat on the couch. The two women were forensic policewoman and the man was a chaplain. They asked Steve if I was at home. He said, “Yes.” And he burst through the door of my studio. I hadn’t heard the knock on the door. Steve’s face was pale…he said to me, “I think something might have happened to Joel…” I said, “What do you mean? Did you call the police?” He answered with has voice trembling, “They’re already here. They’re sitting in the living room.” I pushed back my chair and followed Steve. I was not surprised at all. And I felt perfectly calm.

One of the police women told Steve and I that there had been a single car accident last night involving a green Ford SUV that was registered in our name. And that there were two bodies inside the vehicle. The vehicle had hit a large utility pole and burst into flames; burning it and the bodies inside. The person in the passenger seat had a wallet in the back pocket of his jeans with a temporary driver’s license in it. It was Joel. He was dead.

I was not surprised–but I guess I was in shock. Because I was way too calm. I remember asking them if they wanted coffee. I was not surprised because Joel had just gotten his driver’s license the day before. I was not surprised because when he went with his father the first time to take the driver’s test, I had prayed that if it wasn’t his time to die, he would fail the test. And he did. The second time he went, two days ago, I prayed the same prayer. And this time he passed. He was so excited, he told his father he wanted to be the one to tell me. But I wasn’t at home; Heather and I were at the grocery store. He couldn’t wait for us to get home so he could tell me in person. So he called me on my cell phone. He always started our phone call exchanges exactly the same way. (In a very loud, demanding voice) “Mom. Where are you?” 

So he told me over the phone that he had gotten his license minutes ago. I was legitimately proud of him and happy for him. He was so thrilled. And after all, he was 18. I had taught him and his twin sister to drive. He had left for The Institute before he could get enough driving time in to take the test. When he returned home, he hadn’t driven for a year. But his sister, Heather had gotten her license while he was gone. And the last thing I felt like doing was teaching him anything else about driving. It had been hair-raising enough the first time. And Steve said, “No way.” So we sent him to a driving instruction service. A sweet, patient grandfatherly man had given him lessons until he declared Joel ready for the test. And I guess he was.

But that didn’t mean he was ready to be a safe driver. Or ever learn to stop making such poor choices. Or ever grow into a successful adult. It just meant he now had a lethal weapon in the back pocket of his very low hanging jeans.

A driver’s license.

And so, that was one Saturday morning, exactly 6 years ago. February 5, 2011.