Being Bullied

I said it was another story entirely, so here it is:

A bystander called my mom for me as responders moved about the scene.   I couldn't figure out how to work my phone.  My mom told me later she had thought it was a prank call, at first.  She'd spoken to Cory on the phone about twenty minutes before that.  Somewhere, tucked away in a special place in my mom's room is a journal where she wrote down exactly what they said to each other so she will never lose that last conversation.

Somehow, in the mere moments between that phone call and my parents' frantic arrival to the scene, the man whose name I don't even know walked over to me and broke the news.  Now I know why "breaking the news" is a phrase.  Those words have changed my world irrevocably.  And I am and will forever be broken.

"I'm sorry, ma'am.  She is gone."

My ear piercing screams, anguished howls, and dizzy descent to the hot asphault were involuntary.  Kind bystanders tried to comfort me.  Responders tried to hydrate me, or barring that, move me out of the hot sun.  I heard their words, but couldn't really comprehend anything they were saying.  My mind had one thought:  TERROR.

It wasn't until later that I was not only cursing myself for letting her go to the store in the first place, sending her to her death to fulfill my need for the perfectly executed receipe, but also for not fighting the people who held me back as I ran up to the scene and realized it was indeed my baby lying there on the road.  I should have fought them.  I should have pushed my way to her so that I could touch her as she lay there waiting for someone to do something, anything.  Even now, I wrack my brain.  What the hell was I thinking?  Why didn't I?  That was my girl lying there.  Mine.  How could I not go to her, no matter what anyone said or asked of me?

Shock.  Fear of hurting her more as the bystanders said I might if I did not stay back.  Horror.  Simple horror.  Incomprehension.  My brain was taking in an image that it could not and would not process.  It kept trying, and failing, like the time I'd helped my parents move a bulky lazy boy chair into their living room.  You looked at it, and thought, oh, that'll fit, but in reality spent the next 45 minutes or so, sweating and cursing under your breath, as you backed and filled, backed and filled, changing your position by mere degrees, failing, stopping to catch your breath, rallying, and then going at that sucker one more time.

The difference, of course, is that the Lazy Boy chair now sits smugly in my parent's living room, seeming to say, now come one, was that really so bad?, and even after eleven grueling months, the knowledge that Cory is really, truly gone is still not accepted in my mind.

By the time they brought the sheet out, and covered her body, I had enough presence of mind to have sorted out two conclusions:  this was my fault, and I wanted to die.  I freely shared the fact that it was my fault, in fact couldn't stop saying it over and over again as I fought to catch my breath.  My wish to die I shared with no one, just recognized gratefully it as it surfaced in my heart. 

Dad drove.  Their car pulled in to the empty lot beside the scene.  Mom came on the run.  "Where is she?"  was all she could get out before I cut her legs out from under her with these words, "Mom, they keep telling me she's dead.  They covered her up."  She followed my horrified gaze to the sheet covered body by the roadside, and began to scream, calling God's name, as if that possibly make any sort of difference.  Yeah, already tried that.  I thought bitterly.

Did Mom fall down or just falter in her steps toward me?  I don't remember.  She wailed, and reached for me.   I could not breathe.  I could not see.  Panic was loose and raving through my veins.  This cannot be happening...cannot be happening...cannot be happening.

Moments later, my oldest sister arrived.  The paramedic came over and told me that there had been absolutely nothing that could be done for my daughter, that her injuries were just too severe.  She tried desperately to get me to drink some water, which I refused.  She got me to sit on the ground, and began pouring water over my neck.  Eventually, someone suggested that we get into one of the cars to sit, out of the sun.

So there we were, my parents in the front seat of their car, and Tammy and I in the back.  I could only cover my face and scream at the top of my lungs.  When I began hitting myself in the head and face, Tammy pulled my hands away gently, but firmly, stating over and over matter of factly, "It was not your fault.  It was not  Do you hear me?"

At some point, a police officer got into the driver's seat of the car, and turned around to face me.  He told me that their forensic specialists would be soon setting up to map out of the scene or some shit.  "Ma'am, I really think it would be best if you would go on home now.  Your pastor has offered to stay with your daughter until she is picked up."

My eyes just goggled at this fool.  What? 

"I'm not leaving her."  I stated blankly.

"Ma'am, there is nothing left that you can do for her.  It is time to let us take care of what needs to be done, and we really feel this is nothing that you need to see.  Why don't you go on home?"

Let me break into to say that I am the very definition of compliance.  Especially, when it comes to someone in authority...and if they're male, well, yeah, double that.  I remember this phenomenon from childhood even.  When I got the letter in the mail saying my 6th grade teacher was a man, I became so hysterical that my mom had to call and get me switched to the other class.  This makes absolutely no sense since my dad is the kindest and gentlest man I've ever met, but somehow that is just how it has always been for me.  Authority scared the crap out of me, and if it came toting a penis, even more so.

So, here was the one moment in my life, that I would argue with authority.  I looked at him square in the eyes, and said, "Would you?  Would you just leave your child by the side of the road...like a ...like a chipmunk?"

He didn't answer me, only resumed badgering me, "Ma'am, I really need you to go on home now.  I need you to cooperate..."

"What?  Are you going to arrest me if I won't?" 

"Ma'am, we are going to take care of her.  Your clergyman has offered to stay so someone will be with her, but I need you to go on home now.  Just go on home..."

I sobbed, feeling that he was pushing me and pushing me when I couldn't even  hold steady on my feet.  Why was he bullying me?  What had I done?  I was in my parents' car, not bothering anyone.  I wasn't fighting people to get to her body.  I wasn't throwing myself in front of oncoming traffic- that idea was another two days in the making.  I just wanted to be with her.  How could he not understand that?

As he resumed his speech, a droning unemotional robot, I interrupted him,  "FINE!  FINE!  I'll go, just leave me alone!"

That is how I was made to leave my child's dead body on the road.  Looking back, I again see myself as weak and an utter failure.  I should've refused.  Why didn't I? 

A very kind woman who had stayed with me the whole time drove us the short distance to my house.  When I started to walk up my driveway, my legs buckled, and I nearly fell.  This compassionate stranger picked my up in her arms and carried me to my back door. 

Beyond that door, Jacob waiting for news.

Back at the roadside, Cory's body lay in the hot sun...
for another 90 minutes.

Battle Creek Police Department, you should be ashamed of yourselves.