In The River of Death

The beginning of a thought…
The beach is bare, a few lone logs and seagulls the only comfort as I walk. Off in the distance is gray ocean side cliffs dotted with tall dark trees. Highway 101 follows the cliff side, a black strip in the hill. Next to me the surf comes in and goes out, the sea like great big lungs taking a breath then exhaling. Ahead a seagull jumps into the surf, dabbing his feet into the water, then jumping free, flapping his white wings till he is higher into the gray sky.

My bare feet are covered in sand, granules stuck in between my toes, and under my nails. Little pebbles dot the beach: white, black, browns, and greens. I step nearer to the surf, letting the water wash over my ankles. It’s cold, very cold. I feel tears in my eyes; brush them away with the back of my hand.

Things will work out, Lydia. He said. He had said a lot of things. I’m going to be alright and so are you. You have to be alright Lydz. You just do. Everyone makes promises, everyone breaks them. It’s just how it works. He promised to live. I promised to be strong. He didn’t. And I’m not okay. I may never be again.

A dozen pure white rocks catch my eye. I stoop and gather them into my hands. Each one I pick up is a reminder of those lost; one pebble for each death in my life, a pebble for what cannot be fixed. And with that I toss them all into the breathing, living sea.

Changes…
Some things remain constant: the sun, the winter rains, the rise in gas prices, the idiocy of government, and the list goes on. Other things change. Children are born and grow up, their lives of innocence and naivety becoming much more complex. The people in my life are never constant; one minute here, gone the next; like a June rain on a Nebraska cornfield.

I’m not a very religious woman, spiritual yes, religious no. I wasn’t really even as a child. I went through the stage of desiring God and then quickly grew out of it as beer, sex, and cars became tools of Satan. Religion was simply another set of rules a teenager had to follow, and you had to follow them and want to. It’s not easy to ask that of a sixteen year old who really cares about whether or not the cute guy in English likes her and what shoes to wear on Friday to the football game. Yet even despite my lack of interest in the mumbo jumbo of a preacher, scripture has always caught my attention. Whether it is words of comfort or a telling story, I have read the bible a few times through. Revelations is probably my favorite.

“He (God) will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” Revelations 21:3+4

A verse like that sticks with you. The truth is death is also constant. In our lives we will all be forced to deal with it, whether it is with those we love or ourselves. It will come. That is truth.

Death is one of those things none of us will ever truly understand. The secrets of the tomb are only known by those who have already been there. I am not one of those people. I have seen love and death. I have seen pain and death. I have seen life and I have seen death. No matter what way it goes the end is always the same.

Nearly twenty years have passed in my life. It’s not a long period of time to most. I make no claim to wisdom, no claim to knowledge. I simply have seen the events of my life and found a basis for understanding from those moments. In these twenty years I have known death, reached my hand out to it and held on. That is where this story starts, that’s where my story ends. Life and death.

The first time is always the hardest…
Grass sprouts quickly, especially in the wet climate of Oregon. Even on the sunniest, driest day of the year you can grow something. There is beauty in a place like this. The forests are filled with dark and lush old growth, gardens will bloom in Mid June, and in the neighborhoods you rarely see a yellow lawn. Elwin, my adoptive grandfather, always had a beautiful yard. His house, though small and cluttered, was strangely modern in such an old fashioned backdrop. The yard and gardens gave way to a small barn with a corral, and his acreage spread out behind that in a field of gold and greens. In the distance Mount Hood, an inactive volcano watches the valley, a blue gray beauty with a dash of white snow.

His home was often my home. It was the alluring combination of ponies and grandfatherly love. Summer was the best, a knowing phone call inviting me to join him for a ride and cold watermelon for desert. We would round up Prince and Buffalo- fatty for me, old man for him, and go for a jaunt through the wilderness. Elwin was two heads taller than me, good looking and fit for a sixty-nine year old man. He could haul the hay from the barn, saddle up a horse in a minute flat, and wrestle a young pony without a complaint. He had an everlasting air of youth about him.

Our adventures were filled with history and stories, often about his own family, one that I was truly not a part of. It didn’t matter; he still made me feel like I belonged. Once at the Lents Parade he told a complete stranger I was his granddaughter. We would take our two horses down steep trails into the depths of Shibley Canyon. He would tell me stories about riding down there as a young lad, or the Indian women’s grave he found. On his own property he would point out the lasting ruts from Oregon Trail wagons or the place where his family’s first homestead once lay. He always had something to say, unless we were working. And then he was quiet. He would shovel out the corral as I would wash one of the pony’s tails. We didn’t have to say much, just the pure comfort of having someone to work with. He was more than a comfort to me.

I can honestly say I have been lucky to know beautiful people, people who without second guessing will go out of their way for anyone. Elwin was like that. He showed me a lot about myself in those days. I can only hope I taught him something about himself in return. I pray he took something from me that was as deep and meaningful as I did from him.

Elwin was my first experience of death; at least a death that I remember very clearly.

“Lydia, honey, Elwin died on Friday in a car accident.” Then tears. Lots and lots of tears. The pain hits you right in the gut, like falling off a swing as a child. The air leaves your lungs, tears come to your eyes, and you can’t breathe. It hurts so bad.

I remember thinking about all the things we don’t understand as children: love, life, death. It’s just something you hear about at first. You are so naïve. And then it actually happens. It comes in a sweeping wave of confusion and the unknown.

It would’ve been easier if I understood. It would have been easier if I could have said goodbye. But you don’t always get to say goodbye. Most the time you never do. You don’t get the time or the chance or anything. That’s how it ends up working.

It has been six years since Elwin passed away. It has been six years and countless times I have said I miss you to the air. That’s how you deal with death, you realize that it’s not an obstacle, you can still care and love and communicate. You just might not get a spoken answer.

Elwin is with me. When I look outside and see grass sprouting, or pass by an old oak tree. He is there. When the wind picks up and my hair dances around my face. He is there. Because death does not mean it’s the end.

Alex.
This path is dark. The only streetlight is out, and it’s raining. One of these nights it will be nice, but not this June 12th. Not today. Of course not. I’m sick of the rain, sick of the things I just saw, and sick of myself.

The cement is slick. I climb the stairs. The house is dark; Dad and Kurrin are probably asleep. I sit on the porch holding my tears in, ignoring the pain that is growing inside my heart. I let the rain fall outside the porch, watch the water run down the black streets. It fits my mood. Everything about it. The mist rises from the ground obscuring the far off streets. The lights cast an eerie glow into the foggy evening rain.

In the distance I hear an engine humming. Someone is coming up the road. Headlights catch my attention. Black four door Honda. Alex.

I stand thinking about going inside. I second guess myself, giving him enough time to open his door and get out. The car is still running. I stare at the headlights ignoring him. He walks up the steps and sits. I sit next to him.

“Why are you here Alex?” my cold voice almost startles me. I avoid letting it show.

“You are wrong about me. There was nothing going on between me and her. I promise,” he confesses. “I love you. Not her.”

I want to look at him, take his hand, hold it close to me, kiss him before I lose him. I know this will be the end if I don’t say something.

“I’m hurt and I don’t know what to say.”

“Say we can work this out.”

“I want to as much as you do, but what chance do I have with someone who is so different than I am.”

I look at him. He is staring at me. Blue eyes, so blue they are turquoise. The tears start to come. I want to be strong. Love is so hard.

“I cant do this to you anymore Lydia. I’m not leaving, just taking a break,” he says it softly like the words aren’t breaking me. They are.

“No, no that’s not what I want.”

“I’m going to go now.”

“Wait, Alex, wait. I love you.”

“I know.”

He stands and takes a few steps down the stairs. He turns to look at me and smiles. I don’t want him to go. I know this is the end if I let him leave. He gets in his car, and drives away into the mist. I watch the taillights as the curve down the street. I get up, step down into the pouring rain. I let it fall on my face and mix with my tears. The cement is cold beneath my back. I’m letting the rain fall. I’m letting it all flow.

“Please come back,” I whisper.

“I did.”

I look up. He’s there standing above me in the rain. I scramble into his arms, strong and sure and steady.

“Lydia, I love you. This is not the end. I promise,” he says into my wet hair. “I just want to figure out my life for you.”

The tears are so strong I can’t control them. He kisses me. And then he is gone.

I have come to realize that fate teaches us sick lessons. It is so easy to break the heart of a fourteen year old girl. It’s so easy to rip people apart. He never came back. They pulled his body from a wrecked black Honda. They buried him June 19th, 2002. On his gravestone they wrote “We Grieve. We Love. We Survive. Alexander James Parker.” Fate has broken me once again. It was easy. He is gone.

Everything fades to black.

Realization
“Imagine death. The color, the scent, the feelings you have about it”. This is day four of social psychology. I call it therapy. “Write down all the things that death is to you and how you think it is”. I want to smack the bitch talking.

Death, I think. Well let’s see. You fall off a bridge and that’s it. You put the gun to your head and pull the trigger. Bang. Done. The End.

The counselor walks past and looks back at my paper. I see her shaking her head. I know what they have been saying about me. I’m hopeless. There is no way I’m fixable.

“Lydia, can we talk after class?” she asks. I nod, knowing I don’t really have a choice. I scratch some more words down on to the page, trying to take it more seriously. What I think of death is that none of us know anything about it. That’s cause we are alive. I hate how cynical I am. I hate how I have to make a joke out of this.

The minute hand on the clock seems to have slowed down. I pay very close attention to the brick wall to my left. Staring past Erik’s head isn’t easy, but I have come accustomed to it by now. It’s Spring freshman year, and I’m ready to be done.

The bell rings and everyone rushes to life, gathering their bags and papers. The homework is written on the board. I don’t bother. I won’t end up doing it. I don’t move. Erik looks down at me and smiles as he passes by. This isn’t the first after class meeting. Everyone is gone except me and this bitch teacher.

“We are all starting to worry about your attitude Lydia,” she starts. “I’m pretty close to calling your parents.”

Now she has my attention. I look up to where she is sitting on her desk, one leg underneath her, the other draped down.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea Ms. Holran,” I say, trying to control my concern.

“Well you show a lack of initiative in all your classes. You are failing, and there is no reason. You haven’t turned in one writing assignment, and I know for a fact you can write.”

I’m staring her down, daring her to keep speaking. She isn’t scared.

“I see you during breaks in the hallway with your notebook. What is it that you are writing,” she asks, her voice is now concerned.

“I believe this meeting is over now?” I say, and grab my bag. I’m careful to not look her in the eye. I gather my things and walk out the door. I can hear her shuffled steps to stop me, but she doesn’t have the time. I’m a good escape artist. I always have been.

The hallways are empty. Next period has already begun. I know that I should go, but English is boring. Especially now that Crouse is gone, he was a cool teacher. I shuffle through my bag, find my notebook and head out the side entrance. It’s close to lunchtime so the security guards will be watching the parking lots. I jog across the baseball fields to a tall oak tree on the other side. I sit beside it with my notebook in my lap.

What do you think of death? That was the homework. I had read it on the board. She wanted us to explain how we felt in writing and turn it in. I begin to write like always.

Death is…. It’s harder to explain than it seems. I cross that out.

Death is… Death leaves a scar. When you lose someone it hurts you in a way that can’t be cured. It’s a scar on your heart- one that never truly heals. In a lot of ways the word scar doesn’t really apply to death, a scar is tissue that has healed and hardened. But the wound this type of loss leaves behind never heals. Like a scar there is very little feeling there. Like a scar there is always a mark. With time and lots of TLC it may fade, but it never truly goes away. It stays with you for life.

Death is a passageway. It isn’t the end. It’s just part of the adventure. It’s not scary. I like to think about where we go when we die. This does not mean I am obsessed- only that I find the subject interesting. I’ve heard of angels, bright lights, judgment, fiery hell, eternal sleep, etc. Where am I going? I don’t know. I like to think of death as going on a blind date. You are completely aware that you are going, but you don’t know who you are going to see or where you are going or what’s going to happen. You get nervous. You might even be scared. But there is always the chance it will be a beautiful experience- one that will forever change your life and who you are.

I think that being angry over death is selfish. Supposedly that anger is natural. They couldn’t help where that they died. You must take the pain, anger and sadness, learn to cope, and then package up the lessons you learned from it to move on with your life. That package of knowledge you carry with you in your heart as a reminder of how you got to where you are. It’s a reminder of how you became the person you are today.

I flip the page, wanting to continue. I stop, hearing the bell for lunch ring. I shut the book, and leave that page with the other finished homework assignments. Never read again by my eyes or anyone else’s; safe, at least for the time being from criticism.

Julia
Trees and forests flash past in a black, green blur. Julia is driving faster than usual, blonde curls a mess from the wind coming into the car. Her Camaro is fast, but she likes to push it. I listen to the engine whining up the hill. We must be a streak of red to everybody else.

She is laughing, delighting in the speed and the buzz she is developing from the vodka we started sipping at the liquor store. I’m falling deeper into my alcoholic coma, settling back into the curve of the black seats. The bottle in my hand is cold, the only thing I feel at this moment.

The car surges forward past the dam, over the hills, and past the covert. It’s screaming down this river road and memories unfold like the sheet music I used to play during piano lessons: The road Ryan and I escaped up once during class; the little cove where Alex and I went swimming; The place where Brad, Mom, and the family put our boat in. I ignore it all, and swallow some more. The burning sensation brings tears to my eyes, and I take another swig. I need to drown it out. It’s time to.

The car slows, the turn to our road ahead. I can see a fire burning off in the distance, reflecting off the red of the hood. There are seven cars, most of them pieces of shit and Julia’s is the nicest. Most of those around the fire turn to look at her car, and some of the guys start shoving each other. Julia is well known in the upper social circles, especially with the guys.

I climb out of the car, and sit on the hood. She saunters out with her 24 pack and bottle of rum and scrambles towards the fire. Several call out her name and hello. I am the outcast, just a tag along. Julia never said that, but I know it’s true. I’m still holding the bottle of vodka and I take some more in. Everything is fuzzier now. Much better.

I have my camera and I snap a picture of Julia’s face in the firelight. She looks like a porcelain doll, smooth golden skin without a freckle or blemish. Her hair is red and gold surrounding her pretty face. No wonder everyone loves her. She keeps up the conversations and then suddenly stops and catches my gaze.

“Whatcha doin’ over there Lydz?” She makes the group laugh. I notice one of the guys I made out with a couple of weeks ago. He smiles at me, and pats the space on the log next to him. I walk over and sit down.

“So how do you know Julia?” he asks. I look at him. He has green eyes. The fire casts shadows on his face.

“We are twins,” I say with a smile. It’s obvious we aren’t. He laughs and Julia glances our way.

“Lydia and I met at a funeral. She thought I was dating her boyfriend,” she laughed. I laughed too, knowing very well what she was talking about. “Unfortunately we became pretty good friends. In fact we are rarely apart now.”

I smiled at her, and traced the lip of the bottle. She was right when it came to the friend thing. We were close now.

Time slowly passes, the fire burning down to embers, and I kept drinking. Finally I was so dazed I barely remember Julia coming near and asking me if I was ready to leave. The guy sitting next to me tells her he would give me a ride. I grab her arm.

“Be careful Jules. You have had a lot to drink,” I say half mumbling. She just smiles like she knows and walks to her Camaro. She turns to wave halfheartedly and then climbs in. I watch the taillights as they disappear into the darkness.

We drove after her, maybe thirty minutes later. I was on the back of the motorcycle he drove. We twisted and turned until we hit a wall of traffic. The road was closed. Accident. Nausea hit my stomach as I saw the make of the vehicle. Camaro. Red.

The motorcycle was ushered past. I clung on tighter.

Take me home. Please take me home.

Something new…
In Oregon school starts at the beginning of September. You can tell that it’s close to school time because the air gets crisper, the leaves on the trees begin to change, and the symptoms of school arrive. These symptoms include neurotic shopping at every store in the mall and a huge group of school buses arriving around our town.

Estacada isn’t a big town. In fact it’s one of those places where you have travel fifteen minutes to go to a store bigger than the local Thriftway. There is no mall, no pool, nothing of interest; unless you count the numerous parties and river adventures. That’s where it starts in Estacada. A riverside campout or a drunken party up in the woods, that’s your choices. So when school starts every fall things start to get rowdy. With football season comes the party scene and with the party scene comes trouble. I’m not saying I know first hand all about trouble, because in all reality I don’t know that much. But I did try the party scene out for a while. That didn’t last.

Rarely do you find someone in this small town worthwhile and even rarer is it if that person is over the age of twenty-five. Most of the people here are partiers, stoners, preps, or too weird to mention. Not saying that you can’t find people who aren’t those things, but if you have ever walked the hallways of Estacada High School that is what you will find.

With a student body of around 850 kids you will find an almost even distribution between four groups: 1. The Preps & Athletes, 2. The Goths and Drama Freaks, 3. The Country Gals & Guys, and lastly 4. Stoners and Idiots. I never really fell into a group which is why I probably can see so clearly the downfalls of each group.

If you are a prep you are forever expected to fuck the football players, kiss the pretty girl’s ass, and drink Smirnoff at the parties. Unfortunately I figure you must also be rich to fit in here. At our school there was a very strict law about what you wore and which last name you had in order to fit in. Most are not dealt the cards to be born an Adamson, Youngberg, or Randall.

If by the will of Satan you are chosen to be a goth, then you know you will have to dress yourself in black, wear too much eye liner, and listen to metal. The Drama kids are forced into servitude in a dead end drama department where in the end only the real theatre admirers and parents show up to the performances. You also have to live with the fact that people will naturally call you weird. Wearing old fashioned dresses and wigs will always be considered strange, as well as singing along to the music of Cinderella.

The hicks of our school, whom the politically correct term would be called Country people, are probably the most ignorant and annoying. At my first high school I never saw a group of kids have a tailgate party during lunch. Well let me tell you, it can happen, and it’s weird. There is nothing like the sounds of Clint Black and Toby Keith blasting from a shitty pickup. There is always some sort of stupid conversation about trucks or which teacher caught them chewing the other day, totally ridiculous.

The final group, of which I have known to be the greatest disappointment, is the stoners. I also call this group the idiots. At first it seems that they would be enlightening. They aren’t. There is nothing truly amazing about smoking weed before class, while skipping class, after class, on the weekends, in the middle of the night, and all the other times that you might just possibly have the option of lighting up a bowl. Not to mention the substance turns everyone into “chilled out” also known as relaxed fools. There are no moments of wondrous philosophy or anything. It’s just a bunch of people sitting around waiting for something to happen. And then it doesn’t.

In the end it didn’t matter what group you belonged to. At the end of high school we all stood together, no matter what our differences were, in the same cap & gown with the same diploma and the same accomplishment. We all graduated. Some of us did more than others. Some of us even were even able to make a speech (or two). But at the end of the day we were all the same. In the eyes of our peers we weren’t but in the eyes of our teachers, parents, and friends we were just graduates of Estacada High School.

I have been told several times what an accomplishment it is to graduate. To me its just another step I had to take. The kids that I graduated with have long since dissipated in different directions. A few went out of state, some go to my college, but most I rarely hear from. And then one day I heard from many of them.

What I have learned in the last year, the year I have been out of school is this: We may all come from different places but sometimes we are affected by the same things and that connects us.

Reed

“While my Guitar Gently Weeps” is one of my favorite songs. The Beatles really had something when they played that song. The lyrics, the music all connect to make a beautiful perfect song. It invokes so many emotions in me when I hear it. That was the song that was playing the first day in Mister Nick Reed’s room junior year.

I’m a skeptic at heart. I’m critical and mean and often times rude. So was Mister Reed. Not to say that he was naturally rude, but when you were he could turn you down with his words. There is a lot to say about a teacher who can put you in your place with a few words and then win you back with a few more.

Rarely do you get a class with kids who all like each other, junior honors history was quite like that. The classroom was divided into fourths. Everyone sat by who they liked. I found a place at the back of the room, away from this new weird looking teacher who had taken the spot of my old favorite Ms. Splitt. Within instants of the bell ringing, Reed was at the front of the class looking expectedly for us to quiet down. Wasn’t happening, Not the first day of a new year with 35 sixteen and seventeen year olds. And that’s when he walked over to his desk, grabbed his guitar and began strumming at the front of the class. He played gracefully, his fingers moving quickly and professionally. It was the Beatles’ While My Guitar Gently Weeps.

Some of the kids started to quiet down and listen. Mister Reed did not look like a rockstar. Half a head taller than me, thin with a pot belly, fiery red hair and an awkward stance he was not the next big somebody to appear on MTV or VH1, yet without much effort he captured a rowdy class’ attention.

He slowly transitioned into Tequila Sunrise and then Tambourine Man. After playing both pieces with astounding ability he quietly walked over to his guitar case and put it away. The class which had been loud was now silent, and he took control.

That was how Reed was, one minute breaking into song, the next faking a homosexual hairdresser’s voice. It was easy to see him breaking the awkward teacher-student barrier that held so many back.

Within a term I was finding myself in his class more and more. By spring trimester I was aiding for him one period, taking history with him the next, and also an independent study. He was slowly engrossing my junior year. My independent study was during his prep period and we often found ourselves talking rather than working. Anything was a topic: friends, family, life struggles, and the like. He made things so easy.

It got intense when I started letting him read my daily journal entries. This was a new and difficult step. I had never let anyone read them before. But it was time that I had an adult’s opinion. He read with care, and I read his short stories. They were brilliant accounts of an Ohio childhood. It seemed like I had met someone who understood me without judging. It was like I had a second father, but this one actually cared.

Final Piece of the Puzzle
I truly believe that in order to understand the light we must understand the darkness. Without this knowledge we wouldn’t know the difference. One must exist for the other to exist. Like love and hate. Without one the other means nothing. It’s kind of like life and death. In order to appreciate life we must understand the loss of life, the loss of those we have in this world.
I used to believe that I could not make it without people beside me to survive, that people were the only thing that helped me to survive. But what I have learned is that sometimes we can’t save ourselves. We have to help others instead. In order to survive we must find something to keep us moving on. In order to bring peace to our lives we must find it in ourselves and in those we know and love.
I found strength at a young age. Most people I know haven’t seen or done the things I have. Most have no idea what it feels like to lose everything you have and then try to piece your life together. But it doesn’t matter. It only matters that I have changed my life on my own.
Once upon a time there was a girl. She wasn’t much but another teenager who was trying to deal with the typical worries: family, friends, boys, popularity, etc. There isn’t much to say, except that she was wrapped up in her own world. She took everyone for granted. Until one day she received a phone call.
The voice on the other end told her that everything was changing, that cancer was taking over, that everything would be okay. But nothing really was. Maturity came that day, final realization that nothing is meant to stay the same. And that love cannot save a person’s life. That not even prayer and faith can save. She prayed. She went to church. She did the things. She believed. There was no sign of death, no sign of giving up, just love and faith.
Over a year later there was another message. This time it said it was the end. The cancer won, death won. God did not answer prayers. All the father, son, and holy ghost were just part of a prayer. And in the end it was over. No one could stop that. This man, Nick Reed, was dead and that girl realized that nothing can stop death.
I wish I could believe in something to make death less what it is; some heaven or paradise that exists for those who leave us. It is the darkness none of us understand. There is no glory or beauty in death. It is what it is: nothingness. No one can change that. Religion, spirituality, doctors, nobody can stop it. We are all stuck in the same predicament. We will die in the end.
I will die. You will die. Reed died. Alex died. Ryan died. Elwin died. Even Jesus died. In the end it’s all the same.
Some sick connection between all of us. We may never unite the world, but we will all end up the same. There is truth in that.

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