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Super Secret Agent Spy

I am a writer. And a doodler. And an eater of Twizzlers. And the mother of MuShu, the wonder puppy. I love long walks on the beach, fast cars, fine din. . .whoops. Wrong website. . ....

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Rockabye Sweet Baby James

Amy Fagan

I’m writing this wondering if, by the time I get to the end, I’ll highlight it all and hit “DELETE.”  I never can make a solid decision when it comes to writing about my brother. Sometimes, I want to share him with people, because he did LIVE; proof that he was here. Other times, I want to keep him locked up in my heart and my head. Almost like an imaginary friend who no one else can see. There are times when I start writing about him and either find it too painful. Still, there are other times when I want to share but don’t, as I don’t want people to think I’m pandering to their sympathy. I don’t want sympathy. I just want you to understand.

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My brother was only 19 when he died. I was 24. And I don’t care if you are 9 or 90, having someone you love taken from you so suddenly, so violently. . .it’s. . .it’s. . .There are no words to describe how that feels. “A kick in the stomach”  or “knife in the heart”. . .nothing. Nothing works. Nothing describes it. Perhaps, I could say, that it is like having your unwilling soul ripped from your body. . .that’s getting kind of close. But only marginally.

The night before Valentine’s Day, 1999, I was restless, agitated and snappish. My boyfriend was getting on my nerves, my phone was out of service, my father had come for a visit and decided to stay for an undetermined amount of time. Even my dog, Karl the Amazing Rottweiler, was agitated. My dogs and I are always on the same page. At least one male in the house knew what I was feeling. Chalking it up to PMS, I tried to go to bed. Karl barked a few times and I asked my boyfriend to go check it out. He did. Raccoons, he said. I lived out at Folly Beach and raccoons were always climbing into your trash. They still do.

A few fits and starts and sleep finally came until there was a LOUD bark and what sounded like a knock at the door. My boyfriend (who later became Husband Number One. . .) answered and it was . . .my grandmother and my youngest brother, Cody. It didn’t make sense to me. I looked at the clock. I rubbed my eyes. It was after 3:30 in the morning. What the hell was going on?

My father was up at this point, and I heard my grandmother say “They want you to come to the hospital. James has been in an accident. He is at the head trauma unit at MUSC. They won’t tell me anything. They’ll only talk to you, Butch.” My dad hurried back to his room to get dressed. I grabbed up what I’d been wearing that day – Tommy Hilfiger jeans, a charcoal grey sweater set from The Limited.

My first thought was “James. . .I am going to kick your ass.” But as soon as that thought entered my mind, this huge and heavy stillness welled up inside of me. There was no fear, there was no anger, no sadness;  there was just. . .stillness. And I knew, in that moment, that I would not be kicking his ass. I knew that I would be on my knees begging him to come back to life. This realization knocked the wind out of me. I swallowed hard. I came out of the stillness, and because I have a tendency toward the dramatic, I rolled my eyes at myself and began working on convincing myself that I was wrong.

So, everyone – my boyfriend, my brother, my grandmother and me, all piled into two cars and headed towards downtown Charleston. We took the “new” bridge (It’s, like, 10 years old. Still, we call it the “new” bridge.) As was crossed over Charleston Harbor, I looked to my left and saw blue lights on the Ashely River bridge. . .the “old” bridge. . .the bridge we always liked to take because we like “old” things. I cannot thank God enough for having us travel the new bridge that morning. Had we crossed the old bridge, I do not know if what little sanity I possessed would’ve stayed with me.

We arrived at the hospital, the friend my brother had been travelling with was sitting in a waiting room, ashen, shaken. We were whisked past him and into a small, clean waiting room. I saw the badge before I saw anything else. CHAPLAIN, it said. It rested on the large breast of a large, apple-cheeked woman, gray-haired and kind faced. We sat. We waited. No one said a word.

Finally, when the doctor came in to deliver news that my heart already knew, I shut my eyes so I didn’t have to see my father’s face, I heard my grandmother begin to wail. It was a sound alien to me. At that moment, it struck me that I’d never heard her cry before, in all my years with her. Never once. Not ever. My brother, shaking, sobbing.

I’m crying now at the memory of it all, but you might be surprised to know that I didn’t cry then. The news was delivered, I shut my eyes, put my hands to my face, ran them through my hair and just checked out. . .went on autopilot. There were things to do, things to be taken care of.

And my mother didn’t know. The pain of having this knowledge before my mother did was unnerving. It didn’t seem fair or right. She was on a trip to Washington, D.C. . .in the middle of a god damn airline strike. My grandmother would call her hotel room and deliver the news to her. That was not a telephone conversation I wanted to hear. I could not, at the time, think of my beautiful mother, sitting in a hotel room hundreds of miles away, and having someone tell her that her son was dead. Not hurt, not dying, not in a coma. . .but dead.

My family has always had a great relationship with hope. Hope kept my grandfather alive and appearing healthy for nine years after they told him he would die of cancer in two. Hope kept my father from dying in Vietnam. Hope allowed my diabetic mother to give birth to my youngest sister without killing herself.

But here? Now? Hope was nowhere to be found. There was nothing to offer my mother, no lifeline, no bright side. Her son was dead and there was no hope that would bring him back. Hope never had a chance.

Because of the airline strike, my mother had to ride for nine hours in the car, with that knowledge sitting heavy beside her. Her eldest son, her tow-headed, impish, surfing, irreverent, bad-boy of a son was dead. And there was nowhere she could find refuge from that fact. Not in the waking world, not in sleep.

Back at the hospital, my grandmother tried to comfort me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. I brushed her off. I didn’t want hugs or warmth. I wanted to exist in this state of frozen animation. If no one touched me, if no one talked, I would be fine.

They asked if we wanted to see him. The coroner suggested it. And of course, the three of us that braved it all saw different things.

My father saw his baby boy, laying on a gurney with a blanket covering him.

My brother still swears that he saw cuts on his face and blood on the head of his elder brother.

I. . .I didn’t see any of those things. And I don’t know if it’s because I’m a head-case or if I did, after all,  inherit some of that “seeing-beyond” vision my great-grandmother had, I saw something else entirely.

Now, I know that they inject the dead with a drug that keeps their body warm, the pink in their cheeks. I know that. I’m not stupid. But when I looked down at my brother and reached down to hug him, he felt alive. He looked as if he were going to sit up and sleepily say “Where the heck am I? Where are my pants?” because that is exactly something he would say. I saw no cuts. No blood. Nothing. I saw a beautiful, sleeping human being. I looked down at my brother and he appeared golden, filled with life and light, and though I knew he was dead, that stillness came back and I knew that he was, in essence, o.k.

The coroner was there and she looked at me and said “You’re handling this very well. . .are you o.k.?” I looked at her and smiled and said “I don’t think I am, but I don’t know what to do about it.” She asked if wanted to pray and I declined. At that moment, I didn’t feel the need. I just wanted to be silent. I  remember a cop looking for my dad. . .he eyed me up and down and said “And you are. . .?”  I didn’t like his attitude.

I looked at him and said “The dead kid’s sister. Who the hell are you?” Thankfully, the coroner lead him to my dad.

While, unbeknownst to me, the cop was telling my dad the details of my brother’s death, the CHAPLAIN and a nurse lead a young man towards me. He smelled of alcohol and cigarettes. And either they lied when they told me that he was a friend of my brother or else I misunderstood. . .I felt bad for him. I stuck my hand out and said “I’m sorry. If we’ve met before, I don’t recognize you. I just. . .I. . .” and the young man said to me “Is he o.k.?” I said “Umm. . .no. He is dead.” And the boy collapsed.

Later on, it was my understanding that the “boy” I was speaking to was actually the thirty-something-year-old man responsible for my brother’s death. I suppose it is a good thing. . .the misunderstanding. If I’d known who he was and knew the facts at the time, things would’ve happened a lot differently.

The man whose hand I shook had been leaving, depending on who you believe, his work or a friend's house or a brother's house. . .and was dozing off, changing the radio station. . .when he came  upon my brother and his best friend, Chris, trying to push Chris's car to the emergency lane of the Old Bridge. They'd be out and the car had broken down. Chris was leaning into the passenger door, pushing and steering. James was at the back. According to Chris, everything happened in an instant. They were pushing, saw no lights, barely heard the car when they were hit. Chris was knocked back into the car, James was dead and the guy was trying to run away. . .or move his car. . .depending on who you ask. Chris jumped on the hood of the guy's car and stopped him from leaving. Some days, I wish Chris had let him leave. Then he'd still be sitting in jail for leaving the scene of an accident. Unfortunately, because of chain of evidence, no sobriety test, and an entire truck load full of fuck ups, the Solicitor could only charge him with. . .Driving Under Suspension, Third Offense. No one ever goes to jail for that. He received the maximum sentence and had to sit in jail for it. It sounds like a horrible miscarriage of justice.  . .and it is. But frankly, getting the max sentence on a charge you can win is better than the guy walking on a higher charge you can't prove. We had to accept that and be satisfied.

From the hospital, we all went back to my mother’s house. There was no use staying at the hospital any longer. They couldn’t keep him there for the hours it was going to take my mother to get home. At the time, I thought nothing could break my heart more than to leave my baby brother alone in that hospital.

I was wrong.

The days that followed are a little blurry to me. I remember making phone calls to my uncles; I remember their arrivals. I remember my mother finally making it back and me not knowing if I could handle seeing her face. God, I worried about her so. I worried that her regrets would kill her. Not one thing in specific, but all of you parents out there know that there are things you want to say to your children and don’t. Day to day life removes the preciousness from the relationship and you can’t always get around to what you want to say.

One thing that stands out in my memory more than anything else from the following day, is the arrival of the first flowers that were sent to us in honor of my brother. I was at my mother’s glass door when I saw a van pull up from Butterfly Flower Shop. A man stepped out and was holding the most beautiful glass vase filled to overflowing with stunning white tulips. For all it’s simplicity, it was the most beautiful arrangement I’d ever seen. I heard someone say “Maybe they’re from the church. . .” but before the guy could get half way down the sidewalk, I burst forth with “No. They are from Lale.”

I was friends with, at the time, a girl whose name, Lale, means “tulip” in Turkish. I knew they were from her and I don’t know how or why I knew. I just did. It was the only moment throughout that dark period where I saw a spark of light. I don’t know how or why. . .they just seemed to ignite hope, if only for a moment, that things could be beautiful again one day.

My mother and I went to my brother’s apartment to pick out clothes for him to wear. My brother was a surfer and that’s how he would be dressed for the last time. . .as what he WAS. Not some goof charading in a buttoned up shirt he never would’ve worn in life. We would not allow it.Sure, he’d get dressed up every once in a while to go out – wide-whale corduroys and a long sleeve Ralph Lauren – but generally, his style was “surf shop.” So, that’s what we choose for him. Long sleeved surf T.

I was surprised that we had an open casket visitation. It’s not my mother’s style, but my father insisted. After all, James was his son, too. So we did. And I am glad. It helped me see that we are not our bodies. It helped me understand that this was not a dream. It was visceral. It was real. He was leaving us. He was already gone. We had his casket covered in tulips. It’s struck my mother as special, too, when the tulips had originally arrived. Yellow and purple tulips. Beautiful, strong and vibrant. Just like James.

As people filed out of the funeral home after the visitation, my mother and I stood there by James’ casket, looking at him, looking at each other. I had not cried quite so much as when I looked at her and said “I know we have to go, but I can’t leave him. I don’t want to leave him.” She didn’t want to leave, either. How could we?

Suddenly, from one of the outer rooms, came the biggest honking nose-blow we’d ever heard. And out of sheer habit, we both raised our eye-brows in shock and then looked to James – both of us expecting him to laugh. . .which was, in it’s absurdity, even funnier. And then, the miracle happened. We both started cracking up. LOUDLY.

What the people who came running back into the room to check on us will never understand is that in that moment of pure, shining honesty, the habits of years of love, the bond of laughter that we shared as siblings to each other and as children to our mother, remained unbroken. Not even death could take away all that we’d built. Yes, it removed the possibility of any further adventures, but it was unable to bring down such a strong horse. As far as I’m concerned, my brother still lives.

He was cremated, pre his oft expressed wishes, and given back to the ocean he loved so dearly on the warmest, sunniest day I've yet to experience in a February. His funeral was held at the Folly Beach Pier, sun-kissed surfers, family and dolphins in attendance. The minister said something, I said something and we played music. The song I remember the most is Jackson Browne's Rock me on the Water. It is one of my father’s favorite songs, but it seemed so fitting for the day. We threw flowers in the water and watched the current lay them out in a path no one man could’ve designed. They all seemed to collect and get carried along a certain stream, making a path towards the sunlight. I’ve never attended a more beautiful goodbye.

I played James Taylor on the way home. “There is a young cowboy, who lives on the range. . .so goodnight all you moonlight ladies! Rock-a-bye sweet baby James. Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose, won’t you let me go down in my dreams? Oh and rock-a-bye sweet baby James.”

I think of my brother every, single day. I know that my parents do. I know that my siblings do as well. We all miss James – but each of us lost someone very different. My parents lost their first-born son. My youngest brother lost his “big brother” – whom he was just really beginning to understand. My younger sisters lost someone to look up to; another protector. . .or tormentor. Depending on which sister you are. (giggle)

Me? I lost my baby brother. I lost the baby I almost suffocated while playing “CHOO CHOO TRAIN” with baby powder. I lost the kid I’d picked on mercilessly, and the kid I’d loved even more. I lost the guy I loved to hammer with speeches of responsibility and being “an upstanding citizen” who can’t just QUIT A JOB because they won’t give him time off to surf. I lost someone who I was only just beginning to see was more than an extension of our parents or our family; someone who was growing into a really good man.

I imagine him, often, as an adult, a father. He would’ve been a good one. For all he went through with his dyslexia and ADD, he would’ve been experienced enough to tell a teacher “NO, he’s not going on Ritalin.” He would’ve taken enough hard knocks from my dad to have been a little more gentle with his boys. Maybe his fathering style  would’ve encouraged instead of humiliate his sons. (Don’t hate my dad for that. It’s just his way.)  He would’ve been a good father. I think so.

There is a lot of guilt when someone leaves you unexpectedly. Every horrible thing you ever did or said comes rushing back to haunt you and torture your head. For months, I would wake in the night sobbing uncontrollably, working arguments over in my head. Did he know how much I loved him? Did I fail by not telling him every single day? God, it was torture. A lot of time was spent begging God “Please, please, please let him know. Please let him know, God. Please. Please let him know that I loved him. Please. Please.”

These days, I’m confident in the fact that he knows how very much I love and miss him. I will think of him and someone will mention tulips, or I’ll see a frog (another story, for another day) and take it as a wink from him, letting me know he’s there.

And I’ll talk about him – even to people who never knew him – to let them know that he was here. That once, a very mischievous little boy walked this earth and he was loved by his family every moment of every day.  . .always, when he was good. And even when he was being bad.

xoxo