Three hours ago my phone rang. The mother of a boy who spent more time in my home than his own when he was fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen, called to say he has died.
Cause of death?
Drug overdose.
What do you say? How do you help? How do you make sense of such senseless loss?
He was the brightest and most promising of all my son's friends, second favorite of mine. Born in Costa Rica, in American since he was twelve. He was smart, dark, and so good looking I often teased him calling him pretty boy. Fiercely loyal, and sweetly protective, yet self-destructive and volatile, I always worried most about him.
He had a charming disposition, and could wheedle me into doing pretty much anything he wanted.
"Ms. Pamala, will you bake me a cake?"
"Oh, please, Ms. Pamala, you know how much I luve your cakes."
Cocking his head to one side, making his brown eyes all big and puppy dog sweet, smiling his crooked little smile, his accent more pronounced for impact and effect, and soon the smell of cake was filling the apartment.
We used to sit around the table late into the night, my son, myself, and his little group of friends playing scrabble, or cards, or dominoes, and through the hours, through the years, I grew to love these boys.
I knew they did drugs, some of them very serious drugs, I knew they did things that would horrify me were I to be given complete privy into their world, I knew my son would be better off, safer, without them in his life, but these were the friends he had chosen, and so I concluded my best line of defense would be to get to know them, really get to know them, to make my home a safe place for them to be, no judgments, no calling other parents, no anger, no threats, just honest input and perhaps they would come to care what I thought enough to afford me some influence.
I figured they were safer in my home than running the streets, and though I did not allow drugs or alcohol to be openly used in my home, I was not so stupid as to believe they were not, and I never fussed or griped at them when they arrived, clearly under the influence. I wanted to keep the lines of communication opened between my son and myself, wanted him to be able to trust me, wanted him to know he could talk to me about anything and so we formed a crazy, mixed up little family, me, Micheal, and four crazy, bad-ass boys I soon grew to love so much I would be willing to lay down my life for theirs.
Now one is gone. Dead at twenty-one.
Shortly before his eighteenth birthday, Michael came to me and told me he wanted to go to a different school, one that specialized in at risk kids, they had an accelerated program, lower teacher/student ratios, and special training. He wanted to sever all ties, understood if he didn't he would end up dropping out of school, which he no longer wanted, and so we moved into this school's district away from his boyhood friends, and they were not invited into his new world, so I honored his strength, his choice for a better life and said good bye to these boys as well.
I ran into Ronald a year after we moved. He was in the cigarette store I buy my cloves from, looking so thin, covered in pock marks, so strung out I burst into tears and asked him what the hell he had done to himself, didn't even try to hide my horror.
He laughed his silly little dismissive laugh, cocked his head, smiled his smile, and said, "Oh Ms. Pamala, you are being so silly." Then went on to try to pursued me he was clean and had his life together.
For once he was not able to wheedle his way around me.
I told him outright that I was terrified for him and it was clear he was not clean nor sober, I hugged him and told him I loved him, then teasingly smacked the back of his head and said, "Of all Michael's friends you are the one who could go the furthest, you're the smartest, the best looking, the most driven, and I just want to see you live long enough to get there. Please, Ronald, Please use that head of yours,"
That was the last time I ever saw him. He was seventeen almost eighteen.
Three months ago I ran into his mom at the gym. She told me how he was finally clean. He was attending the local Jr. college, and working a full-time job. She gave me his phone number and I talked with him a handful of times, the last two weeks ago to make plans to take him to lunch.
I don't know what happened. I don't understand. Maybe he thought one more time for old times sake, maybe it was the end of a long hard day and he just needed a little help to make it through, I don't know, it just doesn't make any sense.
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