mysteryoriley

of some kind, of some remembrance, of some first time, or a last.

Here’s a recap of our recent anniversaries:

Today, June 3 – the one-year anniversary of the first evening our close friends and family came together in our living room to remember Owen.

Yesterday, June 2 – the one-year anniversary of the morning some local kids sent our family and friends on a wild-goose-chase to search for Owen; and the afternoon Owen’s body was found in the Petaluma River by two young people, one of whom had visited our house and was a friend of the kids who contrived the wild-goose-chase.

June 1 – the one-year anniversary of the day Sgt. Hunter of the Petaluma Police Department told me by phone to stop calling the police department with information and suggestions; told me to call only if I knew where Owen was; told me to just leave messages on Officer Begrin’s voicemail, “he’ll be in this evening.”  After that, and on the advise of a friend whose husband is a Sheriff’s Deputy in another county, I rented a pilot and airplane to take me up over Petaluma to look for Owen’s orange bicycle, hoping he would be nearby – because the Petaluma Police Department had not requested the help of our county search and rescue unit.

May 31 – the one-year anniversary of the day Dave and I began questioning kids downtown and started our own ground search with “missing person” flyers, as the police had assured us that Owen would come home, and we knew this meant they were investing very little time and effort in the search.  Also, the day Nat, Michael, Dave, and I first acknowledged to each other that we felt something terrible had happened to Owen. 

May 30 – the one-year anniversary of the day I called the Petaluma Police Department to report Owen missing.  Officer Clay Begrin repeatedly told me all the reasons he thought Owen would come home any minute, even though he had never met Owen, nor knew anything about him.  Also, the day I became acutely aware that being a young person (particularly a young man) over the age of 18 means that law enforcement officers will spend more time trying to talk your loved ones out of filing a missing person’s report, than documenting accurate information that could help in a search.

May 29 – the one-year anniversary of the last time Owen went to see a movie; the evening he was stopped by a police officer for riding his bike on the sidewalk, and though the officer reported that he smelled alcohol on Owen’s breath, told him to walk his bike home. 

May 28 – the one-year anniversary of the last time I saw Owen, the last time I drove him to and from work, the last time we had a great talk, the last time we listened to music together, the last time he told me he loved me, and the last time he heard me say, “I love you, too, Owen.”

May 27 – the one-year anniversary of the last time Owen had friends over to our house.

Now, while we grasp at every shred of memory to sustain the gift of Owen in our lives, we begin our second year without him.  The anniversaries above will be joined with new ones, different ones, hopefully less painful ones.

Last Tuesday, I was talking with a friend on the phone, and she asked what I was thinking about the anniversary of Owen’s death.  I told her that without an actual date of death, we have 5 days that feel like anniversaries, each one a new phase of the days he was missing, then found dead.  It’s hard to make these days so very different from any other day of the year.  No matter what day it is, there’s something memorable that happened on that date the year before, or that date ten years before – even when we can’t remember what happened – that makes it an anniversary. 

Well, that seemed like a good way to think of it before these days arrived.  It seemed reasonable.  Perhaps, in time, it will feel true.  The way it worked though, went like this: I relived everything in acute detail, and when I didn’t remember something exactly, I either asked Dave or Nat, or talked with Lea on the phone.  In the middle of the night, I rewound the tapes in my head over and over, because no one was awake to confirm or clarify my memories.  This morning, when I couldn’t remember a specific thing, I looked through my notes and the documentation from the coroner’s office and the police department.  I noticed myself staring off into the distance more over the last week.  I noticed myself less patient, snapping at Dave for the slightest agitation.  I noticed myself searching for The Big Dipper, and finding it most nights.  I noticed myself watching Nat more, examining him – the way he walks, the way he talks, the things he says, the things he doesn’t.  Owen learned a lot from him.  I noticed myself going through the motions, but being someplace else. 

We moved out of Petaluma two weekends ago.  Dave found the right place for us – Nat, Anna, and Ruby moved in with us – and we left the river town that used to be my favorite place on the planet.  In the weeks before the move, I struggled with the fact that we would be leaving Petaluma a few days before the anniversary/ies.  I felt guilty, like I was abandoning a prescribed timeframe and location for grieving, all the while knowing that grief has no timeframe, no location.  Arriving at our new place, I was excited for all the possibilities.  We have some fun projects planned, and having the kids here makes for days filled with hope. 

What will I remember about these days next year?  I will remember that our first week here was spent reliving the first year after Owen’s death.  I will remember our first visitors, we had plenty over this past weekend.  I will remember our trip to Petaluma yesterday.  We made offerings to The River, commemorating Owen’s life – coins, beverages, tobacco, and flowers – and left special messages.  We also met up with one of Owen’s friends from the theater.  She has been a consistent correspondent over this past year, and is a delightful person.  I can see why she and Owen were friends. 

I will remember last night, when I finally told Nat how I think Owen was killed.  Together, we pulled most of our collective puzzles into a near-complete picture, from the following:

• the discrepancies in our largely blacked-out and incomplete copy of the police investigation report (they refuse to release the full report to us, suggesting they have something to hide or protect; and our copy only includes documentation through June 8, 2007, though the investigation continued until October 31, 2007)
• the autopsy report which states, “Although our preference is to document a specific manner for death, this is one of those rare cases where the lack of definitive evidence leads me to manner this death as “Undetermined”…Case closed.”
• Capt. Dan Fish’s statement to me about three weeks after Owen’s body was found, when he said that Owen’s death was likely to become an urban legend because they (the PPD) had been told about two dozen different versions of what happened that night, with no credible witnesses
• our conversations with people who knew Owen
• our conversations with people who didn’t know Owen
• the slanted newspaper reports, including conflicting and/or inaccurate information, and misquotes
• Owen’s propensity to trust people to be their best (even when their best sucked), and to speak his mind regardless of his audience
• Owen’s plans for his future
• our own notes, letters, and recollections

We have a picture that makes sense, one on which we agree.  We will continue to look for the last missing piece. 

And, we will remember to celebrate the anniversaries.  Every day.

Song for the day:  I Will Follow You Into the Dark, Death Cab for Cutie (to Owen from Miss S)

http://youtube.com/watch?v=Z6rhQS0qCGs&feature=related

~ by Linda on June 3, 2008.

Posted in bicycles, brothers, child loss, grief, friends, Nat Riley, Owen Riley, Michael Douglas Riley, Linda Siniard, loss, love, children, death, family, friends, grief, learning, Life, missing persons, mothering, music, mystery, parenting, writing
Tags: child loss, grief, friends, Nat Riley, Owen Riley, Michael Douglas Riley, Linda Siniard, loss, love, David Tegnell, Death Cab for Cutie, Emmitt Owen Riley, grief, hope, I Will Follow You Into the Dark, Lea Kelley, Linda Siniard, missing persons, Nat Riley, Owen Riley, Petaluma Police Department, Petaluma River