Disclaimer: I was only nine years old when Adam died, so I am telling this story from a child's point of view, backed up by physical evidence, autopsy reports, newspaper articles, and public records. Someone needs to tell this story so it doesn't happen again.
Adam died in 1983 when he was 6 1/2 years old. One morning I woke up and realized that the house was empty except for mom's roomate. She had been to a basketball game late the night before and was still sleeping. I heard some rustling or hurrying the night before in my sleep, but that was all. I thought that was odd, but sometimes mom stayed over at the boyfriend's house "to study" and took Adam with her. She had never left me alone before, though, and had never stayed over the whole night. I didn't know what to do, so I started to get dressed and pour myself some cereal. The roomate came out and asked where my mom was. I said I didn't know. Just then the phone rang and the roomate picked it up. She said something like "Oh, I see" and took down some directions. She told me she would take me to see my mom, and wouldn't say anything else. We drove for a long, long time and finally ended up at the boyfriend's mother's house. The house was usually full of children, but that morning it was empty. My mom and the boyfriend were sitting in the livingroom. He was sitting in an easy chair and she was sitting on a red velvet couch. She turned to me and said, "Adam's gone to heaven." I asked her how he died, and she said again, "Adam's gone to heaven." Thinking it was a sensitive question, I did not repeat it that day, but neither have I ever gotten an answer.
I never cried when Adam died. I don't know why, but all these years I've never cried but just a few passing tears. Instead, I've been haunted by an empty feeling inside that I've never been able to fill, like my life stopped in mid-stride and froze there forever. I have gone on with my life. It was never shattered by the loss in a way that a parent feels when they lose a child. It was more like an empty setting at the table, a ghost that was always around the corner, and even after Adam was buried, I have never been able to feel at peace with his passing. I have never been able to resolve it. It is still in limbo.
During Adam's funeral, I wore my Easter dress, not a black dress. I did not understand mourning yet. We sat in the front row and the preacher went on and on about how dedicated my mother was to him. The funeral was videotaped at my mother's request, which in those days was highly unusual. He had an open casket and when my turn came to see him, I looked at him and commanded myself to remember every detail about him. I told myself to store it in my memory and someday when I was bigger I could sort it all out. He was wearing a brand-new outfit--sky blue pair of pants, matching vest and bow-tie, and a white shirt. He was wearing his artificial arm. His hair was parted on the wrong side. His eyelashes were covered with white powder. He had a huge bruise on the left side of his forehead under the caked makeup. They buried him on a September afternoon. I jumped around on the flat tombstones in the children's section with my cousins, watched by a statue of a shepherd with his lambs.
This should have been the end of the story, but for those Adam left behind, it was just the beginning.
A few days after Adam was buried, I returned to school. A few days after that, I was called into the principal's office and met by two men in suits. They asked me all kinds of questions about how mom disciplined us. I remember telling them that mom used to spank me, but now she put me in the corner. With Adam, she would sometimes slap his hand if "no" didn't work. But she never beat us. I even had to demonstrate how hard mom slapped Adam by slapping the arm of one of the men. When I told my mom about it, she told me not to talk to anyone else who came to ask me questions.
About a week after that, my principal escorted me to a white Child Protective Services car, where I forever left my old world behind. I remember that day that I left my notebook open on my desk, my lunch on the shelf, my coat on its hook, and my little dog waiting for me to come home. We drove for a long time and ended up in a building on the other side of town where my father was waiting for me in the lobby.
My mother and her boyfriend were then charged with murdering Adam. The autopsey revealed that Adam had been beaten to death. His brain was swollen in his skull, his liver had been nearly severed, and he was covered with bruises. The coroner testified during the hearing that it looked like Adam "had been thrown from a two-story building and landed on a picket fence." Neither my mom or her boyfriend said anything during the hearing. They were never brought to trial. They could prove that my brother was murdered, but could not prove who did it. I know nothing about the night he died--where Adam and my mom went, how they ended up at the hospital, or what happened in-between. Only my mom knows that--and she isn't telling, not even after all these years.
In the years that followed, my mom has claimed different things--that he was "falling apart" and his syndrome caused him to die, that the paramedics were too rough on him when they tried to revive him. I might believe these explanations if only she would run through what happenend that night. I have asked several times but never gotten an answer.
In the months to follow I had to decide who I was to live with. It was the most difficult decision I ever had to make. In the end, I chose my dad. The happy house I lived with my mom in was sold, my brother was gone, and I would have had to change schools. In addition, I did not entirely trust my mom anymore. My dad had helped me get ahead in school. Although I got used to the new school near my dad's house and had friends, I always felt like I was in a foreign land. But for me, there was no going back. My innocence was gone, along with my brother. I had only to look forward to making a life for myself.