12. A Fresh Start

He sat motionless on the floor, safely obscured in the late afternoon shadows. “Listening to Beatles won’t bring him back, you know.” No response. “Jerk,” his sister blared, as she stormed from his bedroom, slamming the door behind her. As she did, Leslie bumped into her mother, who had been eavesdropping in the hall. “Great! Welcome to Dorfman Prison,” the ten-year-old screamed as she fled to the shelter of her own bedroom. “I hate it here!” Rexanne tensed, waiting for another door to slam.

Slowly pushing on the handle, Rexanne whispered, “Brian? Can I come in?” The scrawny form in the corner, protectively caressing his guitar, seemed not to have heard her. Tentatively, she ventured toward him, cautiously stepping across a floor strewn with teenage debris. “She doesn’t hate us, you know. Leslie’s just hurting, like you are.  Like I am.”

Still nothing. “Oh hey, what’s this?” she asked, picking up a sheet of paper from his student desk. “Lyrics to a new song? Can you sing it for me?”

“It’s a fricken suicide note! You’re clueless.” Those words hit especially hard, as Harry had so often slung that insult at her many a time, before thundering out the door.

“Suicide note?” she cried. “Oh honey, please…” she began, as she moved toward him and started to lower herself.

“Not mine,” Brian mumbled, shaking his head. Looking up, he read her confusion. “OMG, you are so oblivious. Maybe if you’d have tuned into anything, or anyone, besides yourself, he’d still be here.” The slur cut deep. Rexanne tried to rub his back, but he twisted away. “Get out of my room. Leave me alone. Go!”

From down the hall, Rexanne could hear her daughter’s sobs faintly weeping through a door bearing a sign that read, “Princess.” Rex remembered watching Harry paint those letters for his “Little Bit,” as he called her. Just for a fleeting moment, she considered entering. But then thought the better of it.

She headed downstairs, her head a tempest of clashing, colliding thoughts and emotions. Mindlessly, she unfolded a tray stand, gathered three mugs, and set them on it. She pulled hot chocolate packets from the pantry as she waited for water on the stove to come to a boil.

 What should have been – or at least could have been – a minor peace offering in the Dorfman Standoff, was anything but. Rex tapped lightly on Leslie’s bedroom door and called to her but got only silence. She set down the wooden tray and dared to turn the doorknob.

A sudden gust of cool air brushed across the raised ridges of her concerned forehead. With her eyes adjusting to the dim lighting, what came into view instantly shocked her; an open window, bracketed by a set of paisley drapes flapping like flags in a violent wind.

 Now in full panic mode, Rexanne ran frantically throughout the house, calling out her name. When that failed, she yelled, “Brian! Come here!” Terrified, she screamed up the stairwell, “Brian!”

A disheveled boy in rumpled pajamas emerged on the landing. “What?” he barked, casting a quick eye at the wall calendar that read, October 9, 2005.

Ignoring the exaggerated contempt on his belligerent mug, she pleaded, ‘‘Have you seen your sister? I’ve looked everywhere. She is not in the house. Her window’s wide open!”

“Yeah,” he responded unemotionally. “She ran away.”

“Not funny, Brian,” she said, her pointer finger trembling. “Not funny at all.”

“I wasn’t joking. She left a note.” Rexanne watched a small piece of paper tumble through the air, like an autumn leaf drifting to its ultimate demise. It came to rest on the bottom step, face up. All it said was, ‘I told you I hate it here.”

“Do you know where she went? Where? You need to take me there. Right now,” she demanded.

“You just don’t get it,” he said over his shoulder, heading back to the sanctuary of his room. Rexanne heard his door bang shut. There she stood at the bottom of the stairs, completely empty, with no heavenly idea what to do next. Then, just as she collapsed limply against the wall, a pair of laced-up army boots scurried down the stairs, barely touching every other step.

“Stay here!” Brian commanded. “You’ve ruined things enough.”

As he peddled his bike down the driveway, he barked through the dining room window, “Don’t follow me!” He kept checking over his shoulder until he was far enough down Marmosa to be certain he was alone. Banking right onto Martinique, he quickly reached Lucerne, where he made another hard right turn. He counted up five houses from the corner and glided down a fancy driveway surfaced with faux brick.

Around back, he spotted Leslie’s T-Rider by the pool and dropped his bike next to hers. From there, he darted down the sidewalk to the canal where a 2003 Chris-Craft Launch gently swayed in its slip. A beautiful bowrider with well-oiled wood trim and shiny brass, she afforded the perfect hiding place. The owners were on a long winter vacation in Europe, an adult fact not missed by the neighborhood children.

Brian climbed aboard. “Les, it’s me.” Gripping the rails of the Jacob’s ladder, he stepped down. The cuddy cabin was not large, but adequate for a short booth on which Leslie was comfortably curled. At first, she complained that he was ruining her silence.

There were times, like this one, when Brian could be the perfect older brother – surprisingly selfless, remarkably insightful. It required only a few probing questions for Leslie to be crying on his shoulder, his caring embrace shielding her from a deeply disappointing world.

“… I don’t know,” he responded to her question. “Probably never know why.” She looked up when she felt him rubbing his eyes. “Maybe it was her. Maybe it wasn’t.”

They nestled there, tight in each other’s grip, as God gently rocked them into serenity. For the first time since their father had died, they had shared genuine emotions. They laughed. They cried. They yelled. They giggled. Brian confessed that he was lost. Leslie admitted that she was scared.

“Well, we’re all alone now,” Leslie whispered. “I suppose mom’s worried, huh?”

“Yeah. We need to go back. She needs us, you know,” he added.

As she stared across the cluttered desk, Rexanne was completely mesmerized by the bony nose of Gorrie’s school administrator, known endearingly by the students as Ms. Terror. “I don’t understand,” she sighed in a whispered voice. “I drop him off every day, myself!”

Mrs. Terrance turned the monitor on her desk so that Rexanne could watch the grainy video images of her son waving her goodbye at the drop-off lane. Then, once the minivan had driven away, Brian would casually meander to a spot in the west garden and suddenly disappear into a hidden path. Where he went from there was anybody’s guess.

The school counselor, sitting to her side, had an irritatingly high-pitched, scratchy voice that sounded to Rexanne like nails on a chalkboard. As he chimed in with his expertly Two Cents, Rexanne flinched, feeling double-teamed. “We know Brian— all of you — have been through a difficult ordeal, Mrs. Dorfman,” he said condescendingly. “But we think it might be best that Brian — and Leslie — get professional help.”

At the inclusion of Leslie’s name, Rexanne’s eyes shot up at Ms. Terror, and then over at Mr. High-and-Mighty. Gasping a sudden deep breath, she offered, “I’m sorry for the trouble, Mrs. Terrance. I’ll have a stern talk with Brian…”

“I don’t think you fully understand the situation, Mrs. Dorfman.” Rexanne’s brows tightened. “We simply don’t have adequate resources for Brian here.”

The guidance counselor added over-dramatic nuance. “He’s been in three different fights. He has stopped doing any homework. He was caught trying to set the trash can in the boy’s room on fire. He’s…”

“Enough! I get the point,” Rexanne barked as she stood, shoving the chair backward with her legs. “How much time do I have?”

She drove home on autopilot, her head in a fog of defeat, trying to figure out what to do next. She had until week’s end.

He was taking stock of pantry and fridge contents when the phone rang. It was a chilly February morning in Colorado and the floor-to-ceiling windows were fogged from the heat of the Franklin Stove in the dining room. “Yeah, yello,” Jake answered. There was only silence. “Hello?”

He was about to hang up when she began to lightly sob, “It’s Rex, Jake.” She paused to clear the tears that had choked in her throat. “Is this a bad time?”

“Rex! No, not at all. How are you, dear?” It had been a good six months since Harry had taken his own life. Harry and Jake first met in high school, waging a well-fought competition to win the heart of one Sexy Rexy. That was the beginning of a lifelong friendship. Harry won the competition, and Rexanne urged Harry to ask Jake to be Best Man at their wedding. After the kids arrived, Jake was godfather to Brian and Leslie, who only knew him as Uncle Jake.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” she began.

“It’s fine. Didn’t want to grocery shop anyway. Damn cold here.” He invitingly softened and slowed his voice. “What’s going on, dear?”

Rexanne’s heart settled down, and she told him about the children and “their coping — or not coping — with life ever since…”. Her voice drifted off. “I just don’t know what to do. How to make it better for them, you know.” She paused again, but Jake said nothing. “Why did he do it, Jake? Why! He’s left me with such a mess. I’m so broken.” Jake’s continued silence suddenly registered with her. “Sorry.  Shouldn’t have called.”

He sensed she was about to hang up. “Rex, I can fly out. Be there tomorrow. What do you say?” He waited for a response. “Florida in February? What’s not to love?”

“Thanks, but not necessary. Besides, it’s my struggle to figure out. You men are all alike. Think you can just sweep in and save the damsel in distress.”

“Dis dress? Which dress? Depends on which dress you’re wearing, damsel,” he chided in his best Joe Pesci voice.

Forgot about Jake’s corny humor, Rex remembered. “I’m sorry, Jake. I know you only meant well. Truth is, I’ve been thinking about moving.”

“A new house? New surroundings might be a good idea. Get off Davis Islands. Where to? Somewhere out by the causeway, on the water? Great real estate on Tampa Bay.”

“Seattle,” she announced.

“As in, Washington?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, that’s definitely a change in scenery. But, why there? You got family there?” Jake had been under the impression that she was an only child, and her parents were both dead.

“No. Just as far from Florida as we can get to with a broken-down minivan.”

The conversation didn’t last much longer. Jake offered his home as a respite on their long journey.  “I have a big, empty five-bedroom house, and a guesthouse. Stay as long as you’d like. Think about it,” he said and then dropped the subject.

Over the next couple of weeks, there were subsequent calls between the two old friends. Jake helped Rexanne decide to wait until the end of the school year to head for Washington State — with a layover in Colorado. For the time being, she’d leave the house as is. “We’ll just give it a go over the summer. If all goes well, then we’ll pack up the house, sell it, and permanently move,” they agreed jointly.

Rexanne accepted Jake’s generous offer of hosting them along their route, “but just for a couple of days. No more,” Rexanne insisted. Jake again offered to help drive them, but she insisted on doing that adult chore on her own. “I’ve even made a mix tape for the drive,” she said proudly.

“A what?”

“Never mind.”

The skies were clear blue and promising on an otherwise insignificant Monday morning. Rexanne double-checked the padlock on the trailer and peered through the darkened rear windows at the kids, as she headed for the driver’s seat. “Ready to go?” The uncharacteristically upbeat response from the kids in the back innocently reflected their hope that this move would be the turning point they each needed.

“Seatbelts, everybody,” she called over her shoulder as she strapped in. Rexanne piloted the Dodge Caravan up the ramp at I-75 amidst heavy morning rush hour traffic and turned north leaving downtown Tampa behind.

It would take four days and 1,892 miles – and several sets of replacement batteries for their iPods – to reach Morrison. For most of that trip, each of the three stayed in their own mental and emotional worlds, mostly staring dreamily into the sky and listening to their vastly different musical choices.

Rexanne’s favorite song on her favorite mix tape was by The Fray, called How to Save a Life. It had just hit the airwaves a few weeks earlier, and the first time she heard it, she had to shut off the burner under the simmering dinner, sink to the floor, and just cry. It was as if the lyricist had interviewed her before writing it. It was about an adult trying to reach a child, who was suffering great loss and feeling helplessly alone. Who was depressed, despondent, maybe even suicidal.

The four days crammed together in a small, confined space also had an unexpected psychological effect. It forced the three of them to plow through the five stages of grief – together! They became each other’s sounding board, soft shoulders, fellow mourners. By the time they reached the outskirts of Denver, they were already three different people than the ones who left Tampa.

Jake’s house was nestled in the Front Range foothills that overlooked Denver from the west. Following his detailed directions, Rexanne took the Red Rocks exit off I-275 and onto Highway 285, passing downtown Morrison as she did. Red Rocks Amphitheater, with its massive, slanted rock formations, was to their right.

Only twelve miles remained until his ten-acre oasis. The dusty minivan crawled its way along the final quarter-mile dirt lane that twisted up the side of the mountain and into the parking lot in front of the 3,500-square-foot rustic log house.

Even before it fully stopped, Brian sprang from the car, running and shouting, “Uncle Jake!”, arms flailing. Leslie was right behind, tightly wrapping her arms around her uncle’s waist as if she would never let go.

In Rexanne’s ear, Isaac Slade commiserated with her, singing, “I lost a friend somewhere along in the bitterness. And I would have stayed up with you all night, had I known how to save a life.” Rexanne shut off the engine and stared over the steering wheel with unfamiliar delight. Just seeing the three of them, locked in an inseparable embrace, swaying to a melody of freedom that only they could hear, Rexanne knew for sure that leaving Florida was the right play.

Much to the adults’ pleasant surprise, the kids needed little time at all to adjust to a life beyond Tampa. Jake’s property began high on the side of a mountain and leveled off across a five-acre open field that spilled to the highway. Depending on the mood of the day there was more than enough to begin repairing two shattered little hearts.

There were steep and rugged woods to entice a robust mountain climb. And there were sufficiently sloped embankments ideal for competitive bobsledding. Add to that a pair of snowmobiles, an ATV, and two horses and, well, as said – enough to begin repairing some hearts, however superficially.

For her part, Rexanne remained mostly private in her recovery. Jake didn’t pry and she didn’t volunteer. Not about herself anyway; but about the kids though, they spoke often and productively. Rexanne seemed in no rush to move on, but worried about overstaying their welcome.

“Nonsense,” Jake rebutted. “The morning coffees on the deck have been delightful. You know, I’m hardly a social butterfly. But I’ve enjoyed the companionship, the conversations. But when it’s time, I’m a big boy.” He looked up to see her reaction as he added, “I can readjust to my silent, reclusive, self-absorbed, directionless, dull life … without any trouble.”

That exchange, and another later the same day, led to a decision for the Dorfmans to stay through the end of July, leaving August to reach Seattle, find an apartment, and register the kids for school. But somewhere deep inside, and certainly never confessed by either of them, was this intuitive sense that that trip would never happen. Would never need to happen.

One afternoon, during the drive to Littleton for clothes shopping, Jake thought the time was right. “Rex? Can I speak frankly about the kids?”

“What? Are they becoming a nuisance?”

“Lord no. Nothing like that,” he assured. “I’m just worried about them.”

“In what way?”

“Bluntly, they need counseling. They have never really resolved their father’s death or their circumstances.” He glanced in her direction. “They’ve just buried it.” His eyes returned to the road. “You know, it’s still under the skin. It’s a ticking time bomb.” He studied her again. “Have I crossed a line?”

She sat, mulling, before she responded. “I’ve been thinking along the same lines.”

Then Jake went for the slam dunk. “Whoever it is, you know, they might ask you to sit in.” He again took his gaze off the road, training his eyes on hers. “Besides, you have even more than the Harry Experience to tend with.”

“Do you know anyone to recommend?”

It took a little calling around for Jake and Rexanne to settle on Paul Skinner who had a small practice right up the road in Conifer. He saw the kids weekly, alternating between individual and joint sessions. Rex accompanied the joint sessions, leaving the kids’ sessions entirely private. For her issues, Rex met with Paul semi-monthly.

Progress was neither immediate nor readily apparent, but progress was happening, nonetheless. It was somewhere around early July that Paul shared with Rex a professional opinion, that the kids — “actually, all three of you — could benefit from a little spiritual context.”

Paul was aware that they were Jewish, though hardly religious zealots. Rex balked at the idea, saying that any synagogue would ignite all sorts of negative neuro-associations, tied back to Harry. He had already suspected this trigger, which was the main reason for suggesting Mile Hi Church.”

“Uh .. we might not be actively participating Jews, but rebounding to a church is…”

“It’s non-denominational, Rexanne. People from all faiths attend. You’ll even find fellow Jews there.”

“What’s their message then? What’s their angle?”

“Why, love! They’re all about love. That each of us is a spiritual being having a temporary physical experience. That our souls are eternal, and that our human identity and human experience are immaterial in a cosmic context. That our sole reason for being here on earth is to spread love.”

“Why do you think this would help the children?”

“Because spreading love requires thinking about others. Not just yourself. It’s about replacing the emptiness of constant regret over what was lost, with the anticipation of what might be gained by caring about others.”

“I don’t know.” She didn’t want to offend Paul, but she had great reservations. “Let me think about it. I’ll kick it around with Jake.”

Jake thought the idea was a good one, and strongly encouraged her to go with the kids. He knew only in passing about Mile Hi but had never stepped through their doors. Nischt femeer. Not for a good Jewish boy, he thought to himself.

“Will you come with us?” she asked sheepishly. Spotting his hesitation, “You can’t ask me to have more courage than you.” He reluctantly agreed to go, “just the first time.” On the following Sunday, they went, the four of them. It would be a day that changed them forever. A day that would set in motion a string of serendipitous events that would indeed change the world.

By the first week of August, Rexanne held a series of intimate conversations with the kids, unbeknownst to Jake. Together, the three decided to not travel on to Seattle; but to settle down in Denver instead.

Rexanne worked diligently to find an apartment in Littleton and register the kids for school. Leslie would attend fifth grade at Ute Meadows Elementary, while Brian would start seventh grade at Deer Creek Middle School. Both were within walking distance of their apartment, although helicopter Rexanne still insisted on doing the soccer mom taxi service.

Jake was both surprised and delighted to learn that “my imported family” would continue in his life. With so much for Rexanne to accomplish over the remaining few weeks of summer, Jake offered to get them “out of Tampa. I’ll fly down, pack up the house, send it via PODS to Littleton, fix up the house for sale, get it on the market, sell it, and return to Morrison unscathed.”

“That’s too much, Jake. Take Brian with you. He’s a hard worker.”

“I know he is! He has his father’s work ethic, even if he doesn’t know it. I’ll have him back in time for school.”

“Besides, this will give Les and me some much-needed girl time.”

Things started happening quickly, as their hastily-drawn plan went into effect, and with hardly a hitch. On August 5^th, Jake and Brian headed for DIA, for their flight to Tampa. Rexanne and Leslie shopped for apartments and settled on a three-bedroom just down from the schools. Rex got a job as an admin at the middle school. This modest income, combined with Social Security and insurance benefits from Harry, made the new life affordable.

Jake and Brian packed up the house in eight days. While the two PODS made their way to Colorado, the boys painted the interior, spruced up the exterior, shampooed the carpets, and made minor improvements like upgrading door and cabinet hardware. The house went on the market just 21 days after they first arrived in Tampa. And it sold in record time, with a modest bid war. Harry would have approved.