Logan’s Story Part 2: Sunday — We Stop Hoping

On September 15th, my cousin drowned at Lake Almanor, California. This is day two of my experiences during the week that followed.

 

I’m freezing. My friend is already up, dealing with her hell which has now slipped to number two on the hell scale. She makes us tea. I always drink coffee in the morning, but the thought of it makes me nauseated. Plus there’s no half-and-half. I could walk up the street to the market and get some, but clearly we won’t be here long enough to make buying half-and-half worth it…

I brush my teeth with my finger and think that I probably haven’t done that since I was in my twenties. Why didn’t I think to pack anything at all…

I look at my hair. The realization that Logan will never do my hair again hits me. I sit on the toilet and sob because I’d considered asking him to cut my husband and son’s hair today but decided not to because I didn’t want to ruin his weekend.

My friend leaves and the watching continues. We start making phone calls. Horrible, horrible phone calls. Phone calls that my father or great uncle are supposed to make, not me.

I call my brother. Up to this point, I’ve been relatively pulled together. This comes to a screeching halt as soon as I hear his voice.

We call my aunt’s close friend. She hangs up so quickly to get in her car that we don’t even have a chance to tell her the whole story. She shows up with less than I did — at least I was wearing a bra.

My father and his girlfriend arrive. I go to the market with my dad and buy a croissant. I’m hyper-aware of everything I’m eating, wondering if I’ll be throwing it up at some point. I buy half-and-half, possibly opening the window to the idea that we may be here for more than a day. On the way back, I tell my dad I’m actually sort of glad my mother is dead. I don’t think she would’ve been able to take this.

We call my uncle. My uncle. The hardest phone call. His younger brother was killed in a motorcycle accident at age 24, just like Logan. My grandmother was 54, just like my aunt. I hold fast to my belief in coincidences because “sick and twisted god” or “matrix-like computer system” is too freaky.

We go to the search and rescue staging area, and we’re the people who get “the sad eyes.” I start to feel like I’m in a movie because clearly this can’t be real. Stuff like this only happens to other people’s families.

We talk to a nice sheriff’s officer who takes all of our information so he can keep us up-to-date with everything. Later he fixes it so that we can finally retrieve the phones and wallets that were being held on the boat. Apparently they feel confident that this was all an accident.

They’re bringing in sonar boats from other counties. The boat that found Lacey Peterson is coming. They won’t stop looking until they find him.

This is where the reality check occurs. The dogs that have been searching the shore and going out in the boats aren’t looking for Logan. They’re trained to pick up scents from cadavers. And they have. Logan isn’t lying on the beach somewhere, waiting for us to rescue him. He hasn’t been miraculously treading water for 18 hours. He isn’t pulling a prank. He’s dead.

I talk to my husband. He’s told the kids that Logan is lost. And that he’s probably died. They apparently choose to believe that he’ll be just fine. We decide they should stay in Reno since all we’re doing is watching the water.

I realize at some point that I’m shaking. All the time. The last time this happened to me was when I was in labor. I walk into the dining room and tell my cousin I’m losing it. He, my aunt, and I cling to each other in a huddle as I completely melt down.

My aunt’s friend arrives. Ten years ago, her daughter died when she hit a tree while skiing. I feel guilty for being grateful that she shows up with the right kind of experience to help us.

Logan’s best friend and her boyfriend arrives. I don’t even notice at first, but after I realize it’s them, I just about lose my mind. Logan introduced them — he’d known the boy’s family since they were little kids. Seeing them makes it so clear that I’m not anguishing for Logan. I’m in agony over the people he’s left behind.

Another friend drives in from Reno, and I’m so relieved to see her. I feel this intense need to be around everyone who knows us. Maybe because I think that only by having known him — and us — will someone understand what a giant hole this is leaving in our family.

I work up a mass email to send out to friends — every word I write feels ridiculous. I don’t have my computer, not that it matters since there’s no internet. But doing everything on my phone seems to be adding to the already cruel joke. I know I’ve forgotten people on my “important list,” and it hurts my head to think about it.

That night, I hand out Xanax like I’m a nurse in a mental hospital. All we’re missing is Dixie cups. I lie down in bed and realize the room is suddenly so stuffy that I can hardly breathe. I go out to the deck, sit on the lounge chair, and inhale the cold night air. I realize I’m shaking like I’m freezing, but I’m not. Then I just lay there and cry.