Brian's Last Ride

Brian’s Last Ride

  Marianne Curtis

  ***

  Copyright 2012 Marianne Curtis

  Finding Gloria – First edition published April 2012

  Behind Whispering Pines - published November 2012

  FINDING GLORIA

  Available in paperback, hardcover, e-book

  Audio book coming soon

  Watch the Official Book Trailer here!

  TRAILER

  Available elsewhere:

  Moondust and Madness: a collection of poetry

  Finding Gloria ~ Special Edition

  ISBN: 9781301982929

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Introduction

  September 21, 1984

  The Aftermath

  Healing Hearts

  Dedication

  In memory of Brian

  This story is based on actual events.

  With the exception of the victim’s name, all other names have been changed to protect the identity of those involved.

  Introduction

  Winnipeg Free Press, Monday, September 24, 1984, Page 4

  24 September 1984 – A collision between two dirt bikes Friday night has resulted in the death of a 14year old youth from Landmark. RCMP said Brian Mark Kauenhofen was killed when he rear-ended a second bike driven by another youth and a female passenger. The other two riders escaped with minor injuries.  

  I closed my eyes. I could feel the color seep from my face. My guts churned and I fought the urge to vomit. This was the first time I lay eyes on a news article about this particular accident; yet here I was staring at it, mesmerized by the straightforward news brief.

  I am not sure what compelled me to Google this incident – twenty-eight years after the fact. As a matter of fact, when I typed Brian’s name into the search engine I was confident (but hopeful) that my search would come up empty. But it didn’t. Details were scarce but there it was in black and white - a brief description from one of the worst nights of my young life.

  The words were unpretentious, obviously from a Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) press release. There were three of us present that night but only one of our names appeared in the article. This came as no surprise - we were all under age and protected by law. The only reason Brian’s name was made public was because the tragedy cost his life.

  At the time and still, nearly thirty years later, not many knew of my involvement in the incident. To the public (and the tiny community where it happened) I was just a “female passenger”; faceless and nameless. Unfortunately, I knew the truth and along with it, I carried a lot of shame. I was there and I still believe I was responsible. I still have the memories; they’ve faded a little, but the cause-and-effect of the night remains active in my life today. I am frightened to take chances, I am afraid to meet new people, and sometimes, I genuinely believe that I am bad luck, especially if something horrible happens to someone in my life. This has made me shut down and avoid even fun and harmless situations out of fear because I learned the hard way that having fun could be costly.

  Over the course of three decades I have learned that all three of us were innocent victims. My guilt and shame was misguided. The collision was completely preventable, but it was still an accident. Guilt is a heavy burden to carry an entire lifetime so this realization brings me great relief.

  I got something else out of the article, something unexpected. I finally had a date – September 21, 1984. In the heat of the crisis and the subsequent handling of the incident, I failed to remember the specific date that all our lives changed. I remember details from that night like it was yesterday but the actual date it happened, I couldn’t have told you – until now.

  I may have forgotten the exact date of the incident but I have never forgotten the details surrounding the night that Brian took his last ride.

  September 21, 1984

  The night Brian died still haunts me. Due to the ill-fated events from that fall night in 1984, I will forever believe fourteen-years-old is too young for someone to take their last breathe. Just like sixteen-years-old is too young to emotionally deal with the ramifications of such an incident; especially when one feels responsible for someone else’s untimely demise. Unfortunately that is where I fit into this particular story.

  Looking back, that fateful day began like any other in my life as a teenager – calm and quiet. This was very different from a few months ago when my life was anything but typical. Six months earlier I frantically escaped my abusive childhood home and was placed in foster care. At this point, everything I did was a learning experience. No longer held hostage by my family, I eagerly tested my newfound wings. Until I ran away from home, my actions were tightly controlled; I had no freedom or friends. Finally liberated from overly confining parental restraints (and physical abuse) I thrived on making friends and enjoying new experiences. I was finally learning to be a normal teenager, not living the life of a prisoner convicted of a crime they didn’t know they committed.

  At this point my life was fairly topsy-turvy. I spent weekends at my foster home and during the week I was an inpatient at a psychiatric medical facility where therapists were helping me recover from post traumatic stress disorder. My admission took place in June and after three months of nearly complete seclusion I was eager to get out into the community but my particular circumstances did not allow it yet.

  It was Friday and I had just come home from a week at the facility. I was upstairs unpacking my bags when the phone rang. Like any typical sixteen-year-old girl the phone was my umbilical cord to life. I eagerly stumbled down the stairs hoping the caller was looking for me. I was not disappointed. It was the daughter of the local minister.

  When I arrived in my foster home several months earlier Candace was the first person my age who welcomed me to the neighborhood. Ours was a unique relationship – the preacher’s daughter and the teen runaway! I was usually scorned by other kids my age, so it was hard to believe she wanted to be my friend and was not trying to convert me. But no matter what I told her about my childhood and the horrors I’d escaped from, she never seemed to judge me or my past.

  “Want to come to Young Peoples with me tonight?” she asked. Young Peoples took place every Friday evening during the school year. Hosted by the local church, the group was open to local kids between grades 9 to 12. It was a great opportunity for me to meet other kids my age. I was curious but I was also frightened – my mother would never approve. Gatherings like this were foreign to me. I was raised Catholic and I was now living in a very Mennonite (Christian) community. My mother was adamant that we not mix with other religions because it might rub off of me. She always worried about me being converted and straying away from her beliefs. But in foster care, I was no longer under her control and the decision was completely mine.

  “It’s at the church, with other teenagers – you will have tons of fun,” she explained to me, sensing my hesitation. She was soon assuring me it would be a harmless and fun evening. Shoving my mother’s condemning voice to the back of my mind, I agreed. I didn’t care about the church aspect but I did want to meet other kids.

  “Hang on, let me ask,” I covered the phone and called to my foster mother who was in the middle of making dinner. “Candace wants to know if I can come to church with her family tonight.”

  “Sure, I don’t see anything wrong with that,” my foster mother quickly agreed. Since my arrival in March she had been encouraging me to get out but I always hesitated. This was the first time I asked to attend an event with someone else my age since moving in.

  “What time should I be ready?” I asked, returning my attention back to Candace.

  “We leave here about 6:30,” Candace res
ponded. After promising to be ready in time, I hung up. I thanked my foster mother for giving me permission to go before heading back to my room, taking the stairs two at a time. Secretly, I was excited. Normally when I attended church, my mother would force me to wear a dress and cover my hair; wearing makeup was strictly forbidden. This night would be different. No longer confined to my mother’s rules, I eagerly prepared for my ‘debut’. I spent nearly an hour styling my hair and choosing my clothes. Everything had to be perfect for what I thought would be my big night.

  Just before 7 o’clock I nervously descended the long flight stairs into the church basement where I came face-to-face with a room filled with strangers. All were teenagers around my age so I felt comfortable and yet, I was terrified. After being bullied at school for seven years,