ONE FRIDAY AFTERNOON in late September, Joan and I drove to Tucson for a night away. We were within five miles of our hotel, leaving a restaurant after lunch, when we both checked messages on our cell phones. Seeing I had a text message from Grant that said, “I love you all very much. Good-bye,” I took this as a nice sentiment—until I heard Joan exclaim, “Oh, my God, what does this mean?” We didn’t know this yet, but Grant had sent this message to all the contacts in his phone, including Taylor.
Joan called and reached a groggy, incoherent Grant, who said, “I can’t take this anymore. The next shot is going to kill me,” and hung up.
In a strange technological coincidence, Joan screamed and started crying, not realizing that she had picked up a call from Taylor immediately after hanging up with Grant, and promptly hung up on our daughter. Taylor, taking Joan’s reaction to mean that Grant was already dead, was in hysterics when she called me moments later.
This all happened in seconds, but by this point it was clear there was more to his text message than I’d initially thought, so I turned the car around and sped back home toward Gilbert as Taylor, Joan, and I tried to figure out where he was so the police could try to stop him.
To make a long story short, Grant had bought enough heroin to overdose, but thankfully he was too high after shooting up the first time to prepare to inject himself with the rest of his stash, which he then lost. We got the police to pick him up, to deem him a danger to himself or others, and to have him transported by ambulance to a mental health and detox facility, which held him for seventy-two hours.
On Monday Joan crashed my therapy appointment with Dr. Barry, where we spent ninety minutes discussing what to do and how to handle Grant’s next announcement by phone, which was that he was moving out of the apartment he shared with three sober friends from AA. He’d decided to live on the streets and do drugs until he died.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore,” he told Joan.
“Grant, please don’t,” Joan said. “We have lost so much—Taryn, Dad’s memory, and we can’t bear to lose you too, our only son. I love you so much.”
But he was not in the state of mind to hear her.
By this point my anger, which had largely stemmed from Grant’s disrespectful behavior toward me and his mother, had been replaced with compassion and a better understanding of my son’s condition. Once Grant’s suicide threats had become real and I realized they were a call for help, I dropped the sixty-day rule. Dr. Barry had helped me, and now Joan, to accept that my son had a serious problem with depression and that he’d been self-medicating with the heroin. But until he got the mental-health help he needed and stuck with the antidepressants, he wasn’t going to get any better. If he wouldn’t take the help we’d been offering or seek help for himself, he was doomed.
“It will never be your fault,” Dr. Barry said.
As much as it hurt and saddened me to say this, I didn’t think Grant would be with us for Christmas.
For months I’d been tormenting myself with my inability to help my son.
How can I expect to help others if I can’t help Grant?
Dr. Barry said I should focus my efforts on trying to help those people who actually wanted and were willing to accept my help, but that didn’t mean I didn’t spend every day hoping that Grant would call to say he was tired of living like this, that he was ready now to do anything, anything at all, to get better.
Several days after the text message, Taylor and I were in her bedroom talking while she packed for the move to Los Angeles, and she told me she’d decided to cut ties with her brother. She couldn’t take the pain anymore either. “What if I get another text message while I’m in LA and there’s nothing I can do?” she said tearfully.
I tried to comfort her, to let her be the child and me the parent for once. She had clearly shouldered enough of this burden, and I finally felt ready to assume the parenting duties. My eighteen-year-old daughter had carried out the responsibility to the best of her ability, teaching me what she could along the way. “Let Mom and me take this over,” I told her. “This is your time to live. I apologize for you having to see me in this condition, and I certainly apologize that you have to go through this with Grant.”
“Please don’t apologize for you or for Grant, Dad,” she said. “Your condition is from an accident. Grant chose his life.”
“Well, I apologize anyway because you shouldn’t have had to go through all this. That’s why it’s important for you to go out to LA and not worry about this.”
I offered her the option to block Grant’s phone number from calling or texting her, and she said she would think about it. Although she hadn’t talked to him for months before the text message, she ultimately decided not to make a more permanent break because she didn’t want Grant to feel she’d abandoned him.
After our conversation I realized that I had passed a major milestone. Since my accident, I’d relearned what it meant to be a good father: a role model, a teacher, and a purveyor of right and wrong. But this was really the first time that I had been able to take charge and be a father, speaking from the heart with confidence and not needing to parrot what I’d heard Joan or some father figure on TV say. My words seemed to comfort Taylor because she folded into my arms like a little girl, which let me know that I had effectively resumed my job as the protector I’d once been.
I felt empowered, uplifted, and valued, thrilled to be able to do this for Taylor for the first time since my accident.
Taylor had graduated from high school in May, and I’d been pleased to be surrounded by Grant and both sets of grandparents as we watched this rite of passage for the daughter to whom I had grown so close.
When I saw her walk onto the stage in her royal blue cap and gown to receive her diploma, her image reflected on the jumbo television screen, I stood up with Joan and Grant to cheer and yell out her name, tearing up at the thought that this brought her one step closer to leaving home.
“I wish I would have remembered your entire high school education, but from what I’ve seen the past year, I can’t tell you how proud I am of you and how hard you’ve worked,” I told her afterward.
Taylor, who was beaming at me, responded with a hug. “Thank you,” she said.
Now, four and a half months later, the painful process of letting her go was heading into its final stretch.
On Wednesday, September 29, I woke up at 5:00 A.M. with a knot in my stomach, knowing that this was the last morning I would see my daughter roaming around our house. There would be no more of her unique naïveté and what we called Taylorisms, the words she made up or messed up, such as saying “disposable” thumbs instead of “opposable” or that it looked “musty” outside rather than “muggy.” Selfishly, I would have loved to keep her home and spend more time with her, but I knew she had to pursue her passion and become the person she wanted to be, just as Joan and I had done at her age.
She’d really been there for me since the accident, and I’m sure the past two years had been hard on her. She’d told me about so many memories of the two of us spending time together, like the father-daughter dance we’d gone to or when I’d helped her race her four-wheeled vehicle, known as a quad, during Grant’s motocross days.
I would forever miss these special moments and could only hope that I’d encouraged her and shared enough of my own life lessons before the accident so that she would have some valuable advice to carry into her adult life. If Taylor could forgive me for not remembering her first seventeen years, I could promise to help create even better memories for both of us: her first day of college, walking her down the aisle, holding the first child I imagined she would bring into this world, and who knows what else.
As we finished packing the last of her things for the road trip, she and Joan hopped into Taylor’s car, and I climbed into Joan’s. Anthony, who was starting college an hour or so south of Los Angeles, in Orange County, was going to follow up the next day in a U-Haul truck with his belongings and the rest of Taylor’s.
My recent trips driving to and from California had proved to be some of the worst of times, faced with miles of deserted road with nothing but time to think dark, lonely thoughts. The only thing different about this trip was that Joan and Taylor would be on the road next to me.
I’d expected Taylor to sleep the whole way because I’d seen her do that on trips to the boat, so it brought me some comfort to see her, snuggling like a little girl with her pink pillow against the passenger-side window, as Joan passed me occasionally on the highway to playfully point at my sleeping beauty. When she did, I shrugged, smiled, and gestured as if to say, “What else is new?”
I wondered what my life would be like with Taylor four hundred miles away in the City of Angels, which seemed like the perfect place for her after she’d been such a guardian angel to me.
Crossing into California, we made a quick stop in Indio for fuel and snacks. I could tell that Taylor was growing increasingly nervous because when I gave her a quick hug and kiss, she looked up at me with those beautiful blue eyes as if she was thinking, How am I going to do this without you, Dad?
I knew I needed to drive away before I started to cry, turned the car around, and told her she couldn’t leave us just yet. I wanted to be strong for her, but I wasn’t sure I would be able to once we got to her school the next day.
Once we arrived at the Westin Bonaventure Hotel in downtown Los Angeles, we decided to pick up some supplies for her apartment so we wouldn’t be rushed the next day. We treated our stay like a minivacation to take our minds off the daunting task that loomed ahead like a four-hundred-pound gorilla that no one wanted to acknowledge.
Taylor had been assigned to a campus-leased apartment in a mixed-use business and residential area in West Los Angeles near the Wilshire business district, six miles from the campus and the Staples Center, with some gritty urban neighborhoods in between. We circled the neighborhood, identifying grocery stores, a dry cleaner, gas stations, and banks to help her feel comfortable in her new surroundings—and so we could feel comfortable about her being there.
Given that Taylor had never been away from us for an extended period of time, I wanted to make sure we found the safest route for her to take to school, which was at 9th and South Grand Avenue. I felt like a bodyguard, telling her how to keep watch while driving or walking, always looking for ways out of trouble. “Don’t walk alone; go with a friend,” I told her. “Know who’s in front of you and who’s behind you.”
After feeling unsafe, unsure, and afraid for the past two years, I was an expert in this area. But I felt I needed to give her even more protection, so I stopped at a martial arts store to buy her a canister of pepper spray and told her how to use it. When I said I wanted her to carry it everywhere, she obediently put it in her purse.
“We’ll have to try this on Anthony to make sure it’s effective,” I joked, which made us all laugh and eased the tension.
I could see by Taylor’s face that she was lost in thought, and I assumed that she was feeling as I had for so long—overwhelmed by not knowing what to expect in a new environment.
“Are you sure I’m going to like it?” she asked.
I was determined to help her get through this. “At first it’s difficult and overwhelming, but then this fear turns into curiosity, and then you start to embrace your new surroundings,” I said. “You’re going to become comfortable.”
At the end of the day we headed back to the hotel suite, where we made up the pullout bed in the sofa for her to sleep on. I looked over at her, wrapped up in the pillows and blankets that she was so fond of, and wished that tomorrow would never come. Joan and I held each other tight in bed that night, just as upset as Taylor, wondering what our lives were going to be like without her.
Expecting a large crowd at the 10:00 A.M. school check-in, we got up at seven o’clock so we could get there early. Of course, I was ready first and waiting on Taylor, who always took forever to get dressed and made up, but this time I sat patiently in the living room while she prettied herself.
As I carried her suitcase and she toted her purse and other belongings down to the car, I felt we were delivering her to a future filled with excitement, new friends, and a new beginning. Set free of the daily drama of my recovery and her brother’s addiction issues, she could finally concentrate on herself.
It was our job now to relieve her of those burdens, along with any residual guilt or sorrow. For whatever reason, I believed the new Scott could sense exactly what she was feeling, and today, that was emptiness. Even though she would be around lots of people, I suspected that she would feel alone for some time to come, just as I had.
After several hours of registering Taylor for school, we picked up her apartment keys and started moving her in. We were all pleased to find that her two-bedroom, two-bath unit on the twelfth and top floor was spacious, with giant windows facing southeast, overlooking the downtown skyscape. I was particularly happy to see a security guard out front with an intercom and all kinds of amenities in the enormous Park La Brea complex, which was like a small city.
Joan and I spent the day fixing up the kitchen, setting up the wireless Internet, putting up a ceiling fan, and doing some minor relocation of furniture. I enjoyed feeling needed and was more than willing to do anything Taylor asked—even take out the garbage. Soon her three roommates checked in, and the apartment began to get crowded with parents and students, so we wanted to let Taylor get acquainted with them and ready herself for the first night on her own.
We stayed in town for a couple more days in case she needed us, doing our own thing during the day and meeting up with Taylor and Anthony for dinner, sightseeing, and some “needed” shopping on Melrose.
Sunday, our last full day in town, came too quickly. Taylor and Joan did some last-minute errands, then mom gave daughter a cooking lesson—cutting up chicken breasts, sautéing them with spices for dinner, then freezing some for later use—while I stayed at the hotel to watch football and prepare myself for the final good-bye that evening. Only I couldn’t keep my mind on the game, as I struggled to come up with something profound to tell Taylor.
When I got to her apartment around 4:00 P.M., Joan and Taylor were laughing with Anthony and her new roommates in the kitchen. In just two days I’d seen Taylor go from the little girl sleeping in the car to the grown woman I’d been watching develop over the past two years, who in her new surroundings wore a look of confidence and security.
Seeing that, I felt that now was the perfect time to go, leaving Taylor with people to support her through the rest of the evening in case she had a hard time. I asked Joan to come with me into Taylor’s room, where she reluctantly agreed, then went to fetch our daughter.
“Taylor, come here a second,” I said, bringing her into the bedroom with us. “We’re going to go now, so you can spend time getting to know your roommates.”
When her eyes welled up with tears, my heart sank.
I thought we were doing the right thing, but maybe it’s too soon. Is she going to be okay?
Panicking a little, I wondered if we should have stayed longer, as we’d originally planned. All I wanted to do was ease her pain. “Come downstairs with us so we can say good-bye,” I said.
The air was heavy in the elevator as the three of us headed down to the parking lot. It was a long, silent ride, and I could feel my heart breaking as it never had before. Even in the cool breeze outside, I felt hot and my stomach turned with every step that we walked toward the car when Joan suddenly burst out with, “I forgot my purse upstairs.” Taylor laughed through her tears at the typical Joan behavior, which she’d been exhibiting all weekend.
While Joan went upstairs, Taylor and I held hands and walked toward the car, where I was finally ready to say my piece. “You’re ready for this,” I told her. “Mom and I are so proud of you and the woman that you’ve become and the woman that you are about to be. I’m so proud that we’re able to provide you with the schooling of your dreams. You deserve this happiness.”
Taylor cried the entire time I was talking, not saying a word, but she didn’t have to. I knew what she feeling: this was what she wanted, and she would make the most of her education, but parting was still difficult. I reminded her that we were only an hour’s flight away and that we could talk and text whenever she wanted to. We got out of the car when we saw Joan approaching, who, after giving Taylor a big hug, burst into tears. “I’m going to miss you so much. Be safe,” Joan choked out, which made me break down crying too. I’d stayed strong for both of them for this long, but I couldn’t do it anymore.
After Joan let go, I squeezed Taylor so tight I thought she was going to pass out, but I couldn’t help myself.
Like my memory, she is going to be difficult to live without. How am I going to do this?
“Be safe and have fun,” I said. “We’ll always be here for you. Never forget that we love you and will drop everything if you need us.”
Joan and I watched her walk away, wiping away tears. I tried to think of something to say to make Joan feel better, but I knew that was impossible, so I just sat there, wanting to go back upstairs and spend one last night with our daughter, which I knew wouldn’t be good for any of us.
We drove away with a box of Kleenex at our side, and after talking several more times with Taylor that evening, we managed to calm her down by assuring her the pain of leaving home would get better with time.
After a restless few hours of tossing and turning, I sneaked into the living room around 4:00 A.M. and closed the bedroom door to watch TV, leaving Joan sound asleep. I got dressed, and around 4:45 I went downstairs to get some coffee in the lobby, where I watched the news, got a refill, and took it outside for a walk down Flower Street.
There were office buildings behind and in front of me, but the sidewalks and streets were empty and quiet. The sky was just starting to get light, and soon the slightest hint of orange started creeping up from behind the silhouette of the buildings. It was a little chilly in my short-sleeved shirt with the breeze of dawn breaking, but the coffee helped to warm me up. I turned a corner, and the road sloped down, opening up a panoramic view of the valley with a mountain range in the distance. As the expansive orange-yellow orb started to rise over the peaks, I felt its warmth take the edge off the chill.
I often went for a drive in the early mornings in Arizona to watch the sun rise over the mountains because I enjoyed the stillness of this time of day more than any other. But this sunrise was different, and it was special. It was the dawn of a new day, not only a new beginning for Taylor but also for Joan and me, who would finally be alone together in the house. For the first time since we’d begun saying good-bye to Taylor, I felt an inner peace. My life seemed fuller than it had been at any time since the accident, so much so that I no longer considered it “deleted.” Now, if Grant could only pull himself out of his dark depths and stay in recovery, all would be right with the world.
As people began wandering out of the buildings and a few cars drove by, I decided to start walking back before my peaceful feeling was ruined. I strolled at an easy pace back to the hotel, where I found Joan tucked in bed, still asleep.
Later that morning, while we were in a business meeting about a potential speaking engagement, Joan got a call from Grant. She stepped out to take the call, and after the meeting she told me matter-of-factly that Grant had been hospitalized and released, with a prescription for antidepressants. He no longer wanted to use drugs or felt suicidal and was on his way to speak to his counselor.
We were on the highway driving back to Arizona when Grant called again, and after listening to Joan’s side of their twenty-five-minute conversation, I could tell that she was cautiously optimistic, if not happy, about the situation, which she confirmed when she filled me in. Essentially, she said, this was the call we’d been hoping for, and that made me happy too.
“I want help,” he told her, saying he was willing to go back into the rehab program he’d recently quit. “I want to be part of the family again. I’m going to die if I continue using drugs, and I don’t want to die. I want to live, and I want to live without drugs.”
Now that Grant had joined Taylor, Joan, and me in pursuing the lives each of us wanted to lead, it really had turned out to be a new day, not just for me but for my rejuvenated marriage and my family as a whole. And as we continued back to Gilbert that afternoon, all I could see ahead was a long stretch of open road, with endless opportunities for us all.