My mother returned to her apartment one afternoon in late November and found the front door unlocked. She called out my brother’s name several times, for it was very unlike him to be so careless. All too aware of his wallet and keys on the table beside the couch, she walked upstairs, where both her bedroom and the terrace were. When she reached the terrace door, she saw that it was open. Wrestling with the uneasy feelings growing inside her, she stepped onto the terrace and quickly glanced over the side. To her relief, she saw nothing on the pavement below.
Several hours later there was still no sign of him. My mother had one rule: Jon had to tell her when he would be gone for the night so she wouldn’t worry. He hadn’t always done as she asked, but this time felt different. She called my sister, who lives a few states away, and Jon’s father, who lives nearby–if Jon didn’t call or show up, she would dial 911 in the morning to report him missing. After a restless night and no word from Jon, Mom made the call. The police came over, and while they were talking on the terrace, one of the officers looked over the left side, which my mother had failed to check the day before. The cop then turned to give Mom the chilling news: Jon had jumped to his death, and his body was lying in the alley beneath them.
Were there signs this would happen? Maybe. Jon was a loner. He was dark, secretive and often depressed, with a somewhat distorted view of the world. He couldn’t adjust to the ups and downs of life and was frustrated and angry that nothing had worked out the way he had hoped. He struggled with those feelings on a daily basis. Did any of us ever think that would lead to suicide? No. Despite his somber outlook, Jon was an extremely sensitive, caring and generous person–such an act seemed inconceivable. Even when my mother encouraged Jon to try therapy and medication (which he had, on two different occasions), she suggested it as a way for Jon to sort himself out, not because she worried that he would take his life.
Since graduating from college 10 years before, Jon had held a variety of jobs. He worked as a musician, a bartender and even as an extra in movies. While Mom fretted about his lack of direction, I reassured her that he was still in his trying 20s. Several years ago he decided he wanted to teach English abroad and found a position in Italy. The job didn’t pay much, but it was enough to get by; besides, Jon lived frugally. We often joked that he was still wearing the same sweater Mom had given him in high school. Over the next few years he would stay in Europe for a year or so, come back for several months, then return to Italy or Prague. He arrived in New York in early 2001, thinking he would stay with Mom while he figured out what to do next. Time and again, my sister, my brother and I tried to steer him in one direction or another. My brother suggested he move to the Southwest; a friend of his had a business Jon could get into. I suggested he get his teaching credentials–he was good at it and loved working with kids. Sadly, Jon didn’t take well to anyone’s advice, especially his family’s. We were concerned, worried and extremely frustrated that we couldn’t help him.
During the days following September 11, Jon, like the rest of the nation, watched the news, transfixed by the horrifying events unfolding in New York and Washington. Like so many others, he volunteered to help out. Mom said he went downtown in one outfit and returned dressed in new Ground Zero duds, compliments of the Red Cross. His work boots stood proudly outside the door of her apartment each night, after Jon returned from a long day of doling out food and clothes for the workers. When I told him how much I admired him for what he had been doing, he replied quietly that it had been pretty intense down there.
As the Twin Towers burned and started to collapse, people fell to their deaths tens of floors below. Neither they nor any of the other victims had a choice of whether they would live or die. Jon did. He was the same age as many of the victims, but unlike him, they had spouses, children, steady jobs, bright futures. Did Jon feel guilty that he was alive and they were not? Had he decided the whole world was going to pot and life wasn’t worth living anymore? I don’t know that there is a connection between the events of that day and Jon’s death. More than anything else, it was his fragile emotional state that caused him to take that final plunge. What I do know is that I will never be able to think of Jon’s suicide without remembering September 11, nor will I remember that date without thinking about my kid brother and his descent into oblivion.
