Missing Dexter

Moment of violence turns family's life upside down

(Published 12:01AM, November 23rd, 2003, The News Tribune, Tacoma, Washington)

Five years ago we were a normal happy family. My husband and I were gainfully employed, and we had three wonderful, good-looking children, one boy and two girls.

Our children made us proud: no drugs, no gangs, no guns. Our youngest was proving to be an excellent student, and the two older kids had good steady jobs and promising futures. In addition, our son Dexter had just gone back to college to pursue his dream of becoming a computer engineer. Life was good.

Then one day fate intervened, and our perfect world was turned upside down.

This is the story of our reversal and our long journey back. Our struggle is far from over, but perhaps it will serve as a beacon for other families who have also recently lost a loved one.

Dexter was our first-born and the only boy of his generation on both sides of our family. "Unico hijo" - the only son. He was a natural for the role of dutiful son and nephew and the protective brother to his sisters and female cousins. Dexter was funny and sensitive, charismatic and loving. He was the bright flame at the center of our family.

One October afternoon he came out of his class at Tacoma Community College, straight into the path of a man who decided he wanted Dexter's prized Acura Integra.

He was a foot taller and at least 30 pounds heavier than my son, and he had a gun in his waistband.

He left Dexter by the roadside with multiple defensive bruises on his arms and legs and a .22 slug lodged in his brain.

Dexter was into speed. Not the kind that some people use to fry their brains with, but the type of speed that took him places: racing bikes, roller blades, skateboards, snowboards and cars. As an infant, he barely crawled before he was on his feet, and then he was off running. My earliest memories of him are tiny running feet pattering across the wooden floors of our home, up and down the stairs, always in a hurry.

He was happiest when he was out racing with his friends, pretending to be a pilot revving for take-off. I can almost see the sparkle in his eyes, the electric excitement and the wide grin on his face as his car "smoked" the competition.

I like to think that when that bullet entered his brain, he went just as quickly. Now here, then gone, before he realized what was happening, before he felt any pain.

Five years later we are still struggling to make sense of our loss. Dexter's clothes, shoes, colognes and remote-controlled cars are in various parts of our home. Some of his ball caps and his favorite jacket, his uniform to work, are hanging in my bedroom where I can see them every day.

His pictures are everywhere. Sometimes when I'm half asleep or dead tired on my feet and not thinking, I see Dexter's things and I'm comforted, and for a few precious seconds lull myself into believing my son is still with us.

My greatest fear is facing the fact that Dexter is truly lost to us forever. And so I watch television's John Edward ("Crossing Over with John Edward") religiously as he delivers messages from souls who have crossed over, and I ache with the hope that I might someday hear from my son, too.

Delusion and false hope are pathetic tools, but right now they seem to be the only ones working.

We drive cars with decals that read, "In loving memory of Dex," and we have little earthen jars filled with his ashes that we take everywhere we go. We celebrate his birthdays and come together at the anniversary of his death; we maintain his memorial bench and make sure he has fresh flowers every day, and we keep the oil lamp by his pictures lit - but we still can't talk about him and not cry.

My daughter Sharon said it best in one of her open letters to her brother. "I want to see you laugh again, to hear your voice, to see your smile, and call out your name. I want to look back and remember without crying and feeling sad. I want to look at your pictures without crying. I want to talk about you with mom and dad without them crying. I miss you so and I'm so sorry I didn't get to say goodbye."


(Belma Villa of Tacoma writes once a month as a guest columnist for the Perspectives page.)