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Helping a mother tell a story no parent wants to hear

Karina Bland
The Republic | azcentral.com

I sat on the couch with my laptop on a Sunday afternoon, chores finished, the dog asleep on the tile floor and the afternoon clear. I was considering a nap.

Djuana Peterson and her son Riley on April 26, just before he headed out to the Chandler High prom. She lost Riley to drugs soon after and wants his story told.

I signed onto Facebook, scrolling to see what everyone else was doing. Maren and Jamie were watching the Kentucky Derby (in hats of course); Lisa was "soooo very tired"; Greg was hugging someone's huge dog outside a Starbucks somewhere in the Midwest. And Lori had shared a post from another mom.

It started with a short sentence, all capital letters, repeated five times:

"I HATE DRUGS.

I HATE DRUGS.

I HATE DRUGS.

I HATE DRUGS.

I HATE DRUGS."

She'd get no argument from me. My brother is an addict, clean for 22 years now. A friend went to prison for two years for her drug use.

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"I guess I have to write this," the mom wrote. "After I posted Riley's Happy Birthday post yesterday, while I was worrying about how much grief he was going to give me for his baby pictures being posted ..."

I smiled, knowing how irritated my teenage son gets when I do the same on his birthday.

"... I got a phone call that still seems that it can't be true! I am still saying that over and over in my head ..."

My smile faltered.

"... Riley made the decision to celebrate his birthday by taking acid …"

Acid? God, I hadn't even heard the word in forever.

"… and while on what appears to have been a 'bad trip,' he shot himself."

Oh, my God, no. Her son was barely older than mine.

"My sweet baby boy. Gone in an instant. Accepted to NAU. With his plans to rule the world. He had such musical talent. Choir. Intelligent. Deep thinker. Loved by so many. All the talking he and I did about drugs … yet kids are curious, they think are invincible …

"Talk to your kids. Scare the hell out of them somehow.

"Tell them Riley's story."

A story no parent wants to hear. I forced myself to keep reading.

"... The world was a better place with Riley in it. I'm not so sure how I'm going to be able to survive without him."

If I were her, how would I survive?

She tagged her post "—with Riley Peterson" — whom she would never be with again.

I sobbed. I didn't know Riley's mom, Djuana Reed Peterson; she's a friend of my friend. But with my own teenage son sprawled across his bed watching an episode of "Doctor Who" on his iPad2 in the next room, I could imagine being her, in that moment. My mouth tasted like metal.

I would talk to my kid. I would scare the hell out of him somehow.

I would tell him Riley's story.

"Sawyer," I called, right then, and "Come here, please."

* * *

Like Riley's mom, I have talked to Sawyer about drugs. It was easiest when he was younger; I mostly talked, he mostly listened. The message was simple enough: Don't use drugs.

It got harder as he got older. I didn't want my kid using drugs, but like a lot of the past couple of generations who are parents, I was worried that he might ask, "Did you ever use drugs?"

I told him to say no anyway.

We talked about drugs when they came up in a movie, on TV or in the lyrics of a song. We talked at the start of each school year and when there were stories on the news about teenagers killed in alcohol-related car accidents.

And when he eventually did ask about my own drug use, I told the truth, just not the entire truth. (He doesn't need the details. This is about his future, not my past.)

Then the conversations got even more complicated. Crystal meth. Ecstasy. Kids were raiding the medicine cabinets at home for prescription drugs. Spice. Bath salts, even. And the legalization of medical marijuana. It has been hard to keep up.

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Then came this Facebook post.

I patted the couch cushion next to me. Sawyer plopped down.

I turned the screen toward Sawyer and read the post aloud. My voice caught on the words "Gone in an instant."

That's so sad, Sawyer said. His eyes were wide.

I clicked through the pictures Djuana posted the day before for Riley's birthday. A big-eyed toddler in a Cardinals football helmet. A little boy with bangs cut straight across, grinning.

And in the time it took to do that, Riley's mother had posted again:

"We just got Riley's senior pictures this morning. My sweet, sweet baby boy."

The pictures she uploaded showed a big young man with long blond hair. He's wearing a purple button-up shirt and a smirk in one pose, a blue paisley print shirt and playing the guitar in another. He had a dimple in his left cheek.

He looked happy.

And now he was gone, in an instant. I could imagine how his mother must have been feeling, but I didn't want to.

I've spent Sawyer's whole life keeping him safe. I plugged electrical outlets and installed safety locks on kitchen cabinets (which then I couldn't open either, by the way). I fenced the pool, slathered him in sunscreen, helmeted his head, ran background checks on his little friends' parents and installed a GPS locator on his cellphone. (Whatever car he drives will have a minimum 127 air bags.)

I would not lose him to something senseless like this.

"Mom, I'm not stupid," Sawyer says. He's studied what drugs and alcohol can do to a developing brain.

But the choice to use or not use drugs is not just about being smart. A lot of smart people have used drugs. So I talked about curiosity. And peer pressure. And I talked about addiction, and losing control, and legal, social and health consequences.

Sawyer listened until I talked myself out.

It's all right, Mom, he said. It's not going to happen.

But it does happen.

* * *

In the days after Riley's death, his mother continued to post. There was a time — and still now, I suspect — that if something like this happened in a family, the parents would hide out, and it would be talked about in whispers.

But Djuana wrote,

"I hope that Riley's story keeps moving along and is told ... I want it to stick in kids' and adults' minds ..."

Her post was tagged "— with Riley Peterson."

On May 8, Djuana wrote, "Since Riley was little, his nickname by others was "Smiley Riley" .... that smile of his warmed a person ...

"My sweet baby boy. God, please take care of him for me.

"— with Riley Peterson."

I realized that Djuana was tagging her son so that what she wrote would appear on Riley's page and his friends would see it. She was sharing Riley's story.

I wanted to do something, even though it felt like there was nothing to be done. I relayed a message to Djuana about whether I might write about her son.

Her response was swift and unequivocal.

"I will be actively looking for ways to tell his story, to yell and scream his story, so it doesn't happen to anyone else," she said.

"I want kids to understand: Try it once, and this is what can happen. Think first. Think.

"Share it please. Tell Riley's story."

On May 9, the day of Riley's memorial service, Djuana wrote,

"I want to see his shoes at the bottom of the stairs and to wash something for him last minute (because) he needs it. I want to lay across the bed with him and talk about religion or psychology or how taken he was with his girlfriend or sex or drugs.

"The drugs conversations didn't sink into his head. He told me one thing and did another. We as parents have no control. We can educate and talk but ultimately it is their choice in the moment to do or not do ...

"Just keep talking. Educate yourselves. Just like the kids don't think it can happen to them, we think it won't happen in our home. It can! — with Riley Peterson."

I went with Lori to Riley's memorial service. A video of pictures of him taken over the years and set to music was playing in the lobby of the church. It should have been shown at his graduation party.

Riley's mom and dad, his older brother and sister and other family members sat at the front of the church, with nearly 800 people behind them. The kids in Riley's choir at Chandler High filed in wearing Hawaiian shirts, like their friend had favored. They sang through tears.

Printed on the program, Riley's date of birth and date of death were the same, exactly 18 years apart.

It made no sense, the people said over and over again. They called him Smiley Riley. He never spoke of killing himself. His family had always owned a gun; Riley had been taught to shoot safely. For his mother, Riley's story is not about guns, and it's not about suicide. It's about drugs.

Riley was kind to everyone; he had a passion for music, a girlfriend he was smitten with and plans to run the world. He would have graduated last Wednesday. His name was announced when it would have been his turn to walk, a pause in the line of royal blue caps and gowns, and the crowd cheered.

That day, on what would have been Riley's last day of school, Djuana posted a picture from his first day of senior year. She wrote,"Happy Graduation today, Bug! You endured, flourished, sang loud, challenged teachers, played a tuba, guitar, piano, saxophone, debated, tutored, lived, laughed and loved ....

"I am proud of the young man you ... are, were, will always be."

She tagged it, " — with Riley Peterson."

Reach Bland at karina.bland@arizonarepublic.com.

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