Wrong Place, Wrong Time

Robbie Mooring was in the wrong place at the wrong time.  And not for the first time.  But this time he was intoxicated, joyriding on the back-country roads of South Carolina with his friend Mack, who was equally wasted at the wheel.

Robbie was also under the influence of severe depression following the death of his father 42 days earlier.  Throw in the “what the hell” attitude and “not me” invincibility of a 26-year-old, and he climbed into the Corvette’s passenger seat without a thought of fastening his seat belt.

The day after Robbie’s funeral, his mother and several family members went to the crash site.   She remembered a trail of rubber stretching two-hundred feet down the asphalt, tire marks plowing through the earthen shoulder plunging six feet down an embankment abruptly disappearing into a ditch of muddy water about a foot deep. Debris scattered everywhere … one of Robbie’s shoes, his cell phone, cigarette packs, empty and full silver beer cans and Little Debbie wrappers: one of his favorite snacks.

Reports say Mack exceeded 100 mph before losing control of the Corvette and flipping side over side, crashing into the ditch upside down around 8 p.m., March 12.   Mack  was scared and impaired.  He crawled over Robbie, thinking he died on impact and scaled the six-foot embankment.  Mack went home to his wife, showered, ate and called Robbie’s wife, Selena, about an hour after the wreck to insinuate Robbie borrowed his Corvette, hours ago.

Selena was puzzled, because Robbie called her just before 8 p.m. She knew he had been drinking, but he seemed OK. He said,  “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had,” and assured her he’d share the details when he came home.  He wanted to avoid stumbling in his back door and walking past his in-laws drunk, so he told Mack he had some time to kill before he could go home. He was less than two miles from his house.

Four hours later,  paramedics were standing ankle-deep in water next to the Corvette.  They found Robbie’s body in the driver’s seat and his head face down in water. Time of death — just after midnight, Saturday, March 13, 2004.

Medical officials determined Robbie was alive after impact. He died from exsanguination and inhaling water during the four hours he was left alone.

Mack denied involvement in the crash, but the fresh, crimson seatbelt-burn on his chest placed him at the scene and in the driver’s seat. Twenty-one months later, Mack was finally in court, convicted of Motor Vehicle Accident Resulting in Death and sentenced to nine years in prison or 3,285 days.

The past 2,059 days since Robbie’s father, Andy, died have been filled with “should’ve been” and “could’ve been” for my family.  We were grasping for answers trying to understand why this happened, and rationalize our own involvement — could we have reached out more to help Robbie?

Andy’s death struck Robbie to the core and thrust him into a deep, empty cage of sadness and self-destructive behavior where he adopted a crippling characteristic of men in our family:  drinking to deaden the pain.  No one stopped Robbie from drinking 21 days after Andy’s death at a family cookout, not that he would have listened.

At the cookout, Robbie asked my dad to stay in South Carolina and spend time with him, but for whatever reason he didn’t.  He was planning to come later.  And later never came.   My dad blamed himself for not being there.  With a strained voice of regret, he said to me, “I should have been there for Robbie,”  firmly placing his open palm on his chest.  His eyes glazed and pooled with grief as he repeated, “I should’ve been there.”  I had never seen this silent, rough-exterior 76-year-old man shed a tear, not even at his own mother’s funeral.

Every day since Robbie has died,  our family has dealt with the traumatic loss — setting an extra plate for holidays, remembering his birthday,  smiling when his favorite songs play, wondering what he would do or say at random times, calling his cell phone — a year after his death, to hear his voice and searching for his smile or sapphire eyes to brighten our day.

A tribute stone outside of Robbie’s mother’s front door reads: “No farewell words were spoken, no time to say goodbye, you were gone before we knew it, and only God knows why.”

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