We lost Robin in 1987, very suddenly. It was as if the world became too jealous of her beauty and put out her light.
I met Robin in 1985, we were in the same Peace Corps group stationed in Jamaica. She was there to teach sign language to rural children who had suffered from Rubella. She was the youngest volunteer in the group, just twenty-one, and she was the most energetic, compassionate volunteer I had ever met. I have put off composing this post for quite awhile, knowing I could never do justice to her with my inadequate language skills, perhaps no one could. But it is at this time of the year when she died those twenty-four years ago, and I am always saddened when I think of her.
Robin haunts me in many ways. During training, she was always upbeat, always networking with everyone. She had no favorites, she was kind and funny, and could make you feel really good just by being with her. On the night we swore in as official volunteers, I upset her, something probably difficult to do. Several of us were sitting around drinking, and the subject of feminism came up. I had drunk a few too many, and got very playful in my stupid way. I was debating just to debate, being the obnoxious devil's advocate, or maybe just the devil. I should have known they weren't catching on to what I was doing when they began to become upset, but I continued anyway. Finally, one of the other male volunteers walked over and pulled her away from the fracas. I knew I was wrong, but I also recognized his pedantic gesture, rescuing the damsel in distress from the villain.
I regret that night, even though we soon made up (I don't think it was possible for her to be truly angry with anyone), and I even stayed over at her house once while visiting the area. She had lost some respect for me, and that was a high price for me to pay for an evening's frivolities. When we had finished our training period, Robin said some very nice things about me when we went around the room acknowledging each other. She was like that, able to recognize the value in anyone.
Robin worked passionately with those children and volunteered with other agencies. I saw her off and on in the two years, and always looked forward to it. Somewhere during her service, Robin met and developed a relationship with a volunteer in the previous group, Martin (not his real name, and you may soon discover why) who was some kind of first aid specialist. They seemed happy, and when it came time for our group to leave, she decided to travel to Columbia with Martin to look at some short term volunteer opportunities. Robin had been accepted to Galludet in the fall, quite a feat for a "hearing" student as almost all of the school's students were deaf. She had a brilliant life ahead of her.
Our group had our last conferences and long goodbyes, and I headed back to the states, she to South America. It was several months later that I heard she had died. She had been in Bogota with her boyfriend and had fallen ill. Evidently, Robin had suffered from Addison's disease, and the eventual conclusion was that it complicated whatever illness she contracted, and took her life. She died in Martin's hands, and even as a trained medic, he couldn't save her. I borrowed money to fly out to her funeral in Virginia.
It was such a sad few days, with everyone desperately trying to cope with the tragedy. I stayed with a friend of the families, and caught up with some other volunteers in attendance. I remember the priest at the funeral remarking that he would not do a eulogy , as Vatican II discouraged it. Instead, he read Robin's application letter to Galludet, and incredibly moving document. The biggest funeral I had ever seen burst into tears, and the sobbing went on for several minutes. God takes his angels when he pleases, but leaves us no insight into how to let them go.
I mentioned that Robin haunts me. I am haunted by the fact that I had let her down, that I had fallen in her estimation. I am haunted by her loss, and the incredible pain I saw her family endure. But now I am haunted by a terrible notion that has slowly grown in two and a half decades, one that I should have confronted then, but did not have the courage to do so. I am haunted by the profane possibility that Robin had been murdered. Profane in that I can't believe it happened, and I can't dismiss the possibility - profane that it either happened, or profane that I suspect it. Profane.
After the funeral, I was sitting out under a tree trying not to cry. I did not know how to cry in those days, having not yet been taught. I needed to, and I resisted, I just sat under the tree and listened to the hollowness of the world without Robin. It had sunk in. While there, one of Martin's brothers came up to me and started talking to me. I had met him already, and he was a very nice young man. We chatted a bit about Robin, her parents, Martin. A few minutes into the conversation, his countenance darkened and he told me he needed to give me something. This really startled me, and I was afraid before I knew what he wanted to do. Perhaps it was the look on his face, a face no longer racked with grief, but laden with a terrible burden. I really didn't want to know, but had little choice.
He produced a small notebook that turned out to be Robin's diary. He told me it had been returned with Martin's things, as he had left Columbia a wreck, and their personal effects had been shipped a week later. He held out the diary to me, and noticed I didn't want to touch it. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. I asked him with little faith, what he wanted me to see, what he wanted me to understand. He realized I wasn't going to read it, so he hesitantly began to explain. He had unpacked the shipment and had seen the diary near the top of a box. Knowing better, he couldn't help but to open it and read it. What he found inside devastated him, and put him in the a horrific situation. The diary explained that Robin was about to leave Martin, and that his behaviors had grown erratic and troubling, and she was very afraid of him. She fretted about how to tell him, and the last entry, dated a day before she died, indicated that she had found the necessary resolve to tell him. A day later she was dead, and there was never a proper autopsy done in Columbia or the US. Martin's testimony determined the diagnosis.
I couldn't believe what he was telling me, and I asked him flat out what he wanted me to do. He told me he wanted me to have the diary, that he could not be burdened with it. It was his brother after all, and there was already far too much pain to deal with. I asked him if he had thought about giving it to Robin's parents and he shook his head sadly saying it would kill them. I truly did not know what to do with this horrible indictment, not knowing what to believe, and recognizing the inflammatory inferences. He kept trying to pass it over to me and I kept resisting. It was just too much for me to think about. I got up, begged him not to give it to me, and walked away. That was twenty four years ago, and the ghost has grown steadily since.
I don't know what became of the diary, but I have my suspicions. Now, I wrestle with my memory hoping to lose. Hoping it wasn't real, or my cruel mind had distorted it over the years. To tell you the truth, I really am not sure, but I am haunted.
Robin had been at my place the month before we finished our service, and good naturedly teased me trying to get one of the spectacular sea shells I had found while snorkeling. It was a Triton's Trumpet, and it was my favorite - I almost gave in and gave it to her, but I had a rare moment of stinginess and I denied her. Perhaps I believed I would give it to her later. On the morning after the funeral, I went to her parents place and gave them the shell will little fanfare. Her mother kissed me with tears in her eyes, and her father drove me and my infant revenant to the airport.
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