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Excerpt from Chapter 14: Once Upon a Time
About six months after Ricky was killed, I called the insurance company and asked why I hadn't heard from them. They said the agent is on vacation, the file is not complete, blah, blah, blah, we'll call you in a week. They didn't call in a week. They didn't call in two weeks. I called again and was told the agent would call me back in a few minutes. He didn't. The next day, I called yet again, and the agent came to the phone.
"We don't have all the documents to complete the case," he said.
"What do you need?" I said.
"A statement from Ricky's doctor about his health when he was killed."
"What do you mean?"
"Did he have any diseases."
"What difference does it make if he had a disease?" I said.
"Well, if he had leukemia, and his life expectancy was only three years, we would pay a different amount of money. We wouldn't owe you as much."
"He was well enough to walk down the street," I screamed. "And if he only had one day to live, your client took it from him and took him from us."
"We need proof that…"
"You'll get it," I said, and hung up.
The agent faxed a form to our church office, and I took it to the doctor. The doctor wrote that Ricky was in good health, had no diseases, no illnesses. He was a typical six-year-old boy.
Then I got in the car, sat Misty and Justin next to me, and drove to the insurance company. We entered the insurance company's office, Misty in one hand, Justin in the other, a photo album under my arm, and I asked to see the agent.
"He's in a meeting," said the receptionist.
"I'll wait," I said.
"We don't know how long he'll be."
"That's fine. I'll wait for him," I said, and gently set the photo album on the magazine table.
I sat down, with two kids, four- and five-years-old. They were good, they sat still, they knew this was important. It had to do with their brother, and why he wasn't here anymore.
You often hear about how resilient children are when bad things happen. But sometimes we forget that they grieve as much as adults. Misty had terrible nightmares, and was afraid of cars in parking lots. She thought they were going to run her over. She asked a lot of questions about the man who killed Ricky. "Does he still drive? Does he take drugs? Is he going to jail?" She asked about Ricky. "Will Jesus see Ricky wearing a bloody shirt? Will Jesus fix the hole in Ricky's head?" Justin was the opposite. He was quiet, and held everything in, which is more typical of how children respond to trauma. He mentioned Ricky's death only occasionally.
At the insurance company, people arrived and filled the seats in the waiting room, and one by one drifted down the hallway to their appointments and later strolled out and left, and new people arrived and waited. Then I saw the agent in the hallway. He glanced my way, and then turned his back to me. I picked up the photo album, told my children to follow me, and called his name.
"Excuse me, do you have an appointment?" he said.
"Yes, I do," I lied. "Maybe you don't remember me. I'm Sharon Knutson, Ricky's mom. Your client ran over my son."
"Okay."
"You need a statement about Ricky's health. I have it, and I want you to pull his file and guarantee me that when I leave here, there is nothing else you need."
"This isn't necessary Mrs. Ka-newt-son…" he said.
"It's not? Then why is it six months after Ricky's death and you're telling me I need more documents. We settled three months ago, we signed your papers, and there is still no check. Why? Because you are concerned about my dead son's state of health?"
"This is just a procedure, Mrs. Ka-newt-son," he said.
"It's an unnecessary procedure. And my question to you is, if he is worth less if he had a disease, is he worth more if he was an exceptionally good-looking kid?"
"Really, Mrs. Ka-newt-son…"
"The name is Knutson. Nut-son. The K is silent. And my son's name is Ricky Knutson. And these are my other children, Misty and Justin. Mis-ty. Jus-tin."
"This is not necessary," he reiterated.
"You're right. It was not necessary for me to come here." I pulled the doctor's letter from the album. "It was not necessary for you to have this form letter."
My voice was growing louder.
"Why don't we go back to my office."
"No!" I said. "I want everyone in the waiting room to hear how cold-hearted you are and what a criminal outfit you're running."
He was silent.
"Do you have kids or grandkids?" I said.
"I have a grandson."
"How much is he worth?"
His face didn't change expression. It was sour and indifferent.
"Tell me how much he is worth."
Everyone in the waiting room was watching, frozen in mid action, holding up a newspaper, leaning in to talk to a friend, suspending a cup of coffee to the lips. Eyes astounded.
"Why don't you ask my kids how much they want to sell their brother for?" I said. "How much money will make them feel better about their brother being run over?
Then I took my children's hands, led them into his office and sat down. He followed, and I laid the album on the table and opened it to a picture of Ricky. The agent dutifully looked, and an exceptionally handsome boy stared out at him. I turned to another photo and then another and another and tears trickled down my face.
"We could have sued your client for millions of dollars, but we didn't," I said. "We don't have years to wait for a trial. We need the money now to pay for his funeral, and I have to care for my other children. We have bills we can't pay. We treated you with respect, and all you've done is treat us like trash. You've acted as if my son's life is worth nothing."
He didn't reply, and for the next half hour sat there and listened. When I was done, he said he would process the check right away and mail it to us.
"Oh, no, you're not," I said. "You call me the moment it's printed and I will be here to pick it up."
We left, and I shook for days afterwards. I was not used to confronting people like this. I was taught to be respectful and polite, but this was about my son. Who I would never wrap my arms around and hug again.
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