Flowers decorate the grave site of Demarcus Bryant, who died in March 2014 from an overdose caused by a 25-microgram fentanyl patch, at Greenwood Cemetery on Friday, April 15, 2016, in Chattanooga, Tenn. Bryant would have celebrated his 4th birthday on April 12th. Last week, a jury convicted Bryant's caretaker, Jaqueline Escareno, 52, of criminally negligent homicide for Bryant's death.On his first birthday, Demarcus Bryant learned to play football. Then he tried to eat the Styrofoam ball, even though he had a cupcake before him.
Sarah Bryant, 32, wanted to get the perfect card that day. It must have taken her 20 minutes. Then she found the green cover with the smiling dinosaur. "I'm so glad God blessed me with your handsome smile," she wrote inside.
On his fourth birthday, on Tuesday, Sarah Bryant went to a doctor's appointment in the morning. She was stressed, her heart wasn't receiving blood fast enough, she was dizzy and overexerted. But the doctor said the girl, her child-to-be, was fine.
Around 1 p.m., Sarah Bryant loaded a bouquet of flowers, a plastic pail and shovel, and a batch of message balloons in her car.
"Happy birthday!"
"It's your day!"
"You're No. 1!"
Then she drove to Greenwood Cemetery.
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Demarcus Bryant was born April 12, 2012, at 2:38 p.m. at Parkridge East Hospital. He weighed 7 pounds, 8 ounces, had hazel eyes and a head full of hair.
Now he shares the same ground as Gary R. Holder, an 83-year-old whose gravestone identifies him as a former corporal in the U.S. Army during the Korean War, and his beloved wife, Nancy J. Holder.
On his second birthday, his family members planned to take Demarcus to the aquarium.
But they never got that chance.
On March 22, 2014, Demarcus was found dead in a playpen. A medical examiner later determined he died as a result of the 25-microgram prescription painkiller patch on his back.
Jaqueline Escareno listens during jury selection as her trial begins in the courtroom of Judge Don Poole on Tuesday, Apr. 5, 2016, in Chattanooga, Tenn. Escareno is charged with criminally negligent homicide in the 2014 drug-overdose death of toddler Demarcus Bryant, who had a prescription pain patch on his back. That day in the courtroom, Sarah Bryant and her family got justice.
But they can't get Demarcus back.
* * *
Go down to Greenwood Cemetery, where the fields are marked by wreaths and tulips and headstones on hills. This is where the family - Bryant and her daughters, ages 13 and 6 - gathers today, in the valley of valor, beneath the shade of two oak trees.
Bryant thinks about "Boy," the nickname his 6-year-old sister gave him. Today she will leave a card, but that's between her and Demarcus. She tells people he's in heaven, with God now.
Once upon a time, Demarcus would pile toys beside the barricade across his bedroom door. On the other side, his sister lined the floor with a protective layer of pillows. "Escape the Gate," they called it.
Demarcus loved cars. He loved scooting around the house in his Fisher Price mobile and hollering, "Beep, beep!" or "Let's go!"
Car lamps. Car toddler bed. Car sheets and blankets and decals. His room was a shrine to the automobile and used to be blue. Now it's empty because they can't stand to smell his sheets or picture him sleeping.
During his burial service March 31, Bryant's aunt sang "Take Me To The King," a gospel song.
But Bryant doesn't remember anything else. She just stared at his lifeless body wondering: "What am I still here for?"
Today, of course, she remembers she's here for her daughters. She remembers that everything returns to the creator, that nobody intentionally reports to the devil. People just make mistakes sometimes.
That logic is harder to accept.
What do you call a parent who loses a child? There is no word for it.
"We went through this agonized process of court dates, of not knowing the separation of lies and fact for two long years," Bryant said. "And even to this day we have only a guilty verdict, but not real, straight-out answers, no closure. It's torment."
At the gravesite, a napping ceramic angel doesn't have the answers either. He sits below the bouquet from Hobby Lobby, the balloons that bang together in the breeze and a multicolored pinwheel that gleams in the sunlight.
The blades spin whenever the wind rustles in the trees. And when it stops, the blades stop, too.
Contact staff writer Zack Peterson at zpeterson@timesfreepress.com or 423-757-6347 with story ideas or tips. Follow @zackpeterson918.