Two lives lost, a third forever changed

The girl stands on the banks of the Green River, shivering against the autumn air. Her eyes fix on one spot, then another, until the tears blur everything together.

Dozens of people gather around her. Some bow their heads. Others clasp pins with the boys' photos.

"Today is a memorial, dear father," the pastor says. "Two young boys lost their lives in this river a year ago."

Loni Mundell is 17 now. A whole year gone; where, she isn't sure.

It takes only one memory. And just like that, all those days and hours disappear, leaving her once again soaking and sobbing on the side of the road, her skin blue, unable to do anything but scream as the river rages, carrying away her car with her cousin and stepbrother inside.

The facts of what happened Nov. 7, 2008, are spelled out in a thick police file.

Heavy rainfall. Sixteen-year-old girl driving a silver Volkswagen Beetle on Green River Road Southeast. Driver loses control; vehicle crosses the center line and plunges into the Green River. Time of 911 call: 8:39 a.m.

There are names of the victims — Loni's stepbrother, Austin Fuda, 13, and her cousin, Hunter Beaupre, 2. Records show Loni was not intoxicated, texting or talking on her cellphone. She did not drive recklessly; her brakes didn't fail. Detectives note the road was slick and littered with maple leaves.

A prosecutor points out Loni's youth and inexperience, and recommends she be cited for an infraction — driving too fast for conditions. All of this appears in the file.

So, too, does the $175 ticket, tucked beside the witness statements, vehicle-inspection reports and police follow-ups.

It strikes Loni, as she thumbs through the pages one year later, that no one wrote down what you're supposed to do after two family members die in a car accident and you were the one driving.

That there is no report on how to handle the gossip and stares at high school, or the crushing guilt, or the loneliness, or how to turn off the incessant loop of that day, or, more than anything, what to do with the biggest question of all: How do you forgive yourself?

* * *

It was 6:30 a.m.; time to get up.

Loni lived in Kent with her dad, Dave Mundell, and his longtime partner, Keleighn Fuda. To Loni, Keleighn was her stepmom. And Austin, Keleighn's son, was like her brother.

There was never any shortage of clamor inside the one-story home. Either Austin was chattering away, or her dad was clomping around in his work boots, or Chewy the Chihuahua mix was yelping to go out.

That week, they had an extra-full house. Loni's little cousins Hunter, 2, and Paul, 3, were staying over while their mother, Dori Beaupre, recovered from knee surgery.

Hunter and Paul were blond mirror images. They played and wrestled like brothers do, fighting one minute, then falling into a giggling heap. Loni felt more like their big sister and helped get them ready for day care.

She had driven Hunter and Paul there all week. Loni had gotten her license six months and nine days earlier, but she already was a trusted driver. Her family depended on her.

Outside, as rain crashed against the house, Austin begged Loni for a ride. He usually walked to his middle school, since it was just down the hill, but it was raining so hard.

Could Loni pleeaaasse take him? Keleighn and Dave had already left for work.

The four of them got in the car. Once at day care, Paul ran off to his class, but the teacher told Loni that Hunter couldn't stay.

He'd had diarrhea the day before and couldn't come back for 24 hours. Loni decided she'd skip school to watch him. She didn't want Aunt Dori chasing Hunter around on her bad knee.

Now, time to drop off Austin. Loni buckled Hunter in his car seat and the three headed north on Green River Road.

From the back, Hunter shouted little demands in toddler-speak.

"Ding me a dong, Onni! Ding me a dong!"

"What?" Loni laughed. "I can't understand what you're saying."

"He said, 'Sing me a song, Loni,' you dork," Austin said, and they all cracked up. Loni put on an Alanis Morissette CD and started warbling to "Hand in My Pocket."

I'm broke, but I'm happy

I'm poor, but I'm kind ...

What it all comes down to

Is that everything's gonna be fine, fine, fine

"You suck," Hunter said, giggling. "But I still love you."

Then everything went dark.

* * *

It's early December, a year and a month after the accident, and fifth period has ended at Auburn Mountainview High School.

Hundreds of students pour down the staircase, into the halls, through the cafeteria. Cellphones pop out, texts get fired off. Everyone shouts above everyone else.

Through the crowd, Loni appears, pretty, blond, smiling as a friend leans in to tell her something funny. In skinny jeans and a black jacket, Loni could be anyone. Just another senior. One more teen unsure of what to do after high school.

The masquerade works sometimes. On the good days, she can focus on classes: nutrition, global issues, poetry. Homework gets done, high school actually seems tolerable.

Then maybe she'll hear someone complain about not getting a pair of shoes. That's when her anger starts to burn, getting hotter and hotter until she feels she's going to explode.

Who are these people? Don't they see? She wants to shake them and yell, yes, yell, because, for God's sake, they need to realize these petty things don't matter.

A year ago, she was the one worried about shoes. And now, who was she? The girl in the cafeteria surrounded by people but totally alone?

Or worse, the girl who killed those kids in the car?

That remark got tossed around so casually in the hallways — as if she couldn't feel the stares or hear the whispering.

They all had so many questions. "Hey, Loni, were you drunk?" "Hey, Loni, were you texting?"

People were curious; she got that. And if they wanted the truth, she'd give it to them. Just don't be mean or say something like, "I totally understand." Because no one does.

At one point, Loni stopped going to school. She stayed holed up at home for nearly three months, heading out only to see her therapist. The girl who used to rush out the door with friends and talk for hours on the phone was gone.

It felt right. How could she move forward when Austin and Hunter would never get to? She had robbed them in the worst possible way. This was all her fault.

Wasn't it?

Her family and teachers and close friends said no. And her school counselor, Dave Samuelson, got her thinking. Let people talk, he said. But don't give them the power to destroy your future.

She'd survived. Now, she needed to start living and finish school.

So here she is, playing the part of a student. Listening, taking notes, passing class. But when the memories come at her dark and fast, there's nothing she can do but rewind to that morning in the Green River.

* * *

This is the end, Loni thought. I'm dying, they're dying, everyone's dying.

After the car pitched over the embankment, the water crept higher and higher.

She tried to signal for Austin to get out while she reached back for Hunter, but she could not see or hear. Words died in her throat. Her mind flashed the future: her family, her dad's grief, the discovery of the car.

Air, she needed air.

Something her dad told her once, as a little girl, came rushing back. What should I do, she'd asked him, if my car ever went under water?

Wait until you're fully submerged, he said. Then open the doors.

As the car sank, her body rose. Water touched her lips.

Now, she thought. Now.

She grabbed the handle and pushed; it swung wide. A strong swimmer, Loni made her way to the surface, then dove under twice, looking for something, anything. But there was no car.

"Austin!" she cried.

She swam through the swift currents until she reached the bank, scrambling up 100 feet of grass and sticker bushes.

Finally, the road. She started screaming.

Grant Gay was on his way to work around 8:30 a.m. when he noticed cars slowing down past the Auburn Golf Course. Then he saw the girl, drenched and dripping with debris. She was hysterical. He hesitated, but rolled down his window.

"My car's gone in the river," she said. "There are two kids in there."

He walked to the river and looked. Nothing. If a car had gone in, he remembered thinking, it was like the fast-moving waters had swallowed it whole.

The girl was shaking. He grabbed a towel, held her, and dialed 911.

She wanted to see no one.

Sitting in the ambulance, naked, covered in heating pads and blankets, Loni could not move or cry. She had killed those precious boys. Her family would hate her forever.

A paramedic walked in.

"Your Aunt Dori is here," he said. "She really wants to see you."

Loni shook her head. How could she face Hunter's mother?

No, she answered. No, no, no.

He stepped out and Dori entered. She grabbed Loni's hand and kissed her forehead.

In that moment, Loni saw something in her aunt's eyes that made her feel both sad and grateful.

"Loni," she said, "it's not your fault."

It took the search-and-rescue team four days to recover the car. The current was so strong the day of the accident that a regulator was ripped from the mouth of one of the divers.

As they hoisted the Beetle from the water, Hunter emerged, still strapped in his car seat.

Austin's body was never found.

* * *

The smell of hot cider drifts through the yellow house in Auburn. It's Nov. 7, Saturday afternoon, and dozens of people show up here after the boys' one-year memorial.

The home belongs to a family cousin, who stacks a table high with desserts. Everyone eats and drinks and talks, and it almost seems like an ordinary party with ordinary chitchat, until the lights go dim and a slide show starts.

There's Hunter, the newborn. Hunter, with a coffee filter on his head. Hunter and Paul wearing Uncle Dave's work boots.

Paul didn't react much after the accident. He was just 3 at the time. But now he's 4 and something starts to click. He crumples into Dori's arms.

"I miss Hunter!" he gasps between the sobs. "I want him back!"

"We have the pictures, honey," Dori says, stroking his hair. "We have the memories. That's a gift, sweetheart. Remember that." Later, after Paul runs off to play, Dori sits on the stairs in tears.

In the living room, photos of Austin flicker across the screen, and Keleighn watches with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. People say a part of you dies when you lose a child, but really, Keleighn says, that's not true.

Everything dies.

For months, the only thing living inside her was a shard of hope that Austin would come home.

She told herself he had amnesia, that he was lost, that one day he would open the door saying, "Mom, why didn't you find me?" and they would hug and she would never let him go.

But September came, then October. And she said to Dave, "He's really gone, isn't he?" which is when they packed up his clothes.

As Loni watches the slide show, she feels the weight in the room and wants to leave, escape, go somewhere that isn't so damn sad. But her grandmother, Dave and Keleighn hold her close. Every day, they say, they feel grateful she survived. God had a plan; they believe it was the boys' time to go.

They need Loni to know she is loved unconditionally. And deep down, she does.

Loni says she knows the boys are in heaven. That gives her comfort. But there are days when she sees them everywhere.

Like that little blond boy on the playground, or that stocky kid with a dog, which reminds her of the time Austin tried to teach Chewy how to walk on three legs, just in case he ever lost a limb.

She laughs, and it feels good, and it leads her to talk about the future. Maybe she'll become a child psychologist or a teacher one day. Something to do with children, for sure.

She just has to get through high school first.

Samuelson, her counselor, says he couldn't be more proud of Loni. She's a different student these days, more focused and mature.

Loni got a second chance. And, she says, she owes it to the boys not to waste it.

Whenever she feels like talking to them, she writes letters and reads them at the river. Sometimes, the whole family will go with her and send up messages on balloons.

The last time they did it, after the memorial, Loni had thought about what she wanted to say for two weeks. But in that moment, her mind went blank.

"I love you boys so much," she scribbled. "It gets harder every day without you."

She let go of the balloon and watched the words float across the river, above the trees, until all she could see was a small black dot against a pale blue sky.

Sonia Krishnan: 206-515-5546 or skrishnan@seattletimes.com