On Aug. 6, 1995, Michael McEachern and Katy Nesbit — two spirited, trusting young people — went to a Whataburger and never returned to the friends and family who loved them so much. They were murdered over the theft of a car stereo Michael had built piece by piece over a period of almost a year. Here, his mother traces the journey to recovery from that tragedy in an excerpt from her book, Beyond the Abyss.
If you’ve ever been to Texas in August, you understand how hot it can get. It was that kind of August night when my son, Michael, was born. He came early, a tiny little thing struggling for life.
It was the same kind of August night 16 years and three weeks later that he was murdered, along with his friend, Katy Nesbit.
Again, he struggled for life. Sadly, this time he lost the battle.
Brenda O’Quin
When your children are born, you have such hopes and dreams for them. As you hold your new baby for the first time, an unbreakable bond is formed between parent and child. It’s a magical, spiritual connection that never goes away. Even when they leave this earth and dwell in heaven away from us, that bond is still strong because they leave behind a treasure trove of beautiful memories.
They grow and learn, take their first steps, say their first words. All the hugs and kisses are indelibly placed in our hearts forever. That box of memories will live as long as we live.
I remember when Michael was a toddler, he had a little yellow duck pillowcase he carried with him in one arm wherever he went and a pink stuffed rabbit in the other arm. When he was about 3 years old, he added a little football helmet tilted slightly to the side and tiny shoulder pads and football pants. One of my treasured pictures is of him walking with his 6-year-old brother, Jason, after one of Jason’s football games. In the picture, Jason had his arm around 3-year-old Michael, who was dressed like a little football player with the little pink rabbits’ legs dangling whenever he ran.
“I never imagined I would be putting that little pink rabbit in his casket before they closed the lid, but I did.”
I never imagined I would be putting that little pink rabbit in his casket before they closed the lid, but I did.
As your children grow from angelic innocence to teenage years, you really start to worry about them. You must let go a little, stand back and let them solve their own problems and search for their own identity and values. Hopefully, the roots you’ve provided are strong, and you pray every day for God to keep them safe from harm.
When you lose a child to such a horrible thing as murder, you feel overwhelming guilt because you were not able to protect them and keep them safe. In the back of your mind, you always are questioning yourself.
Did I say too little, did I say too much? Should I have done something differently? Michael used to say, “Mom, you worry too much; nothing’s going to happen to me.”
If only that were true and we lived in a world where nothing happens to our children. But we do not.
And he loved athletics. He started soccer at age 4 and as he grew added tennis, basketball and football to his athletic achievements. Basketball was his first love. He and his friends would play basketball for hours in our driveway.
Who would’ve thought that meeting someone at a neighborhood pickup basketball game at a local elementary school would cost him his life. But it did.
Friends are especially important to teenagers, and Michael had many friends. Some from Nolan Catholic School and Richland High where he attended school, and some from the neighborhood where we lived. One of those friends, Katy Nesbit, was with him and was murdered along with Michael.
Michael had solid friendships. Many of his friends were neighbors’ children who had grown up with him. It was a huge loss for them too. My next-door neighbor, Sharon Gray, said: “Michael was in my house every day since first grade. I feel like I’ve lost one of my own children.”
Some of the reasons for these lasting friendships is that Michael was loyal, trusting and had no malice toward anyone. When someone needed a friend, he was the one they called. There were many examples of his helping others.
“Michael was loyal, trusting and had no malice toward anyone.”
I remember a young man from the neighborhood Michael befriended. He always was there during dinner and was different from most of his other friends. I asked Michael one day, “What’s the deal with your new friend? He is around a lot.”
Michael said, “Mom, you don’t know how terrible things are for him at home.” After Michael’s funeral, I found a skateboard wheel this young friend left at the cemetery.
I also received several notes from other mothers after his death. One was from a mother about his befriending her son who was being bullied. She said he was her son’s protector, and the bullying stopped. Another note was from a mother whose son was one of the first African American students at Nolan at the time. She said Michael was his first friend and introduced him to others. He made sure her son was accepted, and he became friends with the other kids.
There are things time never can erase.
That box of heart-memories is full and overflowing with the things he taught us about life, the happy times we shared, his funny little laugh, his arms around my neck. When he would leave the house, he always said, “I love you, Mom.”
Those were the last words I heard him say.
He left so much love behind and someday we will follow the road map he left for us to use when we travel to that place where only angels go. And he will be there waiting for us.
I can’t help but wonder what remarkable things Michael and Katy would have accomplished if they had the opportunity to grow up.
Brenda O’Quin worked for 30 years with high-risk juveniles and co-victims of homicide; she has managed Department of Justice grants and provided education to law enforcement, media, nonprofit organizations, educators, and the community regarding victim services and the prevention of violence. This column is excerpted from her book, Beyond the Abyss: Sharing a Journey of Hope After the Murder of a Loved One.