The deceptively simple sentence above is a haunting refrain in the hands of Cory Combs, a composer, educator, and bassist living in San Francisco. Cory is adding writer to that resume with his memoir about the mysterious death of his older brother, Chris. The finished book will probably be titled The Last Living Descendant of the Mona Lisa, but below Cory offers Drowning Undetermined, an excerpt from the work-in-progress that explores the imagining, theorising, and quest for understanding that accompanies a sudden loss.

Drowing Undetermined

Chris, my older brother, died four years ago. He was 34, single, and living in Chicago. I just turned 35; I’m now older than he ever got to be.

Chris was a thrill seeker. More honestly, he was reckless. He was always the one to push, and push hard. This pulled some people towards him and pushed me away—you never knew what he’d do next. During the week of his service, his Chicago friends told their favorite Chris stories—stealing expensive rugs from posh downtown Chicago hotels in broad daylight, driving around in a airbrushed 70’s van with a bullhorn accosting people on the street, speeding past the Cabrini Green projects in the middle of the night. All the stories were laced with liberal references to drugs, sex and alcohol. It’s what fueled the myth.

He died in an accident. We know this much surrounding the facts of his death, and it’s not much: On July 31, 2002, alone, he drove to the Navy Pier in Chicago. There he took out his inflatable kayak and went out on Lake Michigan to watch the fireworks that were part of Chicago’s Venetian Nights Festival. He probably wasn’t wearing a lifejacket.

Something happened, and he drowned.

No one knows quite what, though there has been speculation. One thought, primarily mine, is that he was drinking, fell in the water and was too drunk to get back on the kayak. Another was that his inflatable kayak deflated and sank, and the cold water overtook him. But that doesn’t sit with me. To watch fireworks, he wouldn’t have been very far out, and even if the kayak deflated, he could have held on to the plastic and swam to shore. He was a good swimmer.

After it happened, however it happened, for two weeks, no one had any idea he was gone. His friends noted his absence but assumed he had taken an unannounced trip. Maybe to Wichita to visit our parents. My parents had left messages, but it wasn’t uncommon for Chris to not return calls immediately. They thought he was probably camping.

He wasn’t found immediately. A number of days, or possibly a week after, someone had the misfortune of seeing him floating in the water, nowhere close to fresh. I feel sorry for that person, whomever he or she is. My brother was the bloated corpse in the water that probably still gives that person nightmares.

Officials were called. They hauled him out of the water. Maybe they made jokes—gallows humor. They zipped him up as soon as they could and drove him to the morgue. There he stayed for another week or more. Sometime during that process there was an autopsy. Cause of death: Drowning Undetermined.

Meanwhile, Chris’s friends started to wonder. His answering machine was full, which had never happened before. People called to say hi to Chris, to invite him to parties, to see what he was up to, all long after he was dead and in the morgue.

Though all his friends began to note his absence, only one, Joe, was worried enough to call our parents. It was around August 12. Had they heard from him? No, they hadn’t. Still not panicking and with my parent’s support, Joe began to investigate. He knew of Chris’s plan to go to the Navy Pier that evening in July, so drove there first. There he found Chris’s car, the front windshield covered in parking tickets—a clear sign that something was very wrong. Joe called my parents and reported that news. My mom says she knew at that moment Chris was gone.

A detective was hired. Hospitals and morgues called. Joe went to the morgue to ID a body that matched the general description. It wasn’t Chris. At my parent’s house in Wichita, friends and neighbors began to arrive to offer support and make or answer calls. Cell phones were ringing everywhere. The official story was that Chris was missing. At that point there were still thoughts that Chris could call, ending the nightmare with a simple, “I’m here! What’s everyone so worried about?” One of Chris’s closest friends, Andrew, was traveling alone in Turkey. My dad tried to convince himself that Chris was with him, traveling and seeing a new part of the world. He started telling people he remembered Chris saying he was going to Turkey with Andrew.

Eventually Chris’s body was found. My mom had to fax dental records. She told me that on the phone when she broke the news. Dental records. A match was made. He was gone.

During the week of the funeral, I went jogging one hot morning with Alex, a newer friend of Chris’s. We talked about Chris—his generous side, his incredible intelligence, his loyalty. We also talked about the pain and confusion he carried with him all the time. Alex said that he was worried about Chris; he felt it could have been a suicide. But no matter the pain he was in, I couldn’t imagine him paddling himself out, jumping in Lake Michigan and allowing himself to drown.

We were all tortured by the circumstances. One of Chris’s oldest friends told my mom that if someone intentionally did this, he would kill him, and he wasn’t the only person to entertain the thought that someone purposefully and randomly ended Chris’s life.

Once the chaos of the first few months was over, my little brother Matt was encouraged by a close friend to see a psychic. He told us with some skepticism that he was going, and that he’d inform us all of the results. When he called, he had interesting, but ultimately disappointing news. First, the woman was able to describe in great detail how the kayak looked, spending some time on a rope that went around the perimeter. Matt had been on the kayak and confirmed the rope. She also got the color right, but yellow is a pretty safe guess. She “saw” Chris on the boat. The boat deflated and he became entangled in the rope. As the boat filled with water, it took him down. She said he panicked for a moment, but soon relaxed and accepted his oncoming death. She said he was quick to leave his body, and that he was now at peace. She felt his strong presence around her. When Matt told me that, I felt ready to believe. But then he said she also saw that Chris had been decapitated in a previous life while fighting in Vietnam—Chris was alive during Vietnam—and that Matt had been Chris’ father in a previous life. It was exactly the kind of nonsense Chris would have loved to mock.

Two years after his death, still tortured by the facts surrounding it, still falling asleep with the image of his body in the water, I called the Chicago morgue. I had wanted to do it for months, and one day finally got the nerve. A woman answered. She told me that over the phone she could only give me official cause of death, but for twenty dollars I could order a copy of the autopsy. I asked for the official cause of death, though I knew it already.

“Chris Combs, official cause, heart failure.”

I hung up shocked. Why did no one know this? Why did no one tell me? That makes so much sense. He had a heart attack and fell in the water. No wonder he didn’t swim back to shore. But it didn’t really seem possible. Someone would have known; someone would have told me.

I called back. I asked the woman the age of the Chris Combs she had told me about. 53. The wrong Chris Combs. When she found my brother, no real news: drowning undetermined.

Last year, on the anniversary of Chris’s death, Andrew went to the Navy Pier to remember. To see the place where all the grief and chaos began. It was dark, and he was watching the water. Out past the pier was a faint light on the surface of the lake. He watched it rise and fall with the water, growing stronger and weaker, like a heartbeat. After watching the light for minutes he saw a speedboat approaching fast. As it crossed paths with the light, the light vanished. He felt it was a clear sign. Chris had died due to another boat. He had been struck and drowned. He felt better. He called my mom and my parents felt better. It made sense. It was easy to understand.

It seemed possible to me too, but didn’t diminish the mystery. Could I accept this “sign” from Chris? Was that enough? I wanted it to be enough, but it wasn’t. I need Chris to come back and explain it to me.

But knowing how it happened won’t change the basic facts:
On July 31, 2002, alone, he drove to the Navy Pier in Chicago. There he took out his inflatable kayak and went out on Lake Michigan to watch the fireworks that were part of Chicago’s Venetian Nights Festival. He probably wasn’t wearing a lifejacket.

Something happened, and he drowned.