by Aaron Dries
“Yes, Mr. Deakins?” said the detective, no longer concerned with whispers.
“I was, I was wondering if you—”
“Yes, what is it, Mr. Deakins? Anything.”
“I was wondering if you had any more mints?”
“Sorry?”
“It’s nothing.”
“My mints?”
The detective smiled, filling Marshall with relief and withdrew a container from his pocket. He put a mint in Marshall’s palm. It was white and shiny, with a thin red swirl running towards its center. Marshall liked that it wasn’t sticky. It was fresh. He picked it up and brought it to his lips. There was a moment of hesitation as he glanced up and saw the detective studying him, only to look away once their eyes locked together.
I’m going through with it.
He put the mint on his tongue and closed his mouth. The flavor emerged, nice and slow. It was both sweet and bitter at once. Marshall closed his eyes and in the dark he saw what he must do—he saw himself watching the detective roll Noah out on a slab. His son was smiling. Peaceful.
He opened his eyes and crunched the candy between his jaws. It shattered against his tongue. The sound was so loud it echoed through the morgue. “I’m ready,” Marshall said. “Please take me to my boy now.”
Starke put his hand in the small of Marshall’s back and ushered him around a corner where there was a male orderly sleeping in a chair, mouth open. He was in his early twenties. It seemed impossible to Marshall that his dead son would be left in the care of someone so young. In some ridiculous way it was offensive.
“Just wait here a moment,” Starke said to him. He walked forward and tapped the kid on the shoulder. The orderly snapped awake with a snort, confused and stood up, trying to press the wrinkles out of his smock with his palms.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” he said. His voice was feminine. Waspy. “It’s been a long day. Oh gosh, I’m so embarrassed!”
Starke cut him off. “Son, can you take us to where we need to be. It’s been a long day for all of us and none more so than Mr. Deakins.”
“I totally understand. It’s just through this door.”
The orderly led the way. Starke didn’t move, only opened his arm in a fatherly beckon. “This way please,” he said.
This is it. He had to command his feet to move; his brain refused to take the first step. They know it’s him but they want me to check anyway. Why would they ask if they weren’t sure?
Because they’re not sure—that’s why.
There’s a chance it’s not him, that my baby boy is just lost somewhere while we’re standing here with our fingers up our ass and doing shit-all.
“This way please,” Starke repeated, firmer this time.
Marshall walked towards the door the orderly had disappeared into.
Don’t go in there!
But I’ve got to.
Don’t do it. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life.
They stepped into the room. It was so cold they could see the plumes of their breath. The walls were bare and a light hung from the ceiling on a long, straight cord. In the middle of the tiny room was a trolley and upon it lay a body, covered in a white sheet.
By seven the security office was flooded with people, upset mothers and fathers who had also lost their children in the crowd. Police officers ran back and forth, passing indecisive mall cops with sodas in their hands. Claire and Marshall sat cupping their coffees, shoulders pressed together, immobile. They had nothing more to say to one another. Despite what they knew to be the truth, no official confirmation had been passed down to them. There was nothing else to do but sit in silence and wait.
Marshall assumed that the minutes would crawl by, but every time he looked up from his drink to the clock on the wall, he saw that the hands had whizzed on to the next hour. It propelled him further and further into a future neither he nor his wife wanted a part of.
Marshall and Claire watched other children reuniting with their mothers and fathers, each embrace a stab in the back. None of these people had done wrong to them but their happiness felt like a betrayal. On the small, uncomfortable chairs lined up against the walls the parents were comrades in misery and had exchanged small, comforting words. Things will be okay. They’ll find him. I’m sure she’s fine. Claire did the majority of the talking. Marshall didn’t have the energy. But one by one they were called and there was inevitable laughter.
Soon the crowd thinned.
Marshall’s coffee was covered with a thin oil slick, which changed colors like a screensaver when he angled it towards the light. It disgusted him to think that this shit was in his stomach now. “I’ve got to go to the toilet,” he told her.
“Mars, don’t leave me.” Her voice was too loud. A security guard looked up from his copy of O Magazine. She shook her head, desperate as a child.
“Babe,” he said, a little harsh, feeling guilty as soon as it had come out. Claire’s face broke; she didn’t understand why he wanted to leave her. “I feel sick.”
Her brow was knotted into painful lines, eyes peering out at him from inside dark caves. She softened. “Okay,” she said. “Please come back.”
“Of course I’m going to come back.”
He left and shuffled down the hallway outside the office. It hurt to walk. His limbs were leaden. A headache bloomed behind his eyes, with each painful throb changing the color of his surroundings—everything was taking on a sickly green tint. It terrified him to think that all of this was just the beginning. To think that things could get worse seemed impossible.
Marshall entered the public restroom. The smell of urine was overpowering. It turned his stomach for the final time, sending him rushing into an open stall. He vomited into the bowl, toilet water splashing up onto his lips. He turned away from the mess he’d made, rubbed the back of his neck, and by chance saw the laminated sign posted to the back of the door. It read: IF YOU SPRINKLE WHEN YOU TINKLE BE A SWEETIE AND WIPE THE SEATY.
“Jesus…”
Claire struggled to sit still on her chair. It was hard and uncomfortable, just like the kind they had in school when she was a kid. She missed her home, the greys of Vancouver, her parents and the friends she made when she was young, the ones who shaped her into the person Marshall had fallen in love with. It had been two years since she’d been back. She wanted her mother more than ever.
Claire wondered about how she would tell her parents that Noah was dead. How would they react? She imagined it would be the hardest phone call she would ever have to make in her life, much harder than telling them that she was pregnant.
Phone call.
She lifted her head, eyes widening.
Because nobody had officially confirmed that it was Noah she had seen mangled on the atrium floor, a part of her clung to the hope that she’d been mistaken. The security guard had pulled her away so quick—there was every chance in the world that the child had belonged to someone else. Some other parent who was, no doubt, wondering why their child hadn’t made it home in time for dinner.
And what had she seen? Really?
Claire reached into her handbag and rifled through receipts, pushed aside her compact and the paperback she no longer cared to finish, and fished out her cell phone. It sat heavy in her palm. The small numbers teased and mocked.
Push us, Claire. Do you have what it takes to do it?
You know he won’t answer.
But go on. Push our buttons anyway.
We enjoy torturing you.
And for a moment she thought about putting it away, but something stopped her, and that something was faint, like a baby’s cry heard from another room—it didn’t matter how short or long it went on for, how faint or loud, it always woke you up. Always.
Hope.
Claire stood up, turned to the wall. Next to her was a pathetic-looking plant. She toyed with a leaf, tearing it between her fingers as she dialed her son’s number.
There was a moment of silence as the number fought thr
ough multiple walls of concrete and escaped, searching out her provider. She could hear soft electronic clicks in her ear. Everything else faded away.
She looked down at the torn leaf in her hand—it wasn’t artificial after all.
The line clicked and Claire fell into a world of white. Gone were the desk, the bitter coffee, the few remaining parents and officers. There was just her, tall and lean and casting no shadow.
It was dialing.
Brrr-brrr.
Breath.
Brrr-brrr.
Breath.
Would Noah pick up, or would it go straight to his message bank as with her other attempts? Claire knew it would be better if nobody ever answered, leaving her to wait forever— were that to happen she’d never have to face the truth.
She had no son. In a country she felt little love for.
Brr-brrr.
There was another sound in the nothing. It broke the illusion and the room dissolved back into existence. Tears had salted her lips, the flavor shocking her. Claire wiped her face.
It was the ringing of a telephone from one of the surrounding rooms. She could just make it out. Claire followed the noise, her cell hot in her palm.
Past the desk was a long hallway lined with unmarked doors. She walked its length, one hand flush against the wall to keep her steady.
Ring-ring. No, she wasn’t imagining things—it was coming from one of the rooms. Her fingers left the wall and moved to her mouth. Claire nibbled at her thumbnail. She thought of her mother. Filthy habit, she would say, slapping at her with the back of her hand. And yet she still continued to bite.
The ring tone was generic, a standard pre-programmed emission. Noah never used his phone, unlike many other kids his age who appeared to live on theirs. The tone was whatever the phone came with. She didn’t even know if he knew there was an option to personalize it.
Don’t be stupid. It could be anyone’s phone. You’re being an idiot, Claire. Go and sit back down and wait for Mars. He’ll know what to do.
He’ll just tell me to sit down and to be calm and tell me lies.
He’s going to say that everything is going to be fine.
And it’s not.
She pulled the cell from her ear and pressed the tiny button with a red phone on it, ending the call. The hallway grew silent. There was the patter of feet in the main office and the buzz of voices behind the doors.
Her hands were shaking so bad Claire couldn’t bring the cell back up to her face. It took a great deal of concentration to align her index finger with the correct prompt, but she managed and hit the redial button. Click. A small cog falling into place, setting into motion the turning of other cogs, each drawing her closer to the truth.
CALLING NOAH…read the text on the LCD screen. The words throbbed up at her in bold font, followed by an ellipsis. It was the ellipsis that scared her—the what happens next? The information withheld. The screen went dark and she could hear the dial tone starting up again.
A sliver of silence.
And then the ringing in the hallway started again. It chirped once and the voices in the room on her left stopped. She heard a chair dragging across the floor, heavy footsteps coming closer and the chirping—louder and louder.
The door opened and a young police officer with a crew cut and a scar running the length of his face stepped into the hallway. In his hand he held an evidence bag—inside it was Noah’s phone, lit up and flashing. The officer didn’t notice her and rushed to a nearby door down the hallway on the right. He knocked twice, firm and loud. It opened. A man sidestepped into the hallway, the younger officer stepping back to accommodate his broad shoulders. “Detective Starke,” began the man with crew cut, that awful scar… He never finished his sentence.
The detective looked down at the evidence bag with his hooded, kind eyes; they shifted down the hallway. He sensed Claire’s presence before he saw her.
He ran as fast as he could but didn’t make it in time.
Claire’s phone hit the floor a moment before she did.
“Is he, you know, going to be bad?” Marshall asked.
The orderly looked at Sharpe, unsure as to what to say.
“I have to tell you that there was significant damage sustained in the fall.”
Marshall watched the old man’s hands as he spoke. They molded the air, trying to formulate the right words. “The child landed on the exhibit. Marshall, the impact broke his neck. He then spun to the floor. There would have been little pain—if any. But yes, there is damage.”
I can’t believe what it is you’re telling me, said a voice in Marshall’s head. It isn’t enough that my son is dead, but if what you’re saying is true, then he won’t look like my son any more. Is that it?
Marshall’s hands were clenched tight. He wanted to punch something.
“I’ll only pull the sheet down a little bit,” said the orderly. “Just enough for you to make a positive identification.” He now spoke with a confidence he hadn’t displayed before. The orderly stepped closer to the trolley and reached towards the top of the sheet.
No, said the voice. Don’t do it. Walk away, Mars, walk away now. If you see it, then it’s real. There’s no going back. Ever.
He spared a second, just long enough to snatch a breath of air. The sheet dropped, revealing part of Noah’s face. Marshall was disturbed by the delicate way the orderly was holding the sheet. It was dainty, the pinkie finger raised as though he were holding a cup of tea. Marshall knew that they didn’t want him to see the damage on the upper left hand side of Noah’s head.
That’d be where he hit the dinosaur, he told himself. Or maybe the floor.
It made him angry to think his son was being censored.
There was no blood. The body had been cleaned. A sickness welled up within at the thought of strangers running suds and scourers over his son’s flesh. It was perverse.
Noah’s skin was grey. He was very much dead. The voice had been correct. There was no going back. Not that Marshall had suspected otherwise, but it surprised him by just how lifeless the face was. The jaw hung open and was sunk back into his face, changing the shape of the head—almost to the point where he it didn’t resemble the boy who’d sat at his kitchen table that morning and forced himself not to laugh. But it was still him. His Noah. One eye was closed and the other a puffy slit; the lashes were purple in the morgue light. The pupils had obscured the whites, reflected nothing.
“Can I have a moment?” Marshall asked. He hadn’t considered asking the question, it just slipped out.
He wondered if man were built to withstand such loss. If so, Marshall guessed that strength was drawn from an ancient reserve, something stitched into his humanity, stretching back to the age of the caveman. If it were there, it would be a wild, animal strength. And there was comfort in that. It made him feel a part of something, part of the Dead Kids Club, where the membership fees were high but worth it for the benefits. The room would fill with the spirits of parents who had been in the same situation, each putting their hands on his back. Marshall smiled. If this were true, then it was nice to know he wasn’t alone.
But he doubted it.
“Sure,” Starke said. “You can have a moment. We’ll wait outside the door.” He nodded to the orderly and they left the room together.
All was silent. Marshall was still.
He half expected the body to move, to roll over as though in the fit of a nightmare. Marshall had stood over Noah’s bed and watched him sleep so many times; it was an amazing thing to see. He would stand there and think, Wow, we actually made this guy! It left him speechless.
It was a scary thing to love someone so much. But he couldn’t help it. Loving his son was the easiest thing to do, despite the past few years. Marshall himself had withdrawn from his own parents during puberty, so he could empathize. Almost overnight it was not okay to hug and kiss your dad; you were embarrassed by your mother’s overt affection. You have no control over it. It’s only natural to become w
ithdrawn when you’re learning how you fit together as an individual.
Marshall was proud of Noah. He had faith that his son would figure how the pieces fit together. It would be a great, exciting time for them all.
Pain, fresh and raw, and yet Marshall knew this was nothing compared to what would come. This was nothin’.
A lump in his throat, dissipating the closer he got to Noah’s corpse. Marshall put his ear to the dead boy’s chest and heard nothing.
The light bulb continued to shine.
Marshall wept into the sheet. Noah’s skin was so cold it made his face feel numb. There was no life in the body at all, despite his longing.
Marshall wrapped his arms around the meat—that was what his son was now.
The sound of snapping metal.
The legs of the trolley collapsed at the head under the combined weight. The top of the slab hit the floor, forming a ramp. Marshall stumbled backwards and landed on his ass, cracking his elbow. He watched, helpless, as the sheet fell away to reveal the naked body sliding onto the linoleum.
The greyness in Noah’s face didn’t stop there—it was everywhere. The harsh light revealed a network of veins where the blood had trapped and frozen beneath the skin. His head was positioned on his neck at an impossible angle. It dangled perpendicular to his shoulder, a sharp bone threatening to burst through his throat, bulging instead like an engorged Adam’s apple. The top left hand side of his skull had caved in, explaining why the orderly had showed such discretion, why he had held the sheet with such delicacy.
Marshall felt hands grabbing at him, dragging him across the floor and out of the room, not fighting it. He had no idea that he was screaming. All Marshall could hear was the echo of clashing metal. He watched as the orderly slipped into the room and kicked the legs out from under the trolley, the left hand side slamming against the floor.
The sound was a bullet.
The orderly put his arms around the body and turned it onto its side, only Noah’s head didn’t move. It remained at that inhuman angle, staring at Marshall through its one open eye. As the young man hefted the dead weight onto the trolley, the head lolled with it, snapping backwards, dangling on a thread of twisted sinew. As this happened, the crushed part of his skull broke open and Noah’s brains slipped onto the floor in a puddle of thoughtless slush.
