Death is Not the End, Daddy

by Nate Allen

prison.”

  “You know how to manipulate: I’m broken?” He shakes his head. “But, I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of picking me apart. My job is one thing today: find the location of your victims.

  “They’re buried under the deck of my childhood home, just outside of Minea, Minnesota.”

  “Minea, Minnesota?” his eyes widen.

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened to the three boys that jumped from the downtown bridge in 1983?”

  “How do you know about Minea?”

  “What happened to them?” he ignores the question.

  “You won’t believe me.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “Teddy got in their heads.”

  “Who is Teddy?”

  “He has been my prison for twenty six years.” I feel naked.

  He sighs, “Ms. Brands died yesterday, like those boys did over twenty five years ago.”

  “Who is Ms. Brands?”

  “The woman who called Marcy to the office. Did Teddy get in her head too?”

  “Yeah.” why do I keep thinking about the words she typed? My dead husband burns. So will I. “He said she wouldn’t remember seeing me.”

  “The only reason I’m listening to this is because Mr. Mills talked about it yesterday: Minea. The article from 1983. And how it all correlated with the death of Ms. Brands. And the kidnapping of his daughter.”

  “How did he know about Minea?”

  “He said something from inside Mr. Brands told him.” his voice is quiet; his eyes are searching me desperately. He’s looking for something. “You said you are finally free.”

  I nod my head just enough for him to see.

  “How?”

  “Teddy wanted me to take Marcy. Like the other children, he picked her out before I ever saw her. He chose children that had light in their eyes. And Marcy’s was the brightest I had ever seen.” I pause. “He told me to say I was an employee at the factory her father supervises. He said she would trust that. So, I lied to her. She didn’t see a hideous man. She just saw Mr. John. Teddy wanted me to kill her there, because he hated the light. I didn’t want to take her away. I wanted to bring her home. But, Teddy didn’t allow that. He would’ve killed me before he let that happen. So, we got on the interstate to go back to Minea. She wasn’t afraid, like she should’ve been. She just said, ‘Jesus wants me to tell you the light isn’t gone.’ And then she died. There was no pain or fear. Teddy never even got a chance to hurt her.”

  He’s just staring at me. His face is empty of everything. I don’t know if he believes me or not. I don’t expect him to—

  “What happened next?” he asks as he closes his eyes.

  “Everything changed. I was pursued by a love that I don’t deserve. I deserve to be put down like an animal, officer. I don’t deserve forgiveness or compassion or love. But, that’s what I’ve been given by Him. He’s pulled me out of the dark, when I didn’t think it was possible. If He can do that for me and give life back to a man dead inside, He can do the same for you. I don’t know what you’re going through. I just know those eyes. I would see them every time I looked in a mirror.”

  He breathes heavily as he pulls a small notepad from his back pocket. “It doesn’t really matter,” he pauses. “Just give me the address of the victims. Then we’re done.”

  “210 Country Road 18.”

  Matthew Mills

  It’s Tuesday today and we’re saying goodbye to our little girl. I’m sitting at the front pew of our church, holding Janet’s hand very tight. We both cried while getting ready this morning. My tears were heavier than Janet’s. I’ve already let Marcy go, but I’m going to miss her so much.

  We didn’t wear black today. I wore a bright green dress shirt, with white pants, blue cufflinks and a matching blue tie. Janet wore a dress covered in flower prints. We asked the guests to refrain from black as well, because Marcy wouldn’t have wanted sadness. She was so full of life. We wanted that to be the celebration today: life.

  Marcy’s memoriam is in my free hand. I’ve already read it three times. Janet wrote it:

  Marcy Ann Mills: The Brightest of Lights.

  This is not a memoriam of our little girl, but a celebration of the life she lived. It was short, yes, but it was so beautiful. She loved. And when I say love, I don’t mean how we love. I mean something pure and without judgment. She loved like Jesus loves. And the man who took her, returned her, because of that love. He saw Jesus in her. He saw hope in hopelessness. And that is who our little girl was. She was the brightest of lights, living proof of the love of our Savior.

  This is not a memoriam, but a celebration of the miracle Matthew and I were given for eight years. We want more time. We always will. But, Marcy was like a flower I suppose. A flower that blooms for only a time, sharing all of its beauty and joy while it is here. We are saying goodbye for now. But, we are also saying we were so blessed to have her for as long as we did.

  Janet used the picture where Marcy got to be giant.

  “I love you, Matty.” she whispers as she rests her head on my shoulder.

  I can’t speak to answer her. The tears from this morning have tied my tongue to my throat. I can only squeeze her hand as my reply. It’s all I have to give today. The bright colors we are wearing are for the memory of our Marcy. And they are a representation of our faith: the joy of the Lord is our strength, even on this day.

  But, how I feel is weightless, like my only tether is Janet’s hand. And if I were to let her go, I would drift off into madness…

  We decided on an open casket. Too many people wanted to say their goodbyes, especially our moms. When Janet and I drove back to Anderson and told my mom that Marcy was gone, it seemed like her heartbeat left her body. She just stared at me for a long time, and then Janet. And when the reality finally hit her, she cried loud tears. I asked her to prepare a few words for today. She said she would. And then Janet and I called her mom, who lives about a day’s drive away. We asked the same thing. She said she would, but she wasn’t sure if she could get through it. Others wanted to speak today, but we only wanted the Grandmas.

  The funeral hasn’t started yet. Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus is lightly playing from the speakers. Red rose pedals are still being spread down the aisle by a few of Marcy’s friends from school. But, nobody is talking. It’s quiet, as it should be.

  Only a few people have gone up to the casket to say their goodbyes. I haven’t gone near it. I don’t know if I’ll be able to. The song that’s playing brings tears to my eyes. Turning my eyes upon Jesus will be a daily struggle, a daily decision, because the pain is so much louder than the peace.

  I hurt all over. The swelling in my eye and nose has gone down. And the bruise isn’t black and blue anymore, but a pale yellow. It’s still very sore. Janet suggested wearing sunglasses to cover it. I decided to let it be what it is: a sign of pain, despite the bright colors.

  John Doe

  I’m in the backseat of a state trooper’s car, on my way back to Minnesota. The state where the crimes were committed is where I will be tried. The stage is being set for my prosecution.

  The evidence is stacking. They will have all the pieces of this puzzle soon, if they don’t already. And they’ll want me to put it all together, to give a why to how someone could do this. The result won’t be much different than it was with the officer who interrogated me. He was able to understand enough to listen. But, even with him, nothing really came from it.

  I don’t know what I’m expecting to happen. Jesus said that most people will hate me, and that my testimony is for those who think they can’t be forgiven. Those like me. But, everyone else will want my death. Even with purpose, sometimes a consequence is just a consequence.

  Matthew Mills

  Many more people have gathered in front of the casket in a single file line. It will be shut before the eulogies begin. I can tell that Janet is getting ready to stand and join the line. My hand is still tig
ht with hers. But, I’m not ready to go with her.

  “If you want to stay here, it’s okay, Matty.” she says quietly, noticing my hesitance. “But, will you regret it?”

  I nod my head immediately. I can tell myself no, but I will regret it. The last few weeks dad was alive, his body started to shut down. He would sleep for hours, only rarely returning to a lucid place. When I was finally ready to say goodbye, he was too far gone. Dead eyes. Long struggles for air. Just a shell shutting down. And I have regretted it.

  I know this is different. It’s not my dad but my daughter. Yet, it feels like I’m both a child and a man, experiencing both losses in one. Maybe there is something from my past that I need to walk through again.

  I stand with Janet and we join the line separately. My hands are now buried in my pockets. I am at the back of the line. And my tether is gone… But, I’m not drifting away.

  Some people have flowers to lie on the casket. Some have cards. Marcy’s few friends are in front of us. It looks like each one is holding a clay pendant.

  “What’s in your hands, girls?” Janet asks quietly and with a smile.

  “Everybody in art class made something for M. This is ours.” Her name is Sarah. She always speaks for the group as a whole. “I carved a butterfly and put purple glitter for the wings. Tammy carved a big M and decorated it with all kinds of colors. And Erica carved a small crown, using glitter as the jewels.”

  “Well,” Janet pauses. “Thank you,