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I growl, taking our family portrait—the last one with Henry in it—and slam it onto the floor, the whole thing shattering.
My mother grabs me, but I flail, running away. “Leave me alone!”
I scurry down the stairs, out the door, and past my car, racing into the night. I don’t know where I’m going. I have no money, no phone, but I don’t care about anything anymore. I don’t care if I never come back. I gave up the one thing that made me feel alive—made me excited for tomorrow—and with her I could’ve withstood anything.
But now, everything is foreign. School, my home, even my skin.
I run until the air in my lungs hurts, and I can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears on my face, but when I stop, I realize I’m in front of Wind House.
I head around the back, down the small incline at the side of the home, and up to the back door. The hall light glows inside, and I don’t know what time it is, but maybe she’s in there. I’d forgotten my keys and everything.
I knock hard, hoping there’s work tonight, despite the fact that I’m actually wishing someone has died so I have something to do.
I knock again and again, ready to crumple onto the ground, because I can’t keep my legs under me.
The door opens, and Mrs. Gates stands there in her scrubs. I gasp in relief and try to push past her.
But she stops me. “Clay, no.”
I wipe the tears on my face. “I can handle it. I’m fine.”
She doesn’t know what’s wrong, but she can see I’m upset.
I try to veer around her, but she fills the doorway. “Clay…”
“Please!” I plead, pushing past her. “I need to be here.”
“Clay, it’s a child,” she rushes out as I pass.
I stop, staring at the floor but not seeing it.
Children don’t come through often, but when they do, she makes sure I’m not present. Maybe it’s because of Henry. Maybe it’s because she knew my parents weren’t aware that I come here, and the death of a child, even ones I don’t know, will be hard.
I don’t turn around to look at her, merely raising my gaze to the steel double doors ahead. It feels like my heart is floating in my chest as my stomach roils.
I keep walking, hearing her rush after me. “Clay, please.”
But I ignore her. Pushing through the doors, I enter the room and see the boy, a small body outlined under a sheet.
He’s uncovered down to his stomach, and something spills down the drain, but I don’t look to see what.
I walk over.
“Clay…”
I know she’s worried, but I don’t know… Maybe I’m just too numb tonight to be scared anymore. I need to do this.
Approaching the boy’s side, I see his wet, brown hair slicked back, his jaw slack, and his eyes partially open, the brown pupils foggy.
She’d just washed him. Water still runs down the drain underneath the table, and his palms face up at his sides. There’s dirt under his nails and scratches on his forearm, probably from playing with his cat or dog.
A lump grows in my throat, always finding this part hardest of all. The evidence of their lives. Bruises, skinned knees, old scars, chipped nail polish…
A tear spills over as I look down at his skinny arms. “He’s, um…”
“Like Henry,” she says, seeing what I see. The coloring is different, but they’re about the same age. Ten or eleven.
“What happened to him?” I ask her, still letting my eyes roam for any evidence of violence.
“He drowned,” she replies. “He was swimming at the Murtaugh Inlet. Got swept into the current.”
It isn’t unheard of. We swim a lot in Florida. Drownings happen.
The hard part is that it’s not a quick death. He would’ve been aware with every second that passed that help wasn’t coming.
Like Henry.
“His brother was making out with his girlfriend in his car and didn’t notice for ten minutes,” she whispers, her throat thick.
I almost feel sorry for him, too. A mistake that will haunt him forever.
And I’m here. Alive. Healthy. Continuously making problems worse, because I act like I don’t have a clue.
I smooth back his hair, everything at home forgotten for the moment, because somewhere out there in town is a devastated family who will never see their son smile again.
I draw in a deep breath and swallow the tears that want to come as I raise my eyes to Mrs. Gates. “Embalming?”
“Yes,” she tells me. “There will be a viewing on Thursday followed by cremation.”
I nod and pull the rubber band off my wrist, sweeping my hair up into a ponytail. “I’ll take the lead.”
We work for the next two hours, not talking other than her instruction here and there. I can’t look him in the face when the needles go in, feeling the bile rise, because it’s hard not to see Henry on the table. We prepare him to stay preserved until the funeral, and I’ll come back in a couple of days to take care of the cosmetics and dress him, but the embalming process takes longer with me here now, because it’s like the first time I’m doing it all over again. What mattered most to me with Henry was that Mrs. Gates was gentle with my brother. I take extra care with this one.
