Where the Dead Go to Die Page 4

  “I—I guess so.”

  “Well, I know so.”

  They watched Layton, the facilities’ mid-week security guard, come clip-clopping down the corridor. His girth was considerable, which only made the baton clipped to his belt appear novelty sized. He wheezed for breath at Woods’ side, awaiting instruction. Just as Emily had done to her, she raised her hand to him. “Wait a moment.”

  Robby locked eyes with Emily for the first time since bursting out of the office. “I’m sorry I swore.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve dropped more than my share of F-bombs. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Yeah, I did. I lied in there.”

  “I know. I’ve got a daughter ‘bout your age. I can tell white fibs a mile off.”

  “It’s not white, though. It’s black. Black through and through.”

  “You can tell me, Robby. I know some things are hard to say out loud, trust me. Speakin’ a truth, though, it’s healing sometimes.”

  Robby faced the door again, touched the glass paneling with a shaking hand. When he dropped his arm there was a perfectly formed sweat print left behind. It faded, swallowed up and devoured by the merciless hospice chill.

  Emily and Robby watched Woods and Layton exchanging gestures. After a beat of misinterpreted body language, the routine wrapped up and they both about-turned and headed toward her office. The door creaked shut and clicked into place.

  “It’s just you and me now, Robby,” Emily said. “You and me versus the world.”

  “Thank you.”

  In her desperation to offer additional comfort—to really let him know how much she cared, and she did—Emily made a decision. She took her right hand and placed it on his left knee, a simple, measured act of consolation. The moment her fingers lit on his jeans the boy jerked away. It was as though Emily’s touch were nothing less than electric.

  And with that, she knew.

  Be they white or black, the veils of his lie were now drawn back for her to see. That he didn’t get up and run again was, in some ways, a privilege—testament to this fragile chameleon’s trust in her. Or maybe it was simply that the truth was too exhausting. Either way, he was here and so was she, but wedged between them was honesty, ugly and pure. They were never going to find a bite mark because the child hadn’t been bitten. He’d been raped.

  Again, that default line danced through her head: There but for the grace of God.

  “Oh, Robby.”

  “Tell me something,” he said. Firm. He understood that she understood. “Be straight with me.”

  “Anything,” Emily replied. “Anything at all.”

  Robby glared at her. Those motes of cynicism and betrayal in his eyes that she’d noted earlier coalesced into tears and dripped down his cheeks, flawless diamonds of hurt. “The infection, I’ve heard it usually takes a year before it kills you and turns you. Is that right?”

  Emily took a moment before answering. “It’s 8 to 15 months for the infection to run its course, typically. The longest anyone has ever survived with the infection is 3 and a half years, but there are people on record who’ve died from it in as quickly as 3 months.”

  “And it always kills you, right?”

  “Yeah, honey. There’s no cure.”

  The boy inhaled, let out a shaky breath. “I hear it’s painful.”

  “Here at the hospice, we’ll keep you as comfortable as possible, that I promise you.”

  “And when the time comes, when I die and come back—”

  (a mosaic of red splatters on a bright blue mailbox)

  “—someone will put me down?”

  (a scream cut short)

  Emily blinked. She was hollow. “It’s not like that. Our guests can choose to have a loved one present if they desire.”

  “Guest? I’m not a guest here. Will you promise never to call me that?”

  Yes. Yes, she believed she could do that for the boy who was always a Robby and never a Robert, and gladly told him so. Beneath all the diplomacy and corporate lingo, he was right.

  Guests could leave anytime they wished.

  A shadow fell over them. They looked up. Emily beamed. “Robby,” she began, “this is Mama Metcalf. She’s my friend and she’ll be your friend too if you like.”

  “Hello, Robby,” came that familiar dulcet voice.

  “Mama Metcalf is a volunteer here. She’ll show you to your room. Would that be okay?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Come on, young’un,” Mama Metcalf said, holding out her hand. “Between you and me, yours is the nicest room in the place.”

  A brief smile flicked the corners of Robby’s lips, and he took Mama Metcalf’s hand and allowed her to help him up. They walked the corridor together, rounded the corner, Robby sparing a quick look back in Emily’s direction before vanishing.

  Emily felt further cracks on cracks. The walls encroached in on her.

  “Christ almighty—”

  The door to Woods’ office opened and the stern-faced supervisor stepped out, with their security guard following soon after. Layton waddled away, his unused baton still sheathed by his side—as useless as Lancelot without a stone to strike.

  Woods waited until they were alone before turning to Emily and saying, “You did well.”

  “I feel absolutely empty.”

  “I know. It’s never easy. Kids are the worst.”

  “Robby was raped.”

  Woods closed her eyes. “I suspected that might be the case. It’s—it’s not the first time I’ve come across this. But we still have a job to do.”

  “What’s going to happen when we report that Robby was infected two months ago and kept it a secret?”

  “We’re not reporting it,” Woods said firmly. “As far as we’re concerned, he only just acquired the infection.”

  “But we’re required by law—”

  “I know what the laws are, Ms. Samuels, but I also know that the current administration’s tolerance for infected individuals is as thin as chiffon lace. If we report this, it will open a whole can of worms that’ll cause a lot of problems. The Ministry will want to show they aren’t soft on infected issues, and they’ll see this as an opportunity to make an example of this situation. They won’t care how he contracted the infection.”

  Emily folded her arms across her chest. “Well, maybe his parents should be made an example of.”

  “Only his parents wouldn’t be the example. They aren’t the ones that hid the infection.”

  “You don’t mean—he’s just a kid, a kid who has been through some serious trauma.”

  “If you’re so sure that would matter to them, then by all means, make the call.”

  Emily said nothing, her shoulders sagging in defeat. Woods was right. Those people standing outside protesting—a group that Robby’s own parents sometimes belonged to—wouldn’t even view him as a person anymore.

  “Okay,” Woods said, “Take twenty minutes to decompress. By then, Robby should be settled. I want you to record his vitals, talk with him a bit. Get written consent to make a referral to a social worker and a doctor. Considering how he contracted the infection he’ll need both.”

  Emily shuddered.

  Robby must have been terrified down there in that dark ravine, the jingle-jangle of the Halloween fair obscuring his pleas for help. And yes, as brave as he could be, there must have been screams. Emily could only hope it hadn’t lasted long. That the boy hadn’t also been bitten was a marvel in and of itself. She could almost see the smiler when she blinked, the soiled clothes torn and ill fitting, its white rictus getting closer in staccato leaps.

  Dead leaves crunching. A scramble. All that desperation, the hunger. And then afterwards, Robby’s long and lonely walk home, the Moxie cap no doubt askew, as his friends continued to play, satisfied with artificial scares and candy-sick stomachs.

  “And don’t forget to put all of this in your notes,” Woods said, snapping Emily from one ugly reality back to another.


  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  Woods gave her a polite ‘now-on-your-way’ nod and made for the door to her office. Her fingers hovered over the handle. “You have a way with kids, Ms. Samuels,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m sure you’re a fine mother.”

  “Thank you.” Emily made to leave, paused. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.” Woods turned around.

  “All those forms are on the computer, why were you filling them out by hand?”

  “Just a psychological thing. People view the computer as something cold and impersonal. But pen and paper, that’s something more intimate. Even if people aren’t aware of it on a conscious level, it puts them more at ease, makes them feel they’re being listened to.”

  Emily tilted her head in response, thinking there was a lot she could learn from this woman, and in turn, hoped that lesson went both ways.

  INTERLUDE TWO

  Using the creases you have made, bring the top three corners of the paper to the bottom. Flatten. After this, fold the top triangular wings into the center and unfold. Finish this set by folding the top of the square downward, and crease. Unfold.

  “Did you grab the card, babe?” Jordan asked.

  The look Emily gave her husband said it all: Why of course she’d forgotten to grab the card. It was inside on the study desk where she’d stopped to write the inscription, thinking, So do I make this out to Kevin or his parents? It’s not like a three-year-old is going to read it anyway. He’ll just throw it aside as he rips off the wrapping. Emily couldn’t blame him for that. Lucette, who was the same age, had done a similar thing at her birthday party the month before. And although they often pretended otherwise, adults weren’t so different—everyone knew cards were an overpriced pit stop on the road to the good stuff. But formalities were important.

  They help trick us into thinking things are normal again.

  Emily ended up making the card out to both Kevin and his parents, Conrad and Sally, old college friends of Jordan’s. They had lost touch for a while there, a gap that having kids bridged. There were over 60 daycares in Charleston, so it was a little surprising to run into two familiar faces at their first parents/teachers ‘meet-and-greet’ day. The world, as they said, was small.

  A little too small for Emily’s liking, especially in the south, where even the biggest cities had a small town feel.

  She often daydreamed about moving away, somewhere up north where the weather was cooler. New York State. Or Illinois, even.

  It was another pipe dream, of which Emily had many. Sure, she was a nurse and could find work anywhere, as could Jordan to varying degrees of success. He was an accountant after all, and who didn’t need help outrunning the taxman? But his clients were here. Jordan had spent the last four years building a reputation, building loyalty; they would be mad to uproot it all. There was a future for the Samuels family in the not-too-shabby city of Charleston, South Carolina, and like most new parents, Emily only wanted what was best for her daughter, even if it meant those dreams of her own would never come to fruition as a result. No, moving wasn’t in the cards. This small world was destined to be theirs for some time yet.

  Jordan raised an eyebrow. Groaned. “So I’ll take that as a ‘nope, I don’t have the card’ then?”

  “Do you love me?” Emily said, putting on her cutie-pie voice.

  “I don’t know,” he replied, playful. “Do I?”

  “Do I?” chimed Lucette from the backseat, where she sat buckled into a car seat she was already close to outgrowing. The three-year-old kicked her feet, proud as punch for joining in an adult conversation. Her favorite doll, Natalia, rested on her lap.

  Jordan grabbed the steering wheel. “Let’s just forget about it. It’s not like he’s going to read it anyway.”

  Yeah, you’re right. But formalities, babe. Normalcy.

  The car idled at the end of the driveway, the gate to their barricaded property having already swung shut behind them. Jordan flicked on the left-hand indicator.

  “But I wrote a nice message to Conrad and Sally on it, too. Can you just run back in and grab it?”

  “Card! Card! Card!” Lucette yelped.

  “See? Even our darling girl thinks Daddy should run back inside and get it,” Emily said, touching her husband’s thigh. “It’s in the study right on the desk. Next to the present itself.”

  “You forgot that, too?”

  “I know. I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t screwed on. But I’m tired. The heat has really thrown my sleeping pattern out of whack.”

  “You, babe, have a hangover.” Jordan clapped his hands together. “Booya! Man, it feels so good to see the shoe on the other foot.” He switched the radio on and music filled the cramped interior of the car. “Em’, every time I hear this song I’m going to think of this moment.”

  “I do not have a hangover. Turn it down.”

  “Oh, I beg to differ. You downed that wine last night.”

  “I drank just as much as you, thank you.”

  “Yep, and ever since a certain somebody came into our lives, you’ve become a total light-weight.” He gave her a poke. “Say it and I’m out of this car in two seconds flat.”

  Emily put all of her might into a dramatic sigh, one that would have given the local repertory club a run for its money. “Okay. Maybe I have a little bit of a hangover.”

  “Hangover!” Lucette echoed.

  Emily faced her husband. “Now look what you’ve done.” She softened, leaned over, the leather seats groaning, and planted a kiss on Jordan’s lips. The toothbrush bristle of the moustache he was attempting to grow tickled the underside of her nose. Emily raised a hand and impersonated their daughter waving, a pretty-as-a-picture clenching of the fingers.

  Jordan—working that equally adorable smile of his, the one that made the dimples she’d fallen in love with zing into prominence—gave her a salute and stepped out into the summer heat that lent him his tan. The door thumped shut. He wiggled his ass at her in the mirror.

  “Your dad’s one cheeky monkey,” Emily said to her three-year-old. Over Lucette’s shoulder she could see Jordan stepping up to the bars of the gate to punch in their security code. Emily felt a familiar twist of the knife each and every time she laid eyes on the barricade separating the safety of her family from a world that was so much more dangerous than she’d ever anticipated it could be. And the blade of that knife had been dipped in the vinegar of loss. It burned. She mourned for the carefree days she’d had as a child, days her daughter may never have the opportunity to experience.

  Little Lucette would grow up surrounded by gates and escorts, and when she was old enough to go out on her own, she’d carry an alert—what they used to call a ‘rape whistle’ back when Emily was growing up. It was such an unavoidable, adult concept. But something science couldn’t justify had taken a bite out of the apple of their innocence. And at the end of the day, it would be Lucette’s generation left hungry. Considering this, Emily thought her resentment wasn’t entirely without justification.

  She faced the road.

  They lived on the city’s northern outskirts and the isolation this provided was a double-edged sword. The quiet was wonderful; the nearest neighbors, the Crookenbacks, were a three-minute stroll down the street. On the other hand, it also meant they had to travel far for groceries, gas, and to see friends.

  Well, maybe I’m okay with that. Small doses. Conrad’s okay, I guess. But Sally’s too churchy for me. And damn, what a gossip.

  Emily switched off the radio, ran her fingers through her hair. Scratched. She needed to change shampoos, the brand she was using made her scalp itch. Her skin had always been on the sensitive side, so something with a lower pH level might be more appropriate.

  This small, insignificant desire for something better would scurry back into her mind the following day, as she bent over the washtub in the back laundry, cleansing blood from her blouse. It, like so much else, would reduce her to weeping.


  “You okay back there, bub?” Emily asked.

  Lucette didn’t reply so much as yawn.

  “No, no. No sleeping, I’m sorry.” Emily felt bad giving her daughter’s foot a caress, one that was strong enough to make those eyes of hers open again. But nap times had to be scheduled and adhered to. Any derailment resulted in either undue sleep-ins, or worse, pre-dawn rising.

  With Lucette roused, Emily reached into the backpack she took with her on outings and rummaged through loose diapers, pacifiers, and stuffed toys for the boxed juice she’d slipped in there before leaving. A just-in-case natural sugar hit for moments like this. As Emily dug, her eyes rose to the dashboard where the little hula girl in the grass skirt was stuck, rocking her Hawaiian hips, ever the beach-bound provocateur. It was the souvenir from the honeymoon that never happened, but which, all going to plan, someday would.

  When the finances were right.

  When they knew it was safe.

  The dewy surface of the juice box could be felt at the bottom of the bag. Emily laced her fingers around its corners and yanked it out.

  “Here we go, sw— ”

  Emily broke off mid-sentence, her arm half-extended. The air curdled, and as she breathed it in, it seemed to expand within her lungs. Hurt. Choked.

  Through the rear window of the car she could see the side door of their single-story brick house. It was ten yards away. The hot westward wind blew, throwing flower spores through the air. They twirled, danced, their unpretentious beauty a direct contrast to her blood-splattered husband. He wrestled a naked man on the grass.

  The juice box slipped from Emily’s grip. Lucette gave a cry, her sweet treat having been snatched away from her.

  “Jordan!”

  Emily unlatched her belt, flung the door open. Extreme heat blasted, burning on contact. Bullets of sweat rolled down her neck as she ran through that sickened air, around the back of the car to the gate.

  Her hands at her mouth. A ball of panic snuggled inside.

  Jordan’s white Polo shirt—the one she’d bought for him on Father’s Day, the one that she’d picked off the rack because she knew it would show off the contours of his pecs—was no longer white. It was red. As red as the mouth of the naked man hovering over him. Emily saw the gash at her husband’s neck, right near the shoulder, the ripped tendons torn and flailing as though another hand had grown there, one that was waving yet another goodbye.