Chapter Text
A girl.
Snow white cheeks, youth-plump and covered in tender peach fuzz. Untouched by blush. Sallow. She couldn’t be more than fourteen.
Her hair hung down on the table, splayed, messy blond with memories of playful curls since choked out. Some of it clung to her face, glued there from the damp. Dirt hung in small clumps.
Her nose was strong, ending in a soft point towards the ceiling. Freckles formed a band across it. She could not smell the scent of water damage wafting from her body.
Lips a dusky lavender, slightly parted, cracked. No sound came; a quiet beyond sleep had taken a firm hold of her.
Open eyes stared at the light above her, dry. No telling what colour they once were; they’d been painted over in pale plaster. Her still-wet lashes hung in little frozen clusters.
A hand on his shoulder.
“Thank you, Joe- I’m sorry you had to come down here and do this.”
She looked peaceful, almost.
“Let’s get you home, eh? I’ll take real good care of her, I promise. I’ll keep her safe.”
Her ears were pierced- a gold dolphin leaping over a diamond stud. Grime clung in the nooks.
“I called Teddy down, he’ll be over in a jiffy- I’d- I’d’ve had him do it, but… well, you’ve always been the stronger one, you know how he is.”
Just a little girl.
“Come on-” The hand grabbed his elbow, pulling him. “Let’s get you outside- get you air, you look a little pale.” Away, away- he couldn’t take his eyes off her, watching the sheet pulled over her face, veiling her from raking eyes. Away, into a hallway, away, into the open air. The open night air. A thousand stars gazed down at them, winking, not having competition from city lights.
The air was still- and chilly, but damp. Spring was near. A season of life.
“I’ve got to get going, I can’t keep Winnie waiting- you’ll be alright til Ted gets here, eh?”
She hadn’t even lost her baby-face.
“Joe?”
Finally, he drew his eyes to the man. Dressed like an officer, but adorned with a cowboy’s hat; a highway patrolman, maybe. Late forties. Worried.
“Okay.” Sam nodded.
“Good. Rest easy- I’ll call you in the morning and check in.”
One of the two cars parked by the little building pulled away. The man, unnamed, was gone. Sam hugged himself- all he had was a flannel and jeans, no jacket to shut out the night: brisk by nature, even when still. Dusk creatures sang songs of jubilance; the first thaw had come, it was time for rebirth.
She’d be being wheeled away into one of those lockers, now, if they even had those in a town this small. The wall rack of a mortuary. At least she wouldn’t be looking into those lights anymore, or be on display for people to come and gawk at her.
She would never come home to her parents. Never drive a car. Never get a job. Never go to prom. Never attend college. Never marry.
Who was she? Who were her parents? Was he her father? Had he come to identify his daughter’s body?
Had she gotten to see high school? Or would she be an 8th grader forever?
He needed to be more practical; where was he? He looked around, trying to study the darkened features around. It was rural- a typical small town, a dirt parking lot. Didn’t feel like a coast. From the sound of the man that left, it was definitely still the United States, but his accent was flat. The cicadas sang, maybe it was the midwest. Too cold for the south, but too humid for anyplace north. Maybe he’d get to be in Indiana again, some small comfort.
Maybe she had chipped nail polish, put on carefully and damaged from hobbies. Maybe she played guitar, or played a sport. A waste of life, stunted on that slab.
His name was Joe- Joseph, probably. And someone named Teddy would come get him and bring him home. That was good- he wouldn’t need to find home. Who was Ted to him? His oldest son? His brother? Not his father- the officer-or-detective probably would have said ‘your father’.
Maybe her eyes were green. Maybe blue.
A truck’s headlights blinded him for a moment before the engine stopped. He caught the license plate; I’m in Iowa. A man in his thirties popped out, not closing the door. Sam stood to meet him.
“Hey, Joe.” His ballcap was in his hands, being wrung out. Pleasantries were fighting with the weight of what he had to ask. It struck him; a father’s worry. A thistle caught hard in Sam’s throat.
“Ted.”
“So it’s- Vance said they found someone, is- is it…?”
How do you tell someone their child is dead?
“It's her, Ted.”
His mouth twisted, scrunching, wanting to hide in the now-forming wrinkles of his face.
“You’re sure? May-maybe it’s some other- maybe it’s someone else, you know?” Ted searched his expression, looking from eye to eye, over his shoulder to the building where the girl lay sleeping, desperation thick on him.
The air left Sam. He opened his mouth, the weight of the words pinning down his tongue. He couldn’t say it again. He bit his lip and looked away.
He breaks.
Down the father sinks, onto his knees, clinging to him. Pain ached out of him, filling the hollow space formed in his chest as he buried his face in Sam’s legs, staining the outside of his thigh with tears. His grip was lethal, but gaining a sudden frailty far beyond his years.
Sam held onto him, grabbing a palmful of hair, doing what he could to soothe him- there was no soothing, not for this.
Loud sobs burst from the man, shaking him, barely getting in enough air before the next echoed from his throat. It bruised Sam’s ribs; this was unnatural grief. The other night sounds faded, showing reverence for the lament of a father without a child.
“Oh god -” The noises he made weren’t really words. They didn’t need to be.
Sam sank down to his heels, grabbing this inconsolable man around the shoulders. He felt Teddy’s breath on his neck now, jagged and raw. He should not be grieving in the first place, so he would not make him grieve alone. The damp air encouraged their tears to roll, to share them with one another. This was no space for judgment, no ridicule would be given to these men. The girl was dead.
How long they stayed there, sat on the dirt, holding each other, it didn't matter. His daughter was gone. None of it mattered anymore.
“I think we should get home. Get some rest- if we can.” Only when the man had stumbled into hiccuping silence did Sam suggest it. Even still, he didn’t want it.
“You’re- you’re right.” For the first time, he seemed aware of himself. He wiped his eyes not on Sam’s shirt, but on his own wrist, trying to clean up. Save face. “You’re right.”
They didn’t talk in the truck. What do you say? Sam’s eyes were sore, his nose stuffy for someone he didn’t know. They bumped along potholes and gravel in the dark.
The headlights shone now on a house, painted white, the porch peeling in a rustic sort of way. A bench swing hung there. The mailbox read ‘Flanagan’, no number. Given the size, it had at least two bedrooms. One would be empty.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. We’ll talk.”
Teddy didn’t answer him- he just reached over and gave him a one-armed hug. Sam got the impression that they didn’t do this too often, but the circumstances meant that whatever was between them didn’t matter anymore. No tension, just dead air.
He watched the truck drive off, and stood there on the porch a moment. It was a memorial- a sacred place. He shouldn’t go in there without her- looking back over the long dirt driveway, he could almost see her, the girl he never knew. Walking back from school. Coming home. Here not even an hour, and he’s already haunted by a ghost of someone he failed to save.
The door wasn’t even locked. He entered, and the house was quiet. He flipped the lights on, room by room, showing dust covering anything not in use. It made sense, in a way, deep in the back of his head; why clean when she’s not here? He wondered idly if Teddy’s house was the same.
He wandered listlessly, searching for a place to sleep. He didn’t have to look long- it was a modest house. This was an adults bedroom, and for a moment he considered going to find the girl's, start getting information about this leap. Something in him said it was in this house.
But his legs took him to the bed and sat him down, pleading on behalf of his heart to let it be. Open the door another time, it's not going anywhere . Don't go in there .
He pushed off the boots on his feet, one of his socks had a hole in it.
I sleep alone .
It was a silly thought to have- there was a jewelry box on the dresser, a woman lived in this room. He shared this room, that was his denim jacket hung on the closet door. He doesn’t sleep alone , so who was she ?
Her mother?
Maybe Joseph was her step father.
If there was any grace in the world, that wouldn't be true.
He couldn't tell a mother that.
Far off, a bell started ringing. Eleven chimes, it was late. The church might be in walking distance. Would they host her funeral? What would she like there? Did she want poppies? Roses? Maybe baby’s breath, or tulips. Was she born in spring? Or sunflowers, for summer?
What would she wear?
She must have a favourite dress.
He had to get her something nice to wear. It would be her party, after all.
Reluctant feet carried him to a door, one he hadn’t opened, but finding the desiccated heart of a home wasn’t a hard thing to do.
The whole world seemed to fall quiet, a moment of silence for the still-opened book at the desk by all the half-done doodles, the shoes left at the foot of the bed, the closet door still ajar. It was like she'd left just that morning.
The bed was made. There was no dust in this room, only this room. Her room couldn't be dirty.
Paper cranes were pinned on corkboard. There were a few posters on the wall, some homemade, some printed. She liked rock and roll. He should get someone to sing for her.
He poked his nose into the closet. A lot of yellow, a lot of green. Blouses more numerous than dresses. She’s just like her mother . The thought drifted by. In the back, a white lacy thing, covered in grass stains, stuffed out of view. She’d never get the chance to be scolded for such a mess.
There, at one end. Crossing stripes of purple, blue, and green. A summer dress. He ran his fingers along the bottom- hemmed, hemmed, and hemmed again. Pockets had been sewn in by tender hands. Alterations made for a growing girl to keep her dress.
She should get to have it for all time . He took it off the hook and looked to the room again.
A pet cage. Little creatures squealing at him- two Guinea pigs. They were taken care of. He gave them a few pets, settling them into mutters. What had she named them? One white, one brown and black. It was probably a matched name set. They'd miss her.
Her hairbrush glinted with shed golden locks. Sitting there, at the dresser, brushing out the bedhead. Getting ready for the day. Ready for school, ready to go down and have breakfast. Did she drink orange juice in the morning? Milk?
He sat at the dresser. Her things were all laid out, used. A southern hairbow, tied with purple ribbon, sat there. He ran his fingers along the smooth fabric- it would match her dress.
How long ago had she left? How long had the bracelets, mismatched, homemade, sat unused? How long since the yellow headband on the edge of the dresser got to hold the blonde curls out of her face? How long had the mirror waited for her to sit here, brush her hair and get ready for another first day of school?
Polaroids were strung up on the wall, clothespins on string. She smiled at him, from the pumpkin patch as a little girl. She was at the zoo, pointing at some animal that the picture didn’t show. Another, smushed between Teddy and a woman that had the same nose. There were more scattered on the bedside table, squeaking from his touch; on the bench swing out front, in the backyard looking at some finches, seated at the table just eating breakfast and making a funny face. Just life, simple life.
He sat on the bed, flipping from photo to photo. How many times had her mother sat here, thumbing these? Wishing she could once again take in the sheets from the line, or- or this one, eat brownie batter off a spoon?
She’d never get to ride another horse, or pose in front of a statue, or show off a beetle she found, or ride her bike down the road-
She'd never do a million menial, everyday things, never touch the world with her own hands.
The thistle in his throat grew- it brushed up against the sides of his head, forcing tears, making his head pound.
She's dead.
She's dead .
It grew, and grew, until it spilled out onto the bed, onto the pillow. He held the stuffed dog there, button eyes mismatched. It was worse, in here; all of the hurt flowed from this room. A memorial to a child he didn’t know. He left the lights on- he couldn’t bear the dark, not now. He couldn’t bear the light, either-
She's dead.
He was glad Teddy was gone, no one would see him like this. That girl on the table reached between his ribs, holding his heart in her pale hands, taking the warmth from his body. He buried his face in the pillow. The soft down took all he let out. He couldn’t keep his eyes shut; she was hiding there, in the dark.
The feeling; it was profane. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Daughters aren’t supposed to die; grandmothers, mothers, sisters, aunts- grandfathers, fathers, brothers, uncles, they’re all meant to go, eventually, it's the natural way of things.
Not daughters.
///
He didn’t remember falling asleep.
The sun had risen, shining through the slits of closed blinds. Today would be a bright contradiction. It was not a movie, there would be no rain.
He pulled himself out of bed. The kitchen had stacks of newspapers piled on the table. Some read, some not. A fruit bowl had one orange in it. It gave itself easily as he traced himself around the island counter, not wanting to sit in her seat.
Outside. Outside. He should be outside, fresh air. A door in the kitchen led to a backyard, overgrown and beautiful, full of shrubs and brush and wildflowers just starting to bud. Birdfeeders- several- stood vigil, adorned with little birds making joyful noise. He wondered if they knew- if they were capable of knowing.
A cardinal landed. So bright, so red among the brown and green. The other birds weren’t frightened, despite his size. He’d come here often.
It dawned on him; her room had a view of the yard. How many mornings had she spent, sitting, watching them eat? How many times had she smiled at a squirrel bouncing off of the baffle on top, honking out in anger?
He sat down in the grass, hiding in the shade of the house. He needed the fresh air, but he wouldn’t let the sun see him. It felt cruel to be watched.
What’s happening to me ?
He wasn’t a big crier. He was no steel magnolia, but the mere sight of a dead teenager shouldn’t be doing this to him- he shouldn’t be sobbing into pillows of the recently deceased until he passed out.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen someone dead. It wasn’t even the first time he’d seen a young woman at the morgue, but it was different this time. It wasn’t just the loss of a short life. It ached . It took his breath, put stones in his belly, pierced his chest and all the other most painful symptoms of emotion. Something felt deeply, deeply wrong. He couldn’t stop thinking about her- all he’d seen was her on a slab, and even the birds seemed to be singing to her.
Maybe her mother would come home soon. He’d have to tell her. The rigid familiarity from her dad, it made sense if Sam was her stepfather.
That meant his little girl was gone.
Part of him wanted Al to show up- he was taking a while, as usual. He wanted answers. Why was her life over? Who took her from her family? Who was she? What was he supposed to fix about any of this, when it was too late?
The other part of him wanted privacy.
The orange was a good enough breakfast. It's all he could manage to eat, at least; the thought of food made him nauseous.
A name. That’s all he wanted; a name. She deserved that much- he deserved to know that about her, having to feel all this. He found himself outside her door again, gently pushing it open, almost knocking.
The notebook, open on the desk. He came to it, sitting down. A notebook for social studies. He touched it- it felt like blasphemy to turn the pages- and flipped to the front.
Maggie.
My baby.
Joe’s baby, Teddy’s baby, Maggie Flanagan. Margaret, or just Maggie? Did anyone ever call her Peggy? Or Mags? Madge? Midge?
He put the notebook back on the right page- he didn’t know why- and stood again.
Maggie. A girl with pigtails at the pumpkin patch. She was a toddler, once. A little girl. She might’ve grown out of that name, one day, adopting one for a mature woman. One that commanded respect. Maybe she would have kept Maggie, she didn’t need to change anything about herself, she was perfect as-is. No one would ever know that.
He could hardly stand. This room was a tomb with no body, a husk, choking him. He approached the dresser. The dress still sat there from last night, unceremoniously left on the chair. He grabbed it up, alongside the bow, and caught his reflection.
“No…”
She really did have her mother’s nose.
She had the same freckles, only these cheeks were flushed, and getting redder.
“Oh God .”
And her hair. Dirty and knotted, still the same.
Same pale green eyes, too, forever dry while the ones staring back at him slowly flooded their banks.
My baby is dead.