Stevan Mena - Transience

“You’re the detective who found her. I’ve seen your face on TV,” the other teacher joined in. Jack stood waiting for an introduction. The teacher reached out his hand. “Oh, Michael Ketcher.”

Jack shook his hand, it was coarse with pottery dust. “So you’ve heard.”

“Yes,” Helen said.

“You both knew her?”

“One of the best students we’ve ever had,” Helen said, turning to Michael for corroboration. He was quick to reciprocate with emphatic nods of agreement.

“Oh jeez, without a doubt; we see so many students each year,” Michael said, “but few as naturally gifted as Carmen. That painting there on the wall is hers.” Michael pointed over Jack’s shoulder.

Jack about-faced to see a stunning portrait of the Virgin Mary hanging on the back wall of the classroom. So lifelike, it was as if you could reach in and touch her. It captivated Jack. He himself had only seen this level of artistic talent once before. Did that verify Leonard’s hypothesis? Or simply demonstrate that he occupied a very small corner of the world and needed to get out more.

“Some of her work still hangs in the gallery downstairs,” Helen said to the back of Jack’s head.

Jack turned and exchanged glances between the two.

“Do either of you remember anything bothering Carmen before she disappeared? Was she having problems with another student?”

“I can’t say,” Helen said. Jack waited patiently for her to elaborate. “Well, it was so long ago.”

“Carmen was always engrossed with her work,” Michael said. “She often stayed late after class. I don’t think things were too happy at home for her.”

“In what way?”

“Just an assumption.” Michael shrugged.

“I see, but otherwise, she wasn’t a troubled student?”

“Not when she was in here, she wasn’t,” Helen said. She drifted past them towards Carmen’s painting, standing before it reverently. Jack joined her and they admired it side by side. Michael leaned on a desk behind them.

“All that talent, gone forever…” Helen said.

Maybe , Jack thought. But that was way too long a conversation.

The hallway began filling up with noise; a wave of students was approaching. The first few entered the classroom, talking loudly, as if outdoors. They were followed by two more, then three more, and soon the class was full and buzzing.

“Well, I appreciate your time. Both of you.”

“Of course,” Helen said.

“Anything we can do to help, please,” Michael said. Jack turned to leave — got a few steps — then swiveled back around.

“Oh…one more thing.” Jack opened his briefcase and took out Rebecca’s sketch pad. Helen and Michael gathered around, curiously.

“I have a friend whose daughter is also an aspiring artist herself. Would you mind taking a look at these?”

“Not at all,” Helen said. She turned the book so both she and Michael could see. They flipped through a few of Rebecca’s drawings, each one eliciting the response Jack was expecting.

“They’re exquisite,” Helen said.

“What school does she attend?” Michael asked. Jack paused for dramatic effect.

“Eastbrook Elementary.”

Helen looked up at Jack, her mouth open. The noise in the classroom was getting very loud, lots of chatter and paper rustling, Helen had to raise her voice, “A child did these?”

Jack nodded. Helen and Michael flipped through a few more pictures with a look of shocked disbelief. Jack watched their expressions change with each page. “Have you ever seen work like this from a child that age?”

“How old did you say she was?” Michael asked.

“Nine.”

“I’ve read about it, never actually met one with this kind of talent so young,” Helen said. “The attention to detail… incredible.”

“So you’d say it’s very unusual for a child this age to be able to do this kind of work?”

“She’s a once in a lifetime talent,” Helen said. Once in a lifetime … Once in a lifetime. Her words echoed repeatedly in Jack’s brain.

“We’d love to meet her,” Michael said.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jack said, but that’s precisely what he wanted — a third party opinion. He put the book back in his case and tried to serpentine between students to get to the door. He paused to take one more glance at Carmen’s painting.

Once in a lifetime …

A great amount of Carmen’s art was religious in nature, Jack recalled, remembering the words Rebecca spoke: Santa Maria Madre de Dios. Find Jesus. Find Jesus …

Jack put his wipers on the fast setting, but they only smudged the rain in arched streaks. He hunched over the wheel, pressing his nose to the glass, trying to find a piece of windshield he could see through. The interior was all misted up, so he used his sleeve to wipe clean a small patch.

He pulled up to the church on 17th and Connecticut Ave. The building was situated just a few feet from the busy road, with no parking lot except for a small driveway where the church bus parks to unload passengers. Jack circled the building to find a spot. On his second go round, he lucked out; a small minivan’s headlights went on. Jack put his signal on and waited for it to pull out. He held up the traffic in one direction and soon a car behind him blared its horn. Jack flicked a switch and a blue light spun to life on his dashboard, shutting the impatient driver right up.

The minivan pulled out — a little fast — probably out of fear of Jack’s show of authority. Jack parked and sat a moment, waiting for his legs to fill with enough energy to get out and make the trek inside. He was compelled to remove his gun from its holster and place it in his glove compartment. He looked around to make sure no one was watching. He just didn’t feel right about bringing a loaded weapon into church.

He looked out his driver’s side window at the rain dripping down the glass. It reminded him of tears. His thoughts drifted back to that terrible night. How the rain was cold and heavy, just like tonight. He’d come outside to his car — he could no longer bear to sit inside that awful waiting room. He sat and watched the rain cascade down the window, just like now. He could still remember the smell of the hospital hallways. A chemical smell, some sort of cleaning solution or disinfectant. Whatever it was, its nauseating odor had made him angry and desperate. It was a constant reminder that he was in a place of life and death, blood and medicine. In there he had no control, forced to sit idle, helpless. Jack was a man of action — the waiting was toxic for him. He had to get out, get some air.

He remembered how hard it was to finally get up the courage to open the car door and go back inside. He feared the awful news awaiting him, news that would change his life forever. Soon he would know how those other people felt, the families he’d comforted. The ones he’d watched crumple in agony to the floor. The kind of pain no words can soothe. You simply have to step back and let them grieve. He wondered how he would react. Would he fall away? Weep openly, make a scene? Opening that car door was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

He recalled taking the news calmly. He didn’t scream. He cried, but not enough to turn heads or make others uncomfortable. He took it like a man, internalizing the pain.

Maybe it would have been better if he had let it all out. Instead, he simmered slowly over the years, letting the anger and hurt eat away at his insides until it was no longer just keeping him sad and miserable. It was killing him. Soon it would consume him completely and, in a shallow self pitying way, he looked forward to death’s absolution. But did it have to be like this?