David Bell - Never Come Back

I saw people in uniform first—two cops, two paramedics. They were standing in the living room of my mom’s small house, their thumbs hooked into their belts, muttering to one another. Small talk and jokes. One of them, a cop about my age, laughed at something, then looked up and saw me in the doorway.

“Ma’am?” he said. A question. It meant: Do you have any business here?

The other cop nodded. He understood who I was and what I was doing there.

“Are you… ?” he said.

“I’m Elizabeth Hampton,” I said. “This is my mother’s house.”

“Of course,” the second cop said. He held up his index finger. “Just one moment.”

“My mom,” I said. “I got a call from a detective. He said—”

I didn’t feel well. My body felt liquid and loose, as if my joints were made of rubber and water. Everything shook. I was scared. I leaned against the doorjamb, trying not to collapse.

The cop left, went down the hallway toward the bedrooms. One of the paramedics, a thick, barrel-chested guy, his arms bulging against his short sleeves, came over and steadied me.

“Here,” he said. “Sit down.”

I didn’t move of my own volition. He moved me. Gently. And then I was sitting on the familiar couch, the one my mother had owned for close to fifteen years, more than half my life.

“Is that better?” the paramedic said.

“A detective called,” I said. “He said my mom… He said there was a problem, and I needed to get over here right away.”

“Just sit back,” the paramedic said.

“Is she okay?”

“The police will talk to you.”

But I knew. I knew. They didn’t call you to the scene. They didn’t stand around talking—laughing even. They didn’t do those things unless there was nothing else to do.

Unless someone was dead.

I said the words to myself: Mom is dead.

I looked around the small, familiar living room. I grew up in that house, lived there until I was eighteen and left Ohio for college. Everything was neat and orderly as always. Vacuumed and dusted. No clutter on the entertainment center. It never changed. Next to Mom’s chair sat one book of her crossword puzzles, a pen, reading glasses. Next to the chair a shelf with family pictures. My dad when he was alive. A wedding photo of the two of them, looking both nervous and happy. Also a photo of me and my brother.

“Shit,” I said. “My brother. Ronnie. Is he here? He must be here.”

“He’s fine,” the paramedic said. “He’s in his room with one of the officers.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s doing fine.”

A man and a woman emerged from the hallway. The man was middle-aged, almost bald, fit, and quite tall. He wore a suit coat over a polo shirt, and his movements seemed nervous and imprecise. His head turned from side to side, checking out everything in the room, the people and the objects. He was birdlike, an intelligent but edgy bird. The woman looked young, not much older than me. She was black with a short afro. She wore pants and a button-down lavender shirt. She wasn’t very tall, and even though she walked with confidence, she stayed a pace behind the man and let him do the talking. Next to him, she looked centered and calm. Even.

“Are you Elizabeth Hampton?” the man asked. He didn’t meet my eye. When he spoke, his hands moved through the air, turning over and over as though trying to crank something to life.

“Yes. I want to know what happened to my mother.”

“I’m Detective Richland,” the man said. “This is Detective Post.” He made a gesture that pointed somewhere in the direction of his partner. “I’m the one who called you earlier.”

“Is my mother dead?” I asked.

“When’s the last time you spoke to her?” Richland asked. He seemed more focused when he asked me that question. His eyes landed and held on mine for a moment.

“Is she dead?” I asked. I heard the edge in my voice, the sharpness. I reached for that tone with my students when I needed to. I doubted it would work with cops, but I tried anyway. “I just want to know what happened and why I’ve been called here. Is my mother dead?”

Richland took a moment to answer. Then he nodded his head. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. His words sounded practiced and routine. Did he stand in front of a mirror and run through them?

But I’d known all along. Even still, hearing the words from a stranger brought it home. A gasp escaped from my mouth, an exhalation of disbelief. I felt as if I were sinking into the couch. I stared at the floor, then at those glasses next to her chair. The glasses, such a simple object, so representative of her, suddenly seemed unmoored and cut off from the rest of the world. They looked like an artifact from another time. She was gone. Mom is dead .

“Can I get you some water, Ms. Hampton?” Post asked.

I couldn’t answer. I didn’t say anything. I kept staring at the glasses, then the photo of my dad. He was gone. She was gone.

She’s gone.

Like magic, Post was at my side, handing me a glass of water, one of Mom’s familiar, dated orange glasses. I took a long gulp. It helped. I gulped some more, then took two deep breaths.

Richland moved closer to me. He stood over me, his head almost reaching the ceiling. He must have been close to six feet eight inches tall. Could a cop be that size and still do his job? “I’m sorry, Ms. Hampton,” he said. “But we need to ask you some questions.”

He still sounded robotic. Programmed.

“Did she have a stroke?” I asked. “She had high blood pressure, but she always took her medicine.”

“When is the last time you talked to her?” Richland asked again.

I held my water glass tight. I sensed Richland’s anticipation. An easy enough question, but I couldn’t answer it.

I stumbled over my words.

“I don’t… I’m not sure… it’s been…”

“How long?” Richland asked, his voice flat. “Just a rough guess.”

“I guess…” I took another sip. “We had an argument.”

I looked up at the two detectives, hoping for sympathy, maybe even a reprieve from the questions. They both looked back at me, impassive, endlessly patient.

“It’s probably been about… six weeks,” I said.

Their faces remained the same, but Richland asked, “Six weeks since you’ve seen your mother?” His hands fluttered. “Or six weeks since you’ve talked to her?”

“Both,” I said.

“And you live here in Dover, right?” Post asked.

I liked her better. She seemed calming, encouraging. She seemed to understand that my mother had just died.

“Yes, I do. I grew up here. Then I came back last year to go to graduate school.”

“You go to Dalton U?” Post asked. “Here in town?”

“Yes. I’m studying history.”

“I went there too,” Post said. She looked at Richland. “We both did, didn’t we, Ted?”

There was a pause. He ignored her attempt to make a connection, or else he just didn’t pick up on her cue. Richland then asked, “Do you mind explaining the nature of this argument you had with your mother?”

“Why are you asking me these questions?” I asked. “You say my mother is dead. She’s sixty-nine years old. She lived like a monk. She didn’t go anywhere. She didn’t do anything except take care of my brother. Why are you saying these things? What happened to her?”

Richland and Post exchanged looks then. Something unspoken passed between them, and Richland nodded, as though giving his approval to a task they needed to do.