Rick Mofina - Perfect Grave

It was true.

For as far back as he could remember, Henry had wanted to be a Seattle police officer and work his way up to detective. He’d never imagined that things would turn out the way they did. In the early days, he and Sally were happy. They had Jason and his job as a cop was great.

Then it all went wrong.

It had started as a routine day. Then they got the call. That call.

Twenty-five years ago.

God, he still couldn’t stomach thinking about it. Or talking about it.

Ever.

After it happened, Henry quit the force then tried to become a private detective but failed. Things got bad financially. He and Sally ended up working in the brewery. He shut down, stopped living. For Sally, it was like being condemned to life in a mausoleum. She couldn’t take it, so she left.

It broke Jason’s heart.

The kid used to ride his bike all over the neighborhood looking for her while Henry crawled into a bottle and sat in the dark, mourning it all.

“She’ll be back. I can fix it, Jay. Just wait. She’ll be back. You’ll see.”

Jason soon learned it was a lie. Sally never came back. Henry didn’t blame her. He became a lost cause who had fallen into an abyss and Jason realized that he had to get away, or be dragged down with him.

But Jay refused to give up searching for his mother.

Years later, he’d spend hours at the library, looking for her name and maiden name in old out-of-town phone books. He’d read obituaries and news stories about deaths. He’d keep records of those he checked, thinking the day would come when he would find her.

The boy just wanted to put his family back together.

Maybe that’s how his journalistic dream truly started for him. Born out of his mother’s desertion, Henry thought as he drove.

God, he was so proud of his son.

Only recently did Henry come to see how strong Jason was, how much he needed him, because it was his son who’d saved him. The night Henry turned up drunk in the newsroom was the rock bottom moment. He had humiliated Jason, had nearly cost him his job. That’s when Jason kicked him into AA.

That’s what saved him.

After Henry got sober, Krofton gave him a chance and took him on at the agency.

But now he had to carry a gun again and it pushed Henry to the brink.

For it had released his demons. He could feel them starting to circle round him, feel them closing in.

He needed a drink.

He needed Jason.

R honda Boland looked at Sister Anne’s picture on the front page of the Seattle Mirror.

Sister Anne had beautiful eyes. A kind face. Rhonda would have liked to have known her. She needed a link to God these days.

Rhonda looked away from the paper and flipped through an old issue of Woman’s World. But she was unable to concentrate. Her concern went down the hall of Dr. Hillier’s office to the room where he was examining her twelve-year-old son, Brady.

Again.

Three months ago, Brady had complained of headaches and dizziness. Rhonda took him to their doctor. After a neurological exam, he referred them to Dr. Hillier, a specialist, who asked a lot of questions, ran tests, made notes, then arranged for Brady to go to the hospital for a brain scan.

It was scary seeing him swallowed by that big tomblike device, but he was brave and it went okay.

That was last week.

Then Dr. Hillier’s office called her this morning, asking her to bring Brady in.

“But his next appointment is not for three days. Did they find something?”

“Dr. Hillier would like to see Brady,” the receptionist’s voice was professionally and clinically neutral.

Please don’t let this be bad news. Please.

Rhonda had to plead with the head cashier at the supermarket to let her leave work, again. Rhonda couldn’t afford to keep missing shifts. And she had to pull Brady out of school, again. He couldn’t afford missing more school. His grades were slipping.

A month or so back, his teacher had called to say, “For weeks now, Brady’s been distracted in class and he’s had a couple of outbursts, which is out of character for him. He’s usually very quiet and polite. Is there stress at home, Mrs. Boland?”

Stress at home?

Only the kind that comes in the year after your husband dies suddenly.

Sitting in the doctor’s waiting room, Rhonda grappled with worry. Maybe Brady’s problem was a diet- or vitamin-related thing because she’d let him eat a little too much junk food. She’d let a few things slide since Jack died because he’d left her alone to face a world of trouble and some days it was so hard.

Please, let it be nothing.

“Mrs. Boland,” the receptionist said, “Dr. Hillier will see you now.”

She led Rhonda to the doctor’s office, across the hall from the examining room from the room where Brady was. Hillier was behind his desk, a file with several colored pages open before him. He was on the phone and motioned for Rhonda to take the chair opposite him.

He kept clicking his pen.

She studied his face, his body language, for a clue of what to expect, as he wrapped up the call. The pen clicking did not stop. He studied the file.

“Mrs. Boland, I know we’ve already asked you, but please try hard to remember. Has Brady ever had a head injury? A mild or severe fall, or blow to the head? Brady doesn’t recall any incident and there’s nothing in his file.”

“You mean, one where I took him to the doctor, or the hospital?”

“Any kind of head injury,” the pen clicking stopped, “even unreported.”

“Unreported?”

“Did you, or your husband ever discipline Brady? Physically?”

Hillier watched her face redden at what he was suggesting.

Was Brady abused?

“No. Nothing like that, I told you.”

“I apologize, but as his doctor I have to ask.”

Rhonda waved it off and Hillier considered other sources.

“Maybe a little playground mishap? Horseplay with Dad in the living room?”

“Well, one time, he had this little bump. Here.” She touched her left temple. “But it was nothing.”

“What happened?”

“He told me he was in the garage helping his dad clean up and he banged his head against the workbench. Just a tap. It was over a year before his father passed away.”

Hillier absorbed it for a moment, nodded, noting it in the file.

“Brady seems to be exhibiting the symptoms of prolonged postconcussion syndrome, arising from some trauma to his head, which he could’ve experienced even a couple of years ago. However, that’s only part of the problem, which may, or may not, be related to what we found.”

Hillier stopped and thought for a moment. Then he showed Rhonda color computer images of Brady’s brain scan, then elaborated about things with long, Greek-sounding names before reading the fear in her face. He tossed his pen on his desk, rubbed his eyes under his glasses, then softened his voice.

“The scan shows a growing mass of cells in his brain. A tumor.”

“Oh God!”

“If it’s not removed, this tumor will kill him within sixteen to twenty months. I’m very sorry.”

Rhonda’s hands flew to her mouth in time to stifle her scream.

Hillier helped her to the small sofa and comforted her.

“You can’t let him die! Please, is there anything you can do?”

Hillier looked hard into her eyes.

“There is something we can attempt. I’ve consulted with my colleagues. It’s extremely complex, but because of its behavior and location, we can’t remove the tumor just yet. At this immediate point the procedure is too risky. Brady would not survive the surgery.”

“I don’t understand. You’ve got to help him.”

“In two to three months it will advance to a stage where we’ll have a better chance at surgically removing all of it safely.”