Joshua Mohr - All This Life

His cousins were no better than his parents’ friends. Both sets of grandparents were dead, so there was no one to shroud him in unconditional support. This whole room was full of rubberneckers looking at Noah911.

We live in a society of second chances , he thinks. Should I confess? Should I tell all these leeches what they want to hear? Should I scream in all their faces, “I did it. It was me. I threw her off the fucking bridge”?

Instead, he made small talk with the smattering of people who approached him. He drank too much vodka, though he didn’t get loud or crass. They expressed feelings. Noah911 faked his. They stared at his injuries and excused themselves from his company at the first lull in the awkward conversations.

Even his favorite aunt — his mother’s sister — said to him, “We need to know what really happened, sweetie.”

“Me too.”

“You know more of the story than we do. Or you should.”

“I should. You’re right about that.”

Noah911 said he had to use the bathroom but went in a different room. Tracey’s. The crafting studio. He stood in the sour smell of new paint, surrounded by these things bought to cover up his sister’s absence. He pulled out his phone and switched his return flight so he’d leave later tonight. Catch the nine o’clock to Denver, and from there connect back to his new life.

ALL OF THESEevents contributed to the pattern of escalating invasions. All of these were the worst part of the trip, a whole festival of betrayals.

But now Noah911 is in the kitchen by himself, eating an omelet. His mom is taking a nap; his father is finishing the assembly of that chair. It’s 5 pm, the service and reception over, the friends and relations on their way back to their own miseries. The house is quiet again, and he hasn’t told his parents that he’s leaving tonight. He can call a cab, slip out, and be free of this place and its insinuations before anyone misses him — if anyone would miss him.

He cooked the omelet on too high a heat. The outside of it is patterned in scorched creases of egg, while the inside is runny and gelatinous, cheese barely melted in places. But this isn’t about taste. He slops a piece of toast through the snot and hopes this helps soak up some vodka.

“Here,” says his father.

He puts a Ziploc bag on the kitchen table.

To Noah911, it looks filled with instant oatmeal.

“What’s this?” he says.

“We want you to have these.”

His father picks the Ziploc bag up and thrusts them at him. A joust. A retaliation that means if you can’t protect her alive, try this. Try carting this around. Never forget what you did, Noah911.

“I don’t want that,” he says to his dad.

“Why?” he asks, shaking the bag furiously at his son. “Why don’t you want these?”

“Please stop.”

“It’s not all of her. We’re keeping some. But this is your share.”

“I can’t.”

“Take them, god damn it.”

Noah911 imagines his dad divvying her up, like a drug dealer, weighing out bags of powder, and for the first time since she died, Noah911 cries. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s your mess.”

“Don’t say that.”

His father drops the Ziploc bag onto Noah911’s plate, right onto the runny eggs, then walks out of the room. Noah911 sits there staring at the ashes, scared of them. Finally, after thirty seconds or so, he runs a sponge under the faucet and then dabs the baggy clean, like he’s caring for wildlife after an oil spill.

He has one more bite of his eggs, retches. He knows he’ll sneak back to his room, get his suitcase, and walk out. But he’s going to leave this plate of leftovers on the table, so someone remembers he was here.

HE’S HOLDING THEZiploc bag up for the TSA agent to inspect, cradling it across his arm like an injured animal. He says, “This is my sister. I’m bringing her back.”

“We see a lot of cremains pass through here,” she says, a sixty-something white woman with oxblood hair, “but they’re usually in a. . you know. . proper. . receptacle.”

“I know; I will. This is my sister,” he says again.

“I’m so sorry, dear,” she says.

“Thanks.”

“Let us x-ray her and then you can go.”

Gently, Noah911 places them in one of those gray plastic bins, the conveyor belt carrying her through the machine.

“Take care of yourself,” the TSA agent says to him.

He wants to reciprocate her compassion. The people in her profession have the rap of having no grace. Noah911 has had this thought many times, slowly snaking through these screening lines, but this woman, this one woman, has been kind to him.

“I like your hair,” he says.

She smiles, averts her eyes, caught off-guard.

“Get your sister, dear,” she says.

HE SITS ONthe airplane, somewhere around 35,000 feet, and has the ashes sitting on his tray table. He’s alone in his row, the plane filled with empty seats. Noah911 stares at the baggy. He’s with her. A handful of Tracey.

He caresses the outside of the baggy and shuts his eyes, feeling a bit of peace, a sliver of it, being alone with Tracey.

It’s not torture having these ashes. At least, not in this moment.

His face doesn’t hurt and the broken rib isn’t too bad, and he knows what he has to do with the ashes. It’s obvious. Noah911 smiles and every jolt of anxiety and guilt subsides. He doesn’t know if this feeling will last and he doesn’t care.

Gently, he pets the outside of the baggy.

Tenderly, he brings the baggy up to his lips, kissing it.

Quietly, he says, “I know how we can find peace.”

Paul storms into the police station and says to the officer behind the front desk, “I need to see Detective Esperanto.”

“Regarding?”

“My son.”

“What’s your name?”

“My kid is missing.”

“Name.”

“My son is actively communicating with me and the officer has to have this piece of information so we can pinpoint his location.”

“Communicating how?”

“He just said to me ‘I’m here.’”

“He called you?”

“Twitter.”

“He posted that to Twitter?”

“We have to track his cell so we can find him.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Paul Gamache.”

“Have a seat.”

Paul does not have a seat. He walks toward the window, doesn’t notice the weather or time of day. Those details from this world don’t matter. Nothing matters except where Jake is.

It is also apparent that his ex, Naomi, would be so much better at all this. She’d never be kept waiting. She’d have earned the cops’ trust and respect and would know everything about the case. Paul knows nothing, except that his boy vanished on his watch and the guilt that pumps like adrenaline. But specifics? Paul couldn’t tell you shit and that embarrasses him so much. He needs to do a better job, needs to stop being so soft, so easily placed aside. He needs to demand, not ask, for the attention he deserves.

That was what made Paul stampede to the station in the first place: Jake answering him, reaching out. The boy might be missing in an analog sense but his voice comes through digitally. He is here, as he said he was, and now Paul has to unite his Jakes.

Paul is back on his side of the desk, watching the cop fill out an ancient-looking form by hand.

“What did he say?” Paul asks the officer.

“I’m sorry?”

“Esperanto.”

“I’m finishing something up and then I’ll call him.”

“Call now,” he says, wishing Naomi could see this.

“Excuse me?”