I Died Afraid My Broken Arm Burdened Them novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Bag

Paula accuses Dale of theft, then tears open the body bag. Lyle says it is not his son.

My mother came through the front door in a pale wool coat, carrying a white cake box in both hands.

My father walked behind her with his phone out.

A driver stood by the black car at the curb with the engine running.

I had never seen my mother in a coat that cost more than my rent.

She looked at the stained lobby, the cracked floor tiles and the neighbors crowded on the stairs, and her mouth tightened.

"Ellis?" she called. "Sweetheart? Mom is here!"

Nobody answered her.

Dale stood at the foot of the stairs, holding my coat and my phone.

My mother's eyes landed on both.

"That's his coat," she said.

"Ma'am, I'm..."

"That's my son's coat, and that is his phone. You're the one who answered it."

She came at him fast.

"What did you take from his room?"

"Nothing," Dale said. "I'm Dale. I work with him at the plant."

"A coworker. A man from a factory goes through my son's things while he is out, and answers his phone." She turned to my father. "Lyle, call the police."

"I did not steal anything," Dale said. "Ma'am, I need you to listen to me."

"Do not tell me what to do."

"Please, just listen."

"Where is he?" my father said. He stepped around her and spoke to the landlord. "Which room is my son's?"

The landlord licked his lips.

"Your son?" he said. "You're Lowe's folks? The ones with the sick..."

"Third floor," Dale said quickly. "Mr. Lowe, please. Wait here."

My father frowned. He was not used to being told to wait.

Then the boots started down the stairs.

Everybody turned.

The two paramedics came around the last landing with the stretcher between them, and the black bag lay flat on it, zipped to the top.

The neighbors flattened themselves against the wall to let it pass.

I came down behind it, one step at a time.

My mother stood in the middle of the lobby, still holding the cake.

"What is that?" she said.

Nobody spoke.

"What is that? Who is that?"

Dale put himself between her and the stretcher.

"Ma'am. Don't."

"Get out of my way."

"Mrs. Lowe, don't look. Please, I'm begging you."

"I said get out of my way!"

She shoved him with all her strength, the cake box still in one hand.

The cake box fell. It burst open on the tile, and lemon frosting spread over her shoes.

She did not look down.

She dropped to her knees beside the stretcher, found the zipper and pulled.

It went down in one long sound.

I stood next to the paramedic and watched her face.

I had wanted, my whole life, for her to look at me that hard.

What I saw was the lobby light on my gray cheeks and my black lips.

My eyes were still partly open.

The smell reached her, and she did not pull back.

She reached out her hand slowly.

Her fingers touched my cheek.

"It's cold," she said.

Her voice was very small.

"Why is he cold?"

Then she fell backward onto the tile and screamed.

It was not a sound I had ever heard come out of a person. It filled the lobby and went up the stairwell.

Doors opened on the second floor.

My father turned around.

For a second he did not move at all. His eyes went to the bag, to the face inside it, to my mother on the floor.

All the color left his skin.

"Ellis?" he said.

He took one step.

Then he shook his head hard.

"No. That is not him."

"Mr. Lowe," said the paramedic, in a careful voice. "I'm sorry. Is this your son?"

"No." My father pointed at the bag. "My son is upstairs. He's waiting for us. We spoke to him an hour ago."

"Sir..."

"He was laughing with me on the phone."

I was not laughing. I had been dying.

"Lyle," my mother whispered from the floor. She was staring at my face. "Lyle, look at his mouth. Look at his arm."

My father did not look.

"This is a mistake," he said. His voice rose. "Somebody's put the wrong boy in that bag. Check again!"

He turned to Dale.

"Where is my son?"

Dale's eyes were red.

"Sir," he said. "He's right there."

"Don't say that to me."

"Sir, your son took his life tonight, and I am sorry. I found him about forty minutes ago."

The lobby went silent.

My father looked at him and did not answer for a long moment.

"He couldn't have," he said slowly. "He couldn't have. We told him. We told him everything."

Dale's head came up.

"Told him what?"

My father's mouth worked.

He did not answer.

Behind him, a woman on the stairs said, very clearly, "Told him what?"

Then a second voice, and then a third.

My mother had both hands pressed to her mouth. She was rocking on her knees on the lemon frosting.

My father stood very straight in his navy overcoat, and I watched him realize that every person in that lobby was staring at him.

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