This story is not unique. It's honestly all too common.
It's 2019 in Tampa, Florida. It's summertime, and it's hot.
Jose was born in Xicoténcatl and came to this country looking for milk and honey. He loves his family more than Trump loves putting k...
Mark and Ellen sit holding hands in a small waiting room. The décor wreaks of good intentions. Carefully selected reprints of floral watercolors adorn the wall. The calming pastels colors make them the perfect subject matter for a room like this. A fancy coffee pod machine sits on a table in the corner, next to a selection of creamers and sweeteners. The fluorescent lights are designed to keep you awake like anyone could fall asleep in a room like this. They haven't said a word to each other in over an hour. They are afraid to open their mouths. There is only one subject to talk about, and neither one is ready to acknowledge the possibility that it's true. They say that God never gives you more than you can handle. He wouldn't do this to them. They're not strong enough. It will break them.
It can't be true.
Not Conner.
Dear God don't let it be—
The door opens and in walks a grief counselor named Sharon. She looks like a Sharon too. She has a sort of sad kindness about her. She's dressed in a dark gray pants suit that she bought off the rack at Sears, with a teal chiffon blouse underneath. You can tell she used to have an athletic body, but that was before she spent the last decade sitting on this couch, talking people through the worst day of their lives. She works 60 hours a week. She's so tired at the end of the day that she usually just grabs something from a drive-thru on the way home, "Good evening."
Mark lets go of Ellen's hand and stands up to greet her.
"Please don't get up," she says, motioning him to sit back down. Taking a seat in the chair next to them, she continues, "In a moment, I'm going to show you a series of pictures that may be very upsetting to you— they are of your son Conner. You do not have to go in there to actually see the body— I will show you the pictures, and if you can confirm that it is him, then that will be the end of it, and we won't ask you to do anything else."
Not Conner.
It can't be true.
"What if it's not him," replies Mark, in an almost pleading tone.
Sharon smiles sympathetically, "I can't even imagine how hard this must be for you," she sets a manila folder down on the table in front of them.
He stares down at it— terrified of what's inside— of what it means. He knows he needs to be strong— that after all of this, Ashley will still need him— he just doesn't know how he's going to do it, "I'm not ready."
Not Conner.
Please, God, don't let it be Conner.
"You never will be— take all the time you need."
Mark takes a deep breath. Ellen wraps her arm through his, squeezing him for strength. He opens the folder and pulls out the first photo—
It's Conner.
Collapsing against each other, they shatter into a million pieces. His son's ashen face sits lifelessly with his eyes closed. They were careful when they took the photos, making sure not to show the bullet wounds. The authorities have done their best to make this as easy as possible, but this is a hard business no matter how much you dress it up with flowers and fancy coffee makers. Ellen buries her face in Mark's shoulder. Mark chokes on his tears, barely able to speak— he nods, "Yes— that's—" he touches the face in the photo, "— that's him."
Taking Ellen into his embrace, they cry. He puts his hand on the back of her head and pulls her tight against him. She wraps her arms around him and squeezes his body, pressing her grief into him. They stand there in silence, heaving their sadness into each other. The moment is brutally intimate. Two lost lovers— brought close through the death of one of the few things that ever mattered.
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New chapters released every Monday and Friday (Chapter 20 of 28)
