After Life

Daydream

MICHAEL-JOHNSON NEWMAN

'We work in a lot of good ways, but not in the great ways that matter'. As mom takes a right turn off the main road and into the parking lot of the Fairville Police Station, I re-read the only text that mattered from Sophia – not the one she sent the night after I didn't make it home, not the ones announcing her subsequent depression as a result of my being missing, not even the ones begging to be at the station with me this morning because my sister had told her I would be. I read the one that mattered – the one that abruptly ended our four-year relationship.

"We're here," mom says as her seven-year-old, dust-covered, black Toyota Camry rattles over the speedbump and into a parking spot almost directly facing the entrance of the police station.

Mom's call a few minutes ago with Detective Douglas confirmed he was here and waiting for us, so the sweat-drenched, lanky brown-skinned man I saw rushing from a car towards the swinging glass doors of the station could not have been him, despite the striking resemblance. Mom notices my puzzled expression as we both unbuckle our seatbelts.

"What is it?" she asks. She's wearing the best face she can, but the prayer that echoed from her room last night suggests her deliverance might be far off.

"Nothing. I thought I saw someone," I tell her. There's a stillness in the car as the AC hums in the background. Though both our seatbelts are unbuckled, we are yet to release them as the weight of the moment settles in on us and rips the thread of calm we had both been clinging to. Had Francie been here too, and not at work, the collective yet quiet panic would have been worse.

"Are you ready?" I ask, careful to hide the tremor in my voice.

"I should be asking you that. Are you?"

"Well, we're here, and it's too late to turn back now, so let's do it." Though I do a good job of initially feigning my resolve, mom's confidence from it is short-lived as her eyes dart to my trembling fingers desperately fiddling to open the door. She sighs.

"Are you sure, Mikey?" but before I could offer up a response, before I could tell her that my heart had been beating so loudly in my head I could hardly hear my own thoughts, her phone rings.

"It's Detective Douglas," she says. It really is too late to turn back now.

I regret leaving my hoodie at home. Mom and I are propped up on a confetti-littered bench inside the waiting area while the detective makes some final preparations to accommodate us. On the floor, there are pieces of balloons and paper towels which seemed to have brushed aside from the main passageway. It probably would have been best if we had waited outside. Though I try my hardest to ignore it and though they try to hide it, every police officer that walks by seems to stare at me – either because they pity me, or perhaps because I'm the PR dream of any struggling cop at this station looking to make a name for themselves.

When I returned, I made sure to catch up on as much news as I could. Two high-ranking officers from this station kept popping up in articles I'd read, until they no longer did. They were "relieved of their duties" due to what the papers loosely summarized as 'corruption', despite the scraps of serious journalism pointing to things far less vague and far more nefarious. Point is, this place has an image problem and two glaring vacancies to fill, both of which the media seems to be obsessed with. I suspect my 'high profile' case addresses both those issues – whoever solves it fills one of those spots, and while they attempt to, the media has a shiny new toy to play with – me. Whoever fails will simply be a scapegoat, and whoever succeeds will likely be an indebted pawn, even if that turns out to be the promising 10-year veteran detective, Caleb Douglas, who just gestured to mom and I that he will be another five minutes. He is sweat-drenched as he disappears behind a giant silver door.