Between Octobers

The Finding

Evan—The Finding

Where was I? What was I doing at the precise moment someone decided it was okay to touch my wife? What was I thinking about when someone zip-tied her hands and stuffed her into a trunk? What was she feeling when she realized what was happening? What was I doing when she gave birth to our son? When she was alone, bleeding out?

How is it that the world can simultaneously end and begin? Here one minute, gone the next. I'm an absent husband, then widower. Childless child, then a father.

As I sit here in this tiny room, surrounded by the people she loves most, I can't quite figure out how it's possible.

This isn't the way things are supposed to happen. It's shit you see on telly and shake your head because the world's a fucking cesspool. It's a news-at-eleven story that makes you hug the ones you love a little tighter, but it's not supposed to be real.

I can't process anything. It's come at me all at once, from every side. The one person that might understand what I'm feeling is the reason I'm having these feelings.

"Mr. Matthews, I'm sorry to say, but your wife has passed."

"What the fuck does that mean? Passed what? A turn? Will she be coming back round again?"

He doesn't react, but continues with very little visible emotion.

"Your son is fine, a healthy eight pounds. His body temperature's a little low. We've got him in a warmer. We're treating him for a minor eye infection, common among newborns. We can take you up to see him whenever you're ready."

I need someone to call 'cut.' That line was delivered all wrong. I can't grasp it because he isn't saying it right. He should say it slowly, draw out the words. Give them some feeling, a sound more guttural. Add a facial expression, something. Anything to give indication that you, dumb-shit doctor, understand what you've so ineffectively glossed over.

Start with a solid kick to the gut, make sure there's no air left in my lungs before you make your pronouncement. "I'll just be ripping you in half now. Cheers." Or, "I'm going to drive metal spikes into your ears, alright?" Grin.

"Is anyone hearing this?" I look around the small room that's more like an office, but absent of desk and computer. There are soft chairs along every wall and a small table in the centre, a water cooler and boxes of tissues. It's a Bad News room.

Noah's sitting on a short bench, holding his head in his hands. Lily's face is tucked into Caleb's neck as they cling to one another. Marcus's eyes are red. His hand's set on my shoulder and his lips are moving, but I don't think he's saying anything.

"Noah." He doesn't answer. I sit beside him and he yanks me into a desperate embrace.     

 "I'm an orphan," he mumbles.

Intense, ugly words. Uttered once by me, to Marcus. "No, no. We're a family, mate. We're in this together."

"What's the cause?" Lily asks.

The doctor clears his throat. I can't take my eyes off his name tag. Brian Ying? Brian—American. Ying—Asian. What kind of name is that? He looks Mexican. How am I supposed to take him seriously?

"Coroner has to make the final determination, but it looks like a uterine tear—most common with women who've had c-sections. Mr. Matthews, has your wife ever had the procedure?"

"Once," Lily answers quietly, casting a glance at an oblivious Noah.

"This was her third?" He asks Lily directly this time.