Calm down, Terry. Just hold on. Dad. His voice comes flying back to me,
years after I last heard it.
I'm suddenly running. My legs burn at the unexpected strain. The more agonizing the pain is, the faster I run.
Was this what you felt, Ben? Running from us?
I stop. Lydia. She sits on the cold ground, the rain having soaked her to the point of shivering. She sobs. They're strange, shrieking sounds, like her throat's never made the noise before.
Lydia's never felt pain, never known fear or sorrow. Or at least never shown it.
Fate's helping her make up for lost time.
For a second I feel like she's the one who's died instead of Ben, and I have a sudden urge to grab her, to shake her, do anything to make sure that I haven't lost her too. I kneel by her. She barely notices me.
"Lydia-"
"No." Her voice is low and moaning. She almost chokes on her own tears. And she suddenly hurls herself at me. The look of ultimate pain is now overshadowed by one of ultimate hate.
Her hazel eyes blaze and glare at me as she shrieks, pounding her fists unmercifully into my chest.
"You!" She screams over and over. I try to hold her off, but some of her blows land. Blood begins to run from my split lip, but whether it's because I've been biting it in an effort to escape my own pain or because she's hitting me, I don't know.
"Stop it!" I have to force it through my gritted teeth and the lump in my throat.
"Damn you! You killed him! You did it! Emile Idolo, se tu non avere fatto a lui." Lydia trails off in Italian, her punches becoming weaker and weaker until they're nothing and she's practically collapsing on me.
"Lydia, what-"
"I told you, I told you! I begged you; I fought with you not to take him out there!" She sobs into her hands.
"No, no, this isn't my fault!" I screech, feeling how high my voice has gotten. Please don't let this be my fault. It can't be my fault.
I feel my heart going faster and faster against my chest, and I stand frozen. Maybe if I don't move, nothing else will happen.
Why was Ben out here? What happened to him? How could anyone do anything to him?
Why is Ben dead?
If only Wayne were here. If Wayne were here, he'd know what to do. He'd know what I'm supposed to do.
If Dad were here.
If Ben were here.
"He can't be gone." I say hysterically, sounding like I swallowed a balloon full of helium.
"I hate.I hate." Lydia chokes out, never saying what she hates, just moaning it over and over into my chest. I don't know if she's still mad at me, but I don't care anymore. I throw my arms around her, trying desperately not to cry, to be the man I've supposedly become.
"No." I can hear my hoarse voice croak. Tears roll down my face. I'd like to go back to Ben, to stay with him, to beg that inhuman God to give him back, to curse him for taking him away, but I know I'll die if I have to look at that bloody corpse under that white sheet again.
Then again, right now I feel like I want to die.
************************************************************
I blink. The phone is ringing again.
I'm never picking it up again. The last time it rang, it told me what I never wanted to have to hear in my life.
I am at home. In bed. Lydia lays next to me, still fully clothed, still soaking wet and still trembling even in her sleep. I rise, rubbing my eyes.
The house seems empty. Stifled. It's too quiet. It feels unnatural. It feels dead.
The insistent ringing of the phone makes me to jump, and I half-believe that it is Ben, calling to say that it was all a big mistake, some stupid joke, that he's still alive and well. I don't say anything, merely pick it up and listen.
"McGinnis? It's Barbara Gordon."
"Yes?"
"How are you?" How am I? I'm bad. I feel like my heart's being crushed by someone's indifferent fist.
"I've been better."
"I could believe that."
"Was there something you wanted?"
"Could you and your wife come down to the morgue?" The morgue? Yeah. Like I'm going to take myself and Lydia down to a building full of death and gaze at the body of my son like it's a tourist attraction.
"Could I just come?" No reason to make Lydia do it all over. She doesn't need to be slapped again.
"I think your wife should hear this too." There is an uncertain pause.
"Terry, it's serious." How could it be anyone grave than it already is?
It could be worse. It could always be worse. Mr. Wayne, where are you? You could tell me what I'm supposed to do. How are you supposed to act when your son dies?
I hang up the phone and gently shake Lydia. Her eyes are already open. They're bloodshot. She hasn't slept. How could I?
**************************************************************
We walk into the dark, damp room. The smell of death reeks foul about every inch of the room. Gordon leans against the wall, staring somberly at the floor. Lydia walks slowly, as if her legs will give way beneath her. She shakes and quivers and jumps at every noise. I see a form lying in the pool of white light. It is covered by a white sheet.
Ben.
I feel my lungs tighten, and water is suddenly gathering at my eyes, blurring my vision.
"Terry. Lydia. Thank you for coming."
"What is it?" For the love of God, say it before I start to scream. I can't bear that sight for much longer.
"We've been investigating your son's death." At this, Lydia lets out a small, barely audible whimper.
"And?" I can hear how strained and forced my voice comes out.
"There were no signs of violence, or anyone else near the site at the time of death. There was, however, evidence of premeditation before death." Again there is that uncomfortable silent pause.
I can feel my lungs straining against my chest. This cannot be what I think it will be although I know it is.
"I believe your son committed suicide." My God.
I feel dizzy, and put a hand on the table to steady myself. The table that holds that limp form underneath a white sheet. I instantly recoil.
Lydia's tears are already rolling down her reddened cheeks.
"No. No, he wouldn't. Ben wouldn't. He wouldn't do that. He couldn't. He had no reason to." Her voice is hoarse and she stammers and stumbles over her words, half in Italian and half in English.
"I'm sorry." Gordon says remorsefully. And Lydia finally sees the white sheet. She walks over and gently pushes it up, revealing Ben's face.
His eyes are shut, and the blood has been washed away. He looks for all the world like he's just sleeping.
But the look-he's pale. Pale and dry and not glowing with vitality and hope and everything he is- was.
Lydia begins to sob, sinking down onto her knees and resting her head on the table. Why? Why, Ben? Why did you throw your life away? You had so much to live for. And yet you gave it up.
If you hadn't. Lydia's words come reeling back to me, hitting with the force that they didn't at the time. Did I drive you to it? My God, Ben, what have I done?
Did I push him too hard? Did I make him Robin and ultimately murder him?
"How could I?" I don't realize that the words are audible until they are out.
"McGinnis, there was no way-" Gordon begins.
"Yes there was! I could have seen it, and stopped it! I should have been there! I could've helped him! I could've done something!" I realize that I'm yelling. And crying. Lydia is whispering something in Italian, her tears falling from her eyes to his cheeks, splashing cold water onto cold skin. She gently touches his hair, as if tactile contact will bring him back.
Gordon touches my shoulder. I jump involuntarily.
"Terry." I turn to look at her and she gasps. Why? Is she surprised to see the probable pain and anguish in my face? What does she expect me to be? The stoic, un-moving man who can accept everything with a mere grunt? To look calm and cool and collected?
I'm only 29. I'm not strong. I'm not Wayne.
I am Terry McGinnis, young and vulnerable and in more pain than I can ever dare imagine.
I'm suddenly running. My legs burn at the unexpected strain. The more agonizing the pain is, the faster I run.
Was this what you felt, Ben? Running from us?
I stop. Lydia. She sits on the cold ground, the rain having soaked her to the point of shivering. She sobs. They're strange, shrieking sounds, like her throat's never made the noise before.
Lydia's never felt pain, never known fear or sorrow. Or at least never shown it.
Fate's helping her make up for lost time.
For a second I feel like she's the one who's died instead of Ben, and I have a sudden urge to grab her, to shake her, do anything to make sure that I haven't lost her too. I kneel by her. She barely notices me.
"Lydia-"
"No." Her voice is low and moaning. She almost chokes on her own tears. And she suddenly hurls herself at me. The look of ultimate pain is now overshadowed by one of ultimate hate.
Her hazel eyes blaze and glare at me as she shrieks, pounding her fists unmercifully into my chest.
"You!" She screams over and over. I try to hold her off, but some of her blows land. Blood begins to run from my split lip, but whether it's because I've been biting it in an effort to escape my own pain or because she's hitting me, I don't know.
"Stop it!" I have to force it through my gritted teeth and the lump in my throat.
"Damn you! You killed him! You did it! Emile Idolo, se tu non avere fatto a lui." Lydia trails off in Italian, her punches becoming weaker and weaker until they're nothing and she's practically collapsing on me.
"Lydia, what-"
"I told you, I told you! I begged you; I fought with you not to take him out there!" She sobs into her hands.
"No, no, this isn't my fault!" I screech, feeling how high my voice has gotten. Please don't let this be my fault. It can't be my fault.
I feel my heart going faster and faster against my chest, and I stand frozen. Maybe if I don't move, nothing else will happen.
Why was Ben out here? What happened to him? How could anyone do anything to him?
Why is Ben dead?
If only Wayne were here. If Wayne were here, he'd know what to do. He'd know what I'm supposed to do.
If Dad were here.
If Ben were here.
"He can't be gone." I say hysterically, sounding like I swallowed a balloon full of helium.
"I hate.I hate." Lydia chokes out, never saying what she hates, just moaning it over and over into my chest. I don't know if she's still mad at me, but I don't care anymore. I throw my arms around her, trying desperately not to cry, to be the man I've supposedly become.
"No." I can hear my hoarse voice croak. Tears roll down my face. I'd like to go back to Ben, to stay with him, to beg that inhuman God to give him back, to curse him for taking him away, but I know I'll die if I have to look at that bloody corpse under that white sheet again.
Then again, right now I feel like I want to die.
************************************************************
I blink. The phone is ringing again.
I'm never picking it up again. The last time it rang, it told me what I never wanted to have to hear in my life.
I am at home. In bed. Lydia lays next to me, still fully clothed, still soaking wet and still trembling even in her sleep. I rise, rubbing my eyes.
The house seems empty. Stifled. It's too quiet. It feels unnatural. It feels dead.
The insistent ringing of the phone makes me to jump, and I half-believe that it is Ben, calling to say that it was all a big mistake, some stupid joke, that he's still alive and well. I don't say anything, merely pick it up and listen.
"McGinnis? It's Barbara Gordon."
"Yes?"
"How are you?" How am I? I'm bad. I feel like my heart's being crushed by someone's indifferent fist.
"I've been better."
"I could believe that."
"Was there something you wanted?"
"Could you and your wife come down to the morgue?" The morgue? Yeah. Like I'm going to take myself and Lydia down to a building full of death and gaze at the body of my son like it's a tourist attraction.
"Could I just come?" No reason to make Lydia do it all over. She doesn't need to be slapped again.
"I think your wife should hear this too." There is an uncertain pause.
"Terry, it's serious." How could it be anyone grave than it already is?
It could be worse. It could always be worse. Mr. Wayne, where are you? You could tell me what I'm supposed to do. How are you supposed to act when your son dies?
I hang up the phone and gently shake Lydia. Her eyes are already open. They're bloodshot. She hasn't slept. How could I?
**************************************************************
We walk into the dark, damp room. The smell of death reeks foul about every inch of the room. Gordon leans against the wall, staring somberly at the floor. Lydia walks slowly, as if her legs will give way beneath her. She shakes and quivers and jumps at every noise. I see a form lying in the pool of white light. It is covered by a white sheet.
Ben.
I feel my lungs tighten, and water is suddenly gathering at my eyes, blurring my vision.
"Terry. Lydia. Thank you for coming."
"What is it?" For the love of God, say it before I start to scream. I can't bear that sight for much longer.
"We've been investigating your son's death." At this, Lydia lets out a small, barely audible whimper.
"And?" I can hear how strained and forced my voice comes out.
"There were no signs of violence, or anyone else near the site at the time of death. There was, however, evidence of premeditation before death." Again there is that uncomfortable silent pause.
I can feel my lungs straining against my chest. This cannot be what I think it will be although I know it is.
"I believe your son committed suicide." My God.
I feel dizzy, and put a hand on the table to steady myself. The table that holds that limp form underneath a white sheet. I instantly recoil.
Lydia's tears are already rolling down her reddened cheeks.
"No. No, he wouldn't. Ben wouldn't. He wouldn't do that. He couldn't. He had no reason to." Her voice is hoarse and she stammers and stumbles over her words, half in Italian and half in English.
"I'm sorry." Gordon says remorsefully. And Lydia finally sees the white sheet. She walks over and gently pushes it up, revealing Ben's face.
His eyes are shut, and the blood has been washed away. He looks for all the world like he's just sleeping.
But the look-he's pale. Pale and dry and not glowing with vitality and hope and everything he is- was.
Lydia begins to sob, sinking down onto her knees and resting her head on the table. Why? Why, Ben? Why did you throw your life away? You had so much to live for. And yet you gave it up.
If you hadn't. Lydia's words come reeling back to me, hitting with the force that they didn't at the time. Did I drive you to it? My God, Ben, what have I done?
Did I push him too hard? Did I make him Robin and ultimately murder him?
"How could I?" I don't realize that the words are audible until they are out.
"McGinnis, there was no way-" Gordon begins.
"Yes there was! I could have seen it, and stopped it! I should have been there! I could've helped him! I could've done something!" I realize that I'm yelling. And crying. Lydia is whispering something in Italian, her tears falling from her eyes to his cheeks, splashing cold water onto cold skin. She gently touches his hair, as if tactile contact will bring him back.
Gordon touches my shoulder. I jump involuntarily.
"Terry." I turn to look at her and she gasps. Why? Is she surprised to see the probable pain and anguish in my face? What does she expect me to be? The stoic, un-moving man who can accept everything with a mere grunt? To look calm and cool and collected?
I'm only 29. I'm not strong. I'm not Wayne.
I am Terry McGinnis, young and vulnerable and in more pain than I can ever dare imagine.