The rain had left the pavement as black as the sky. Adie has never ridden in a police car before. She sits in the front, clutching her bag to her chest like it's a shield, something to deflect the truth and pretend that this isn't happening.
When her grandfather died when she was nine years old, her father had broken it to her gently.
"Papa went to heaven this afternoon." He spoke with a shaky voice.
Now that she is older, she wonders why he had told her that. Her father was a stout atheist, which was not surprising considering he was a man of science, not of god. However, the thought of Heaven is much more comforting than rotting to dust underground, no new beginning only a desolate and forgotten end.
All the policeman has told her is that there was an accident. Something went drastically wrong with her father's experiment and she would be more informed once they made it to the hospital. Adie is afraid to ask more, afraid the worst in her mind would be nothing compared to the damage in reality.
"The explosion has rendered your father unconscious," The doctor says, Adie biting her thumbnail and stamping her feet as if she was cold.
"There's more that you're not telling me, isn't there?" She asks, looking around the hospital hall, seeming to wait for the walls to collapse around her, "You're not telling me something,"
The doctor takes a breath and leads her over to the window, night crashing down upon the city.
"You know of your father's invention, these mechanical arms..."
"Yes, yes, yes,"
"Well, the blast melded the metal to his back. We're going to have to operate but it's very risky. You're going to have to decide whether or not to operate-"
"B-but what do you mean by welded?" She's begging now for hope but asking all the wrong questions.
"We did x-rays and realized that the needles on the machine are now permanently inserted in the spine, unless we operate, he may not live very long,"
Adie's hands go to her throat and she feels like she's drowning.
"And my mother? What has she to say about this decision?"
"Miss. Octavius, your mother passed away."
The world is suddenly spinning faster than ever and there is no stopping it.
"Miss. Octavius?"
Things fade for a moment, the placid blue of the doctor's smock disappears to grey for a second, things begin to blur.
"Miss. Octavius? Breathe in,"
The doctor's arm catches her before she falls backwards.
"Nurse, bring this girl some water,"
She's sitting down now and forcing her lungs to work. The world is coming back, the colors filling out in between the lines.
"Thank you," She says, taking the plastic cup from the nurse, "Thank you, just give me a few minutes and I'll give you my decision."
And she does so. She's her father's daughter; you don't stop till the job is done.
She's disconnected the phone now. The newspaper men were calling at all hours, trying to get a quote from the daughter of the mad scientist who murdered a whole room of doctors and nurses with his mechanical arms. All she can do now is sit in her apartment and boil water for tea, over and over again. That's what she's been living on for the past week; tea and insomnia. She unplugged the TV as well. Every single damn Brokaw wannabe in the country has made her family a freak circus. So she gets up and boils another pot of tea and pretends she's dreaming. That's why she doesn't sleep, because she knows deep down all this is just a bad dream. She knows that soon she will wake up from the deepest sleep she's ever had and wonder how on earth her sub-conscious managed to conjure up such a nightmare. And then she will laugh.
She takes a shower in the morning, she picks up a book and reads, confident this is an illusion; so completely confident. It's known as denial, and there's a small, starved part of her that she refuses to acknowledge that tells her this everyday. For one week she lives like this and loses ten pounds. Finally she realizes that her escapist nature is slowly killing her. So she goes out for a walk.
"I'm so sorry about your father," Says Mr. Trivati at the market where she stops to pick up something edible, "And your mother. She was a sweet woman."
"Thank you," She replies and gives the old man 10.50 for the pound of tomatoes, loaf of bread and jug of milk that she picked up. She needs to start eating again.
She meets with the people from the funeral home and decides the date for her mother's burial. She fills out all the details, signs the checks and smiles with closed lips. Her mother always loved cherry wood, now she will be entombed in it. She sets the visitation times and her Aunt Caroline comes down from Canada for her sister's funeral.
Aunt Caroline drives herself to her niece's apartment, as not to burden her. She climbs the flight of stairs and lets herself in. Adie is airing out the place. She's opened all the windows and the doors to the small balcony facing the west. She cleans like a mad woman. Caroline sees her and begins to hurt again.
"Hey Adie baby," She says, surprising the girl.
Adie looks over with her muddy blue eyes and cracks a smile, walking up slowly and embracing her only relative.
"How have you been babe?" Caroline asks, backing up and brushing the strands of loose brown hair from her sister's daughter's face.
"Not good," Adie says, a nervous chuckle escaping her lips.
Her face looks pale and hollow. Her chuckle becomes shaky and evolves slowly into a sob that racks her whole body, the reality of the situation hitting her so hard. Caroline cries as well and they sit on the mopped, swept floors, just letting the last week drain from them like a faucet.
And she wonders how it's come to this.
Adie has hauled out every single photo album she could find and set them on the table. She and Caroline pour over the pictures, drinking glass after glass of milk.
"You never took after just one of your parents in looks," Caroline says, swirling the remaining white liquid in her glass cup around, "You always were an even mix of both."
She points to a picture of Otto and Rosie on their honeymoon. They are both smiling; they're faces squinting in the light of the Italian sun. Adie was blessed with the mouth of a scientist and the eyes of a poet, that's obvious from this picture. She smiles for the first time in a week, a real smile that shows her teeth. A tear drops and slides into the corner of her mouth.
And this is how she begins to heal.
Her father used to say she was a joyful girl, and she is, at her very core. She's a happy girl and bliss dribbles from her face like laughter. Her mother said she has a glow bug, in her belly, that lights up a room. And she would find her joy again.
"It's a process," Says Aunt Caroline, and it is.
When her grandfather died when she was nine years old, her father had broken it to her gently.
"Papa went to heaven this afternoon." He spoke with a shaky voice.
Now that she is older, she wonders why he had told her that. Her father was a stout atheist, which was not surprising considering he was a man of science, not of god. However, the thought of Heaven is much more comforting than rotting to dust underground, no new beginning only a desolate and forgotten end.
All the policeman has told her is that there was an accident. Something went drastically wrong with her father's experiment and she would be more informed once they made it to the hospital. Adie is afraid to ask more, afraid the worst in her mind would be nothing compared to the damage in reality.
"The explosion has rendered your father unconscious," The doctor says, Adie biting her thumbnail and stamping her feet as if she was cold.
"There's more that you're not telling me, isn't there?" She asks, looking around the hospital hall, seeming to wait for the walls to collapse around her, "You're not telling me something,"
The doctor takes a breath and leads her over to the window, night crashing down upon the city.
"You know of your father's invention, these mechanical arms..."
"Yes, yes, yes,"
"Well, the blast melded the metal to his back. We're going to have to operate but it's very risky. You're going to have to decide whether or not to operate-"
"B-but what do you mean by welded?" She's begging now for hope but asking all the wrong questions.
"We did x-rays and realized that the needles on the machine are now permanently inserted in the spine, unless we operate, he may not live very long,"
Adie's hands go to her throat and she feels like she's drowning.
"And my mother? What has she to say about this decision?"
"Miss. Octavius, your mother passed away."
The world is suddenly spinning faster than ever and there is no stopping it.
"Miss. Octavius?"
Things fade for a moment, the placid blue of the doctor's smock disappears to grey for a second, things begin to blur.
"Miss. Octavius? Breathe in,"
The doctor's arm catches her before she falls backwards.
"Nurse, bring this girl some water,"
She's sitting down now and forcing her lungs to work. The world is coming back, the colors filling out in between the lines.
"Thank you," She says, taking the plastic cup from the nurse, "Thank you, just give me a few minutes and I'll give you my decision."
And she does so. She's her father's daughter; you don't stop till the job is done.
She's disconnected the phone now. The newspaper men were calling at all hours, trying to get a quote from the daughter of the mad scientist who murdered a whole room of doctors and nurses with his mechanical arms. All she can do now is sit in her apartment and boil water for tea, over and over again. That's what she's been living on for the past week; tea and insomnia. She unplugged the TV as well. Every single damn Brokaw wannabe in the country has made her family a freak circus. So she gets up and boils another pot of tea and pretends she's dreaming. That's why she doesn't sleep, because she knows deep down all this is just a bad dream. She knows that soon she will wake up from the deepest sleep she's ever had and wonder how on earth her sub-conscious managed to conjure up such a nightmare. And then she will laugh.
She takes a shower in the morning, she picks up a book and reads, confident this is an illusion; so completely confident. It's known as denial, and there's a small, starved part of her that she refuses to acknowledge that tells her this everyday. For one week she lives like this and loses ten pounds. Finally she realizes that her escapist nature is slowly killing her. So she goes out for a walk.
"I'm so sorry about your father," Says Mr. Trivati at the market where she stops to pick up something edible, "And your mother. She was a sweet woman."
"Thank you," She replies and gives the old man 10.50 for the pound of tomatoes, loaf of bread and jug of milk that she picked up. She needs to start eating again.
She meets with the people from the funeral home and decides the date for her mother's burial. She fills out all the details, signs the checks and smiles with closed lips. Her mother always loved cherry wood, now she will be entombed in it. She sets the visitation times and her Aunt Caroline comes down from Canada for her sister's funeral.
Aunt Caroline drives herself to her niece's apartment, as not to burden her. She climbs the flight of stairs and lets herself in. Adie is airing out the place. She's opened all the windows and the doors to the small balcony facing the west. She cleans like a mad woman. Caroline sees her and begins to hurt again.
"Hey Adie baby," She says, surprising the girl.
Adie looks over with her muddy blue eyes and cracks a smile, walking up slowly and embracing her only relative.
"How have you been babe?" Caroline asks, backing up and brushing the strands of loose brown hair from her sister's daughter's face.
"Not good," Adie says, a nervous chuckle escaping her lips.
Her face looks pale and hollow. Her chuckle becomes shaky and evolves slowly into a sob that racks her whole body, the reality of the situation hitting her so hard. Caroline cries as well and they sit on the mopped, swept floors, just letting the last week drain from them like a faucet.
And she wonders how it's come to this.
Adie has hauled out every single photo album she could find and set them on the table. She and Caroline pour over the pictures, drinking glass after glass of milk.
"You never took after just one of your parents in looks," Caroline says, swirling the remaining white liquid in her glass cup around, "You always were an even mix of both."
She points to a picture of Otto and Rosie on their honeymoon. They are both smiling; they're faces squinting in the light of the Italian sun. Adie was blessed with the mouth of a scientist and the eyes of a poet, that's obvious from this picture. She smiles for the first time in a week, a real smile that shows her teeth. A tear drops and slides into the corner of her mouth.
And this is how she begins to heal.
Her father used to say she was a joyful girl, and she is, at her very core. She's a happy girl and bliss dribbles from her face like laughter. Her mother said she has a glow bug, in her belly, that lights up a room. And she would find her joy again.
"It's a process," Says Aunt Caroline, and it is.