Chapter 3
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
W.H. Auden
Her voice had read the poem with barely a waver and at times after, when she looked back on that day she wondered where on earth she had found the strength.
Jack was a mess, a stoic unemotional, unmoving, unyielding mess. He sat for hours at a time in their son's room, the gun that had killed Charlie cradled in his lap.
It was Sara that had phoned their families, called funeral homes looking for a coffin small enough to hold her son, answered the door to well-wishers and read countless sympathy cards. Sara had chosen the clothes for her son to be buried in, blue jeans, cubs t-shirt, red flannel jacket, cleats.
Sara had cried and sobbed and inside her the anger had built.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
W.H. Auden
The morgue is quiet and smells strongly of disinfectant. The receptionist sits in a corner behind a wall of Perspex, her only visible link to the mourners waiting in the stark waiting room a dishevelled microphone hanging from the partition.
"I'm here to see Doctor Burstein," Sara announces into the microphone and the receptionist looks up from her calendar and nods.
"Take a seat, I'll tell him you're here." She instructs Sara, who dutifully sits in one of the hard plastic chairs.
The drive over here had been hazardous; her mind racing from the questions she wanted answered, had nearly caused her to crash several times. Looking up as receptionist calls her name Sara stands clutching her handbag tightly to her.
"The doctor is very busy at the moment and I'm afraid he only has a few minutes to spare for your questions." The receptionist explains as a set of double doors, with no door handle swings open automatically.
"Doctor Burstein's office is the first on the left.
" The receptionist says giving brief instructions before turning and returning to the lobby. Sara takes a deep breath and disappears through the doors.
The Doctor's office is a large rectangular room, with a couch, a desk, a bookcase, a fish tank and work station holding a computer and printer all squashed into it. The resulting effect causes the room to appear claustrophobically small.
Doctor Burstein's a demure man with a balding head of hair and thick tortoise shell rimmed glasses. He wears a white lab coat over a pink pin stripped shirt and a purple tie. An expression of sombre professionalism sits rigidly on his face.
"Mrs O'Neill, please come in. Take a seat." He invited her in as she tapped on his open office door. Sara enters the room and sinks into an arm chair with wooden arm rests and a deep cushion.
A box of tissues sat before her on the desk and in front of the doctor lay a closed file, labelled with Charles O'Neill. God, she hated that name. Charles. But it was Jack's father's name and he had been adamant, so Sara had called her son Charlie instead. Because boys shouldn't have men's names, boys should always be allowed to be boys.
"You didn't mention to my assistant/receptionist what I can do for you specifically?"" Doctor Burstein asks as Sara takes in a deep breath.
"I want to see a photo of my son." She states her voice wavering and the good doctor cocks his head to one side.
"I've reviewed your son's case, Mrs O'Neill and the injuries to your sons face were extensive. The bullet tore through the mandible and shattered the infraorbital foramen before lodging in the brain."
Doctor Burstein gently tells her and Sara looks at the file before him sitting on the desk.
"I understand that, Doctor. But all the same, I would still like to see a photo of my son." Sara restates clearly and the
Doctor shakes his head, reluctant to give in her request
"Mrs O'Neill, your son was killed nearly instantly and he certainly didn't experience any pain. I would strongly recommend that you take comfort from that, rather than putting yourself through the agony of viewing such disturbing material." The Doctor reasons passionately, but again Sara shakes her head.
"No offence, Doctor. But I've given this ten years of thought. I want to see my son. Now." Sara demands as a spark of nervous excitement lights a fire inside her as her brain screamed,
' Why won't he show you the picture?'
"Very well." Doctor Burstein sighs and pushes the file across the desk. It sits closed before Sara for a moment before with trembling hands she reaches for the cardboard folder.
Turning the file around she flicks it open and one hand flies to her mouth instantly in horror.
A little boy lay on a stainless steel table. He was naked and a thin strip of blue cloth had been draped across his pelvis. The photo was taken from the side and the half of the little boys' head visible was a gory mess of torn flesh and matted hair.
Sara's lips trembled as she turned to another page, and tears sprang to her eyes as she looked at the new photo. A blue cloth covered part of the little boy's face and the half uncovered looked almost peaceful save for blue lips and blood staining the skin.
Charlie O'Neill looked as if he was asleep, and for an eternity Sara stared at the photograph before her as her fingertips hovered above the image but didn't come to rest on it.
"I'm sorry, Mrs O'Neill. But I have an autopsy to perform, feel free to take a few minutes to compose yourself."
The doctor says softly and Sara nods vaguely as he leaves the room, briefly stopping to talk with someone just outside the open office door.
It was over. The hope that Sara had felt is gone. There was no way that Alexander could be her son. No way and she knew that now because Charlie was dead. His tiny body irreparably torn apart by a bullet.
She would go home now, apologise to her father for her behaviour and explain to Alex when he arrived the next day, that she would pay him for any materials he had purchased, but she didn't want him to repair her seat.
Sara closes the file and pulls herself to her feet sadly, knocking the folder off the desk causing it to skitter across the floor and the first photo came loose and flew across the linoleum. Sara collects the file first and laid it on the desk before moving to fetch the escaped photograph. Crouching she picks the photograph up, gently between her thumb and index finger, before moving across the room to return it to the desk, she stops half way to her destination transfixed by the image before her.
Breaking her stare from the photograph she glances around nervously before slipping the photo into her pocket as the receptionist taps on the wooden doorframe. For a moment Sara thought that her thievery might have been spotted, but the receptionist simply smiles at her.
"If you're ready, I'll escort you out?" She tells Sara and she nods quietly wiping her eyes gently with a tissue plucked from the doctor's desk.
"Please thank Doctor Burstein for me?" She asks limply and the receptionist smiles, before she leads Sara back to the automatically swinging doors and then she watches unmoving as Sara leaves the building and it's awful smell behind.
Sara hurries to her car and with shaking hands manages to force the key into the ignition and start the vehicle. The old town car stalls as she attempts to leave the parking lot. Sara makes herself take a deep breath before she restarts the ignition again and heads away from the morgue.
Within travelling three blocks the trembling in Sara's hands has moved up into her arms and after five blocks she's forced to pull over suddenly. No longer confident of driving even a further twenty feet. To calm herself she tries deep breathing, sucking air in through her nose and counting internally to four before exhaling, but with each held breath she feels as if she's suffocating and the breath inside hiccups until it escapes.
A trembling hand fumbles at her handbag and she snatches her purse from inside, barely able to open the catch. She can't overcome the hurdle of the money holder for an agonising moment before the purse falls open and Charlie grinned at her, from behind the plastic of the photo holder.
They probably thought that she wouldn't look. Probably hadn't counted on her tenacity and stubborn nature. Probably had never ever counted on her coming back.
She slips her hand into her jacket pocket, now and withdraws the glossy photo of the autopsy and she holds it up besides the photo in her purse. Her breathing remains uneven and uneasy, her hands still tremble uncontrollably and tears roll unashamedly down her face.
Charlie grinned at her from under the peak of a baseball cap.
A little boy lies naked and exposed and mortally wounded.
Charlie's eyes sparkled and the sunlight glinted off the earring he had insisted vehemently he be allowed to wear. The fake gold hoop a parents concession to this newest craze.
A little boy's single eye is open. His eyelid is torn and blood has clotted on the fragile lashes. The single orb is unmoving, lifeless and blue.
End chapter 3.