Gone for Good (2 page)

‘The
paramedics who responded to the 911 call noticed some irregular bruising on your mother's body.' Richland continued to speak in a flat, even tone, as though he were telling me what the weather was like or relaying the score of an unimportant sporting event. His hands fluttered less. ‘They contacted us to perform a preliminary investigation.'

His words flew past me like flung rubber bands. Post came in from the kitchen with a paper towel and dabbed at the water by my feet.

‘I can clean that up,' I said.

‘It's fine,' Post said. ‘You've had a shock.'

‘What kind of bruises?' I asked. ‘Was she beat up? Did someone beat her to death?'

‘I really can't talk about that –'

‘She's an older woman. A mom. Who would hurt her like that?'

‘We haven't confirmed a cause of death yet,' Post said. ‘We're not even sure it's a homicide.'

‘Homicide,' I said. The word sounded offensive to my ears, brutal and nasty. I wasn't ready to associate it with my mother.

‘It's early still,' Richland said. ‘Give us time to sort things out.' He did something with his mouth. His lips moved, and some of his teeth showed. I think he was trying to smile at me. ‘Let's all be patient.'

‘I
want to see my brother,' I said. ‘I need to see him, to make sure he's okay.'

Post stood up, the limp towel in her hand.

Richland nodded, the smile-thing still on his face. ‘He's in his room.'

‘And I want to see Mom. I want to see her before they take her away.'

‘I'll take you to your brother,' Richland said.

He waited for me to stand up.

Detective Richland led me to the door of Ronnie's bedroom and stepped aside. But before he did, he said, ‘We're going to have to do some additional processing of the house. We started before you arrived, but we have some more to do.'

‘Processing?' I asked.

‘Photographs of the scene. Fingerprints.'

‘Okay,' I said, although I wasn't sure what I was even referring to.

Ronnie was twenty-seven, just one year older than me. He was a high-functioning adult with Down's syndrome. Before I went in there, I looked to the end of the hall, to my mother's bedroom. I saw the back of someone wearing a Harris County Medical Examiner Windbreaker. I couldn't see anything else.

Ronnie kept his room immaculate with a military-like efficiency. His bed was always made, his clothes and things always put away and out of sight. Part of this came from my mother and her lifelong quest for order and cleanliness in her house, but part of it came from Ronnie's dedication
to routine, his determination to master any task handed to him. He controlled his living space. It was his entirely.

Ronnie sat on the side of the made bed, his hands folded in his lap. Down's syndrome kept him shorter than me – only about five foot three – and he possessed the characteristic short neck and flattened facial features common to those who have the condition. He also had the dark brown hair and dark brown eyes that could only have come from our father, whom Ronnie resembled a great deal. He looked up when he saw me, his face expectant.

‘Oh, Ronnie,' I said.

He didn't move from his spot until I sat down next to him on the bed. Then he let me fold him into my arms. He pressed his face into my neck, and I pulled him tight.

‘Mom's gone,' he said.

‘I know.'

We sat like that for a long time. Then he said, ‘They won't tell me anything. They won't tell me what went wrong.'

‘Me either.'

Ronnie could hold a conversation with just about anybody, despite having a slight impairment that forced him to wear hearing aids in both ears. He worked a part-time job at a local store, bagging groceries and stocking shelves. He managed to get himself there every day by riding the bus or walking when the weather was nice. But he still lived with Mom, which was more her choice than his. She protected him – hovered over him, really. I knew her death would hit him harder than I could imagine. He didn't like disruptions to his routine. He didn't respond
well to emergencies or sudden changes. I had no idea what would become of him.

I waited as long as I could before I asked another question. ‘What happened, Ronnie?' I said. ‘Did she collapse? Did she say anything?'

He didn't answer.

‘It's okay if you don't want to talk about it yet.'

‘I found her on the floor in her room,' he said.

‘She was unconscious?'

‘I wasn't home,' he said. ‘I came home and she was on the floor.'

I looked at the large digital clock next to Ronnie's bed. Ten forty-five p.m. The police had called me about twenty minutes earlier, which meant –

‘You weren't home? Where were you? Were you at work?'

He sat up and shook his head. He used his thick fingers to reach into his pants pocket and draw out a neatly folded handkerchief. He wiped his nose and eyes. ‘I was at Mrs Morgan's house.'

Mrs Morgan was the elderly –
very
elderly – widow who lived two doors down. She sometimes ‘watched' Ronnie when Mom had things to do, although Ronnie was perfectly capable of being left on his own for long stretches of time.

‘Why were you there?' I asked. ‘Did Mom go somewhere?'

Ronnie shrugged, still holding the handkerchief. ‘I don't know. She told me to go to Mrs Morgan's house around six o'clock. She didn't call for me, and Mrs Morgan fell asleep. So I walked home …' His voice trailed off.

‘And
you came in and found Mom?'

He nodded. ‘I called 911 like I was supposed to. I did it right away.'

‘Of course,' I said. ‘You did the right thing.'

Before I could dwell too long on the horror my brother must have felt when he found our mom unresponsive on the floor, Detective Post stepped into the doorway of Ronnie's room.

‘Ms Hampton?' she said. ‘Could I speak with you?'

I looked at Ronnie. He seemed withdrawn. Sad.

‘Sure,' I said.

I hugged Ronnie, pulling him close to me again. His body felt stiff under my embrace. I let him go and stood up. I followed Post into the hallway, and again my eyes tracked to Mom's bedroom. Someone had closed the door.

‘We're ready to remove your mother's body from the house,' Detective Post said. ‘I wondered if maybe you wanted to close the door to your brother's room or take him out of the house while we do it.'

‘I want to see her before you take her away.'

Post pursed her lips. ‘Are you sure about that?'

‘Is she damaged in some way?' I asked. ‘I thought you said she wasn't beaten.'

‘There are bruises, but they're not consistent with a beating,' Post said. ‘It's just … it can be upsetting.' She looked me in the eye and I didn't waver. ‘But if you want to, I think you should.'

The detective walked down the hallway to the door of Mom's bedroom and knocked lightly. She looked back at me. ‘Would you like me to sit with your brother?'

‘He's fine,' I said. ‘He's not a child.'

Someone
opened the door of Mom's room, and Post stuck her head in. She said something, then stepped back, leaving the door open.

‘Okay,' she said. ‘They're finished in there. You can go on in.'

As
I approached the door to my mother's bedroom, a handful of people filed out, including the person wearing the ME Windbreaker. None of them looked me in the eye or said anything as they passed. Perhaps they thought I was radioactive. When everyone was gone, I stepped into the room.

Both the overhead lights and the bedside lamps glowed, almost hurting my eyes. Like the rest of the house, Mom's bedroom was the picture of order. Bed made, clutter absent. The décor looked out of date, as though nothing had been changed or revamped in more than a decade. Only one thing looked out of place.

In the narrow space between the bed and the dresser stood a stretcher with my mother's body lying on top of it. Her eyes were closed, and a sheet covered everything except her head and shoulders.

‘Are you sure you're okay?' I jumped at the sound of the voice. It was Detective Post, and she reached out her hand and placed it on my shoulder. ‘Do you need anything from me?'

‘I'm fine,' I said. I always told people I was fine. Okay. No problem. No worries. It wasn't always true, but I said it. I'd never been less fine, looking at my mother's dead body.

‘You don't have to see her like this if you don't want to,'
Detective Post said. ‘The funeral will be a different environment, if you want to wait.'

‘Has somebody told my uncle?' I asked.

‘Your uncle?'

‘My uncle Paul,' I said. ‘My mom's brother. Her only relative besides us. I guess I can call him and tell him what's happened.'

‘What's his full name?' Post asked. ‘We can make the notification.'

‘Paul McGrath,' I said, happy to be relieved of the burden. I gave the detective his phone number. ‘He's very close to Mom and Ronnie.'

‘But not you?' she asked.

‘Me too,' I said. ‘I'm just not around as much these days. Why don't you let me make the call? He should hear it from me, not from a police officer.'

‘I think you have enough on your mind,' Post said. She nodded in the direction of Mom's body, then stepped back, leaving me alone in the room.

I hesitated a moment, then moved forward until I was sitting on the bed next to the stretcher. Mom's mouth was pulled back in a tight line, something just short of a grimace. She didn't look, as the cliché has it, peaceful in death. She looked like someone who had died in pain. Mom wasn't a fashionable woman. Everything I learned about clothes and hair and makeup I read about in magazines or heard about from my friends. But Mom always looked good for her age. She remained thin and fit as she aged, and only a few streaks of grey ran through her hair.

I leaned forward and placed my hand on her shoulder.
I avoided contact with her skin. I didn't want to feel it if it was cold. That would be too much – too real and harsh. I wasn't ready for that yet. I didn't know what else to do, so I said what I wanted to say.

‘I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry I couldn't just say what you wanted to hear me say.'

I squeezed her shoulder, then cried as I hadn't cried since Dad died.

I don't know how long I cried for, but twice I thought everything had come out of me only to find a new round of sobbing rising up from my chest and shaking my whole body. When it finally seemed to have stopped for good, I removed my hand from Mom's body, pulled some tissues from a box on the nightstand, and wiped my face. I took two deep breaths before pushing myself off the bed and stepping back into the hallway where Detectives Richland and Post waited with a few of the others who had been in the bedroom. They could no doubt tell I'd been crying, had no doubt heard me, and they all shifted their feet uncomfortably and averted their eyes as I passed.

Detective Richland cleared his throat. ‘We're just finishing up here, Ms Hampton.'

I knew what he meant. They needed to remove the body from the house.

‘There's some paperwork you'll have to go over with the medical examiner,' he said, his hands moving again as though he were turning a crank. ‘It's pretty routine. Your mother's body will be transported for an autopsy, and then it will be released to the funeral home of your choice. Did your mother specify any plans for her funeral?'

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘Probably. She was a careful planner.'

‘We contacted your uncle and told him what happened,' Post said.

‘Is he okay?' I asked.

‘He was shaken,' she said. ‘But he seemed to be holding it together.'

‘I'll have to call him. He'll be good with Ronnie.'

‘Speaking of that –' Richland leaned over and looked into Ronnie's bedroom. He tilted his head towards the living room, indicating I should follow him, which I did. When we were there, he asked, ‘Do you know why Ronnie was at this Mrs Morgan's house tonight?'

‘No,' I said.

‘Did your mother have plans?' he asked.

‘I don't know. She never went anywhere.'

‘Mrs Morgan isn't answering her phone.'

‘She's ninety,' I said. ‘And deaf as a stone wall.'

‘Had your mother been having any problems?' Richland asked. ‘Money trouble? Disagreements with anyone?'

‘I don't know.'

Richland appeared to sense my impatience with his questions. He scratched the top of his head, then said, ‘Make sure you and your brother are around. We may have more questions to ask you both.'

‘We have a funeral to plan,' I said. ‘I don't think I'll be going on any cruises.'

When it was time for them to bring Mom out of her bedroom, I went and sat with Ronnie. I placed my arm around his shoulder again and held him tight. But I didn't
close the bedroom door. We sat next to each other, watching in silence, as the two paramedics wheeled the stretcher past Ronnie's bedroom door, the sheet pulled up and covering Mom's face.