“HOLD HIS ARM, GARVIN,” the police lieutenant says to the young police officer, who is so pretty Mark has the urge to ask her out.
And he might have, if they hadn’t at that moment been in the city morgue.
He braces himself. Another officer slowly pulls open a drawer. No one has said exactly who he is supposed to identify. And even though Mark has only one family member — unless you count his mom and dad, who he still thinks are alive somewhere — he holds out hope the drawer will hold a stranger. He will shake his head no, walk out, and suggest dinner and a very sexy movie to Officer Garvin. He wonders how old she is. Probably early twenties.
The cadaver is short. The other officer efficiently pulls back the white sheet, sending a puff of icy smoke in the air.
Mark feels suddenly congested, as if he can’t breathe.
Officer Garvin squeezes his arm. Mark feels his knees buckle.
“It’s my grandmother,” he manages to say. He turns to the lieutenant, who looks either bored or solemn. “How did it happen?” Mark asks.
“A bus,” the lieutenant says. “It was very sudden. No one exactly saw her get in front of it.”
Mark understands what that meant. She was old. She couldn’t judge distances. Her reflexes were bad.
It was her fault.
Officer Garvin helps him into another room, which is empty except for a few metal chairs, a table, and a wall phone. She is holding some stapled-together pieces of paper, which she drops onto the table.
Mark sits. He watches the room circle around him and blur.
The tears surprise him. He hasn’t cried in years. Twelve, to be exact — since before his parents’ funeral service. He had clammed up that day — no crying, no words, nothing. His Yiayia had been frightened by his behavior. But nobody had understood the truth, that his mom and dad were still alive. Somewhere. So what was the use of looking sad? It would only make everyone else believe the lie even more.
But he has just seen Yiayia. She is dead. And the sight of her makes him think —for the first time — that maybe his parents are, too.
It gushes out. Years of buried anger and hurt and fear and love and sorrow. He weeps, heaving his shoulders. He is alone now.
“What — what’s going to happen to me?” he asks between sobs.
“We’ll have to notify your next of kin — an aunt, uncle, another grandparent — ”
Mark shakes his head. “My grandfathers are both dead. My other grandmother lives on a Greek island and doesn’t speak English, my mom’s sister is in a religious cult, and my dad was an only child.”
“I see.” Officer Garvin sits back in her chair. “Mark, how old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
She drums her fingers on the table, then picks up the phone. “Garvin here. Can I have Social Services?”
When she gets off the phone, Mark asks, “Do I have to be sent to an orphanage or something?”
“No. But until you’re eighteen, you need a guardian. We’ll help find you a good foster family — people who have experience with teens.”
Mark isn’t hearing her words. He stares at the top sheet of the papers she has put on the desk. It is loaded with blank lines. Only one of them is filled in.
He tries to focus. He blinks, and the handwriting becomes clear. After DATE OF DEATH someone has scribbled today’s date: January 11, 2016.
A tear lands on the “J.” Mark watches it soak in and spread the ink in a star shape. Officer Garvin is still talking. He can tell she is crying, too.
Later. A couple of weeks, maybe. Mark is staying at the house of a friend, Jon Feldman. He stumbles out of bed when Mrs. Feldman calls him to the phone. “Yeah?” he grunts into the receiver. “Hi, Mark? It’s Officer Garvin.” And I’m going to adopt you and we can play house together, Mark wants her to say.
No such luck. “We’ve found a family,” she goes on. “Or a father, at least. His name is Walter Ojeda. He’s a widower, he’s really nice, and he lives close enough so you can finish out senior year in your school if you want.” “What’s close enough?”
“Two towns over. Wetherby.”
“I don’t want to live in that hole.”
“You’d be surprised. They’ve rebuilt that town from the ground up, ever since the chemical company opened.”
“I know. My parents worked there.”
“Great! Look, I know you’ll do terrifically. Anyway, Mr. Ojeda will be coming to visit you at the Feldmans’ tonight. Would you like me to fax you a holo of him?”
“I guess.”
“Okay. Bye. And don’t worry.”
“Right. Bye.”
Mark waits by the fax until it spits out a color hologram of Walter Ojeda. He looks older than Mark expects him to. He’s kind of stern-looking, but it’s hard to tell for sure behind the beard.
Plus he has this growth on his cheek. Mark doesn’t know why, but that bothers him.