A Few Minutes

She walked into the house calling out, “Hey Zach, I am home.” She was struggling to get into the small hallway with her two bags. The cab, still the easiest way to get home from the airport, drove off. She was exhausted, having been traveling all day to get back for work in the morning. She had spent a week in the town she grew up in and had raised her kids in. The last few days of which had been spent sharing a bed with her daughter in a studio apartment with two cats. They had gone to a cousin's wedding the night before. She had stayed up late and had gotten up early to make her flight.

It was dark and quiet. Her feeling of dread was mounting, having not heard from Zach in a few days. Fear had been simmering in her, slowly gaining hold every mile that brought her closer to home. He had not answered her when she announced herself. She got the bags on the floor of her room. The door being a few steps right off the hallway in the front of the house. It was a very compact space. A one bedroom dwelling that seemed perfect for her, living alone, after moving across the country to cement her empty-nest status.

There were only a few more steps from her bedroom door to where her son, Zach, slept. He had been struggling in their hometown and had come to stay on her couch. He had run out of options. They were trying to find a way to make it work. Both hoping for change. 

She moved forward down the narrow hall into the main room of the house. He was discernible on the fold out bed. He looked peaceful. He was curled up and she could not see his face because it was turned to the bed and he was wearing a baseball cap. She called out his name and went to shake him awake. 

His body was stiff. 

She started talking out loud to herself. Telling herself what she needed to do next. She dialed 911. At first the woman on the other line could not hear her through her sobs. It started at once. The tone of voice that was meant to calm her, but communicated that her reaction was too hysterical. She told the woman that her son was unresponsive. That he was a fentanyl user. She needed help immediately. The woman on the phone kept asking her if she could go into the room to try and perform CPR on her son. She knew that moment had gone, but could not say the words, “He is stiff” to the woman on the other end of the phone. There was no way she could touch his body again.

She was hunched over on the floor of the dining room that opened up from the living room where her son was. She was crying uncontrollably while the woman on the other line competently asked her the questions she needed to. 

Then the men came. First the fireman, then the police, then the coroner. They were talking, assessing, and avoiding her. She had never been more thankful for hearing loss in her life. She could not bear hearing their words. She knew he was one of thousands of overdose victims they had had to take care of. She could only imagine the distance they must have to create to manage the task. 

Her mind was already splitting. She could see how her home, her son must have looked to an outsider; she could hear herself saying the words to the people she was calling; and she could feel her heart being squeezed so painfully that if looked down and saw a knife twisting in her chest she would have not been surprised. 

The world had suddenly shifted on its axis. Her last texts with Zach were flowing through her mind. She was hoping to not remember any harsh words. There have been so, so many over the last year. 

She asked the firemen to bring her the cigarettes that were on the table. She had them for particularly stressful moments with her son or her boyfriend. That hit of dopamine helped her through the difficult conversations and feelings that were inevitable given their situation. An old habit from her youth that she leaned on in tough times. They seemed absolutely necessary right then.

There was one fireman that was willing to grab the cigarettes and then he even went back into the house to light one off the stove. The small kindnesses one never anticipates, but could not be more grateful for.

All of the lighters were with Zach because he was always smoking something. He smoked pot throughout the day. He was forbidden from smoking fentanyl in the house, but he did anyway. She had kicked him out twice for it. She raged about how she could not take it anymore and he was barely able to get his stuff together because he was so high. One night of him on the streets was all either one of them could handle.

The coroner was ready to talk with her. He asked her a series of questions. “What made Zach take drugs?” “What do you know about his history with drugs?” “When and how much did he take?” Each delivered with a patronizing, demeaning tone. She was in shock and too shocked to do anything but give short somewhat accurate answers. It was tortuous and meaningless. How could any information given by a grieving mother minutes after finding her son’s lifeless body add any insight to a situation that could not be more clear or more utterly tragically common?

She was yelling at him in her mind, “Zach is a beautiful, beautiful boy. Fuck you for making me retell his life like it was just on long march to this. He is kind, insightful, and sensitive. He is loved by many people. He ran track in high school, had been in love, and is an artist. There are endless ways to describe all of his lovely qualities you fucking asshole.” 

What came out of her mouth was something like Zach struggled with mental illness. He had anxiety, depression, and substance abuse disorder. I am unsure when he started. I am unsure of how much or specifically what kind of drugs he took outside of fentanyl and weed. What she did not mention is when he was high, he could be arrogant and paranoid. Hard to be around. Both because of the feelings of hopelessness and desperation it provoked, and also because he was judgmental and harsh. He was Jekyll and Hyde.

The coroner described some next steps that she could not process and then he walked away. She could only think over and over again how she would endure all of the pain again and so much more, a lost limb, a burnt down house, or anything really to have Zach be breathing right now.

She just kept going through her phone punching contacts telling people Zach is dead. She could not make it real. She kept on wanting to hear the hysteria she was feeling reflected in someone else's voice. While she was waiting for her brother to call her back, she paced the little walkway in front of the house. She audibly mumbled over and over, “this is not real” and “please just let me wake up” as she smoked one cigarette after the other. 

Her friend was on her way. Then her boyfriend would be here in a few hours. There would be a hotel, some drinks, and then sleep.

Right then the long black bag left through the front door and was loaded in the waiting hearse. 

Everyone left. She was alone. All the calls were done. The blackness closed in. She sat on the side of the house to avoid being seen. She waited and smoked.