Where the Dead Go to Die

by Aaron Dries

  Their car grumbled down the street as though it were crafted from the same wound-up anger as her mother. Lucette wondered how much longer the ‘silent treatment’ was going to continue. She wasn’t even allowed to turn on the radio. There was only the whine of the air conditioning, the blaring of passing vehicles, sounds that in their own unique way confirmed how much trouble she was in.

  Lucette stared through the window instead, watching the sky change color from a bruise to a faint pink that reminded her of the icing on her last birthday cake. Like her feet touching the floor, like summer, it didn’t seem so long ago. And yet everything was different now.

  The sun hauled itself up and the light stung her eyes. Enough was enough.

  “I’m sorry,” Lucette said again in the coy way that sometimes helped her get what she wanted. “Don’t be mad at me. Please.”

  “I’m not mad,” Emily said, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “I’m disappointed.”

  Lucette sighed and made herself a promise: when she was old enough to be a mother, she would never say that to her own children (of which there would be three, she’d decided, all girls, their names being Cindy, Lindy, and Sue). The ‘disappointment’ line hurt in ways Lucette suspected adults had long ago forgotten.

  “I just wanted those kids to stop picking on me,” Lucette said. “I didn’t know I was going to get kicked out of school.”

  “Don’t be over-dramatic. You weren’t kicked out of school. You were suspended. Which is bad enough.”

  Lucette quieted and gazed back through the glass. Over the top of the passing buildings, she tracked a flock of geese flying in perfect formation toward the emerging sun as if seeking incineration. Her mother appeared to be driving with similar conviction. Lucette was positive they would both burn just so the point was proven.

  I was bad. I know that now. Can’t we skip to the part where we’re happy again?

  “You know they called me at work, right?” Emily said, each word a lashing.

  Why does Mom always ask questions she already knows the answers to?

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re lucky my boss is so understanding. We’d be screwed if she wasn’t.”

  Lucette had been hauled into the principal’s office only the day before, and there, forced to wait until her mother arrived—an excruciating two hours in which she played out a dozen punishment scenarios ranging from confiscated toys to medieval torture devices, like the ones they had learned about in school last year. Contraptions with spikes and spokes. Sitting there, having survived Principal Higgins’ yells, Lucette assumed that things could not get any worse.

  Wrong.

  Geese, take me with you. I’m sure I’ll be a good flyer. I’d rather have the sun over this.

  Her mother continued. “You pretended to be a you-know-what and tried to bite three students.”

  “They were picking on me. They said you were a zombie lover.”

  “And they’re being reprimanded for doing so. Not that their punishment fits the crime, mind you. Two days of afternoon detention—can you believe it? That Higgins is a fucking joke.”

  They pulled up at a stoplight.

  “Swear word, Mom.”

  The taillights of the car in front cast a faint red glow over her mother’s face. A few stray snowflakes lit on the windshield.

  “Don’t, Lucette. Don’t. You started a panic. You were moaning, lurching around. Some of the other kids thought you were infected for real. That’s why Higgins suspended you until the end of the quarter. He doesn’t want to see either one of us until after New Year; though I suspect he’d rather we not come back at all. He suggested I, oh, how did he put it? Yes. ‘Find a more appropriate placement’ for you. A private academy. Is that what you want? You’d miss all of your friends.”

  “No I wouldn’t,” Lucette snapped. “I don’t really have any friends. Imogen’s long gone.”

  That grown up face turned to her again, coinciding with the car ahead accelerating down the road, whisking away its red light. Lucette drew her backpack tight. “I know I did wrong, Mom. I was just so angry. I don’t care that you’re a—”

  (Fucking)

  “—zombie lover. I like that you help people, even if others don’t. They’re stupid.”

  They were close to her mother’s work now. Lucette wanted to cry but tried to be a big girl. “I’m sorry I said ‘zombie’.”

  They didn’t speak again for another three blocks. Traffic was heavy.

  “Standing up for yourself isn’t a bad thing, Lucette. You’ve just got to go about it the right way. If anyone gives you heat, you talk to me first. Understood?”

  “Crystalline,” Lucette said, a word that she didn’t completely understand, but one that she’d heard her mother say many times over. It felt right here. Honest.

  “Lucette, I’m stressed. Let’s go over the rules, okay? Assure me you know them by heart. You haven’t forgotten them since last night, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Sorry. Can you answer me again? Without the attitude this time.”

  “No.”

  “That’s better. We’re almost there. Tell me what I want to hear so I can feel better about this.”

  The snow was falling heavier now.

  “I’m not to leave the break room,” Lucette said.

  “Right, not even to go out the door into the courtyard. It’s cold out there, and the last thing I need is for you to get sick.”

  “Is there a TV in the break room?”

  “There is. I’m not sure it works, though.”

  “Well, can I borrow your phone to watch stuff?”

  “No, Lucette. This isn’t a vacation. You’ve got plenty to keep you occupied in your pack. Books, drawing paper, crayons.”

  “But I’m going to get bored.”

  “Well, young miss, you should’ve thought of that before you displayed such disrespectful behavior.”

  “I didn’t really bite anyone. Nobody got hurt.”

  “Darlin’, the infected aren’t fairytale monsters. They’re people who are sick.”

  “I know that.”

  “Yeah, I doubt that. Actually, spending time at the hospice is going to teach you a few lessons, I think. It’ll show you the value of respect. The infected shouldn’t be made fun of or treated as jokes.”

  “That wasn’t what I was doing. And I promise I’ll be good.”

  “By good I hope you mean quiet and out of the way.”

  “Yes,” Lucette said. “But I still get to meet Robby, right?”

  A beat. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t punish him because I messed up.”

  “Him?”

  “Robby needs a friend, right?”

  They pulled up into a parking lot, passing a crowd of people holding signs near the curb. “I have to hand it to you, Lucette. You’re a first-rate emotional manipulator. A pint-sized prodigy.”

  The car fell silent.

  “Mom? Who are those people out there? They look so angry.”

  “They’re nothing but grown-up bullies. And they aren’t worth the time of day.” The grinding hand break; the groan of the imitation leather seats as her mother turned to face her head-on. “Are they?”

  Lucette smiled. “No way, José.”

  The smell of the hospice made Lucette think of the time their class mascot, Johnny Pepperworth the hamster, died. It had been she who’d been assigned the duty of cleaning out his vacated cage. Their teacher, Mrs. Pony—or so they called her on account of her horse-like nostrils—had already removed the corpse from the room. Though to where she didn’t know. Mrs. Pony came back and comforted the class as they cried. There was no shame, just well-earned sadness. Lucette and Imogen took Johnny Pepperworth’s cage down to the side quadrangle, and under the supervision of an older student, upended the hay and wood shavings onto the ground and hosed them away.

  A musky stink had filled her sinuses, as penetrating as onions, and just about as pleasant. Johnny
Pepperworth’s cage—hamster pee, neglect, and something Lucette had forgotten about, but which was coming back to her now.

  The smell of dead things.

  Lucette pushed this thought aside as she was led through the hospice, her mother’s hand sweaty against her own. Corridors stretched off in many directions, dwindling into dark vanishing points that made those butterflies in her stomach flutter once more. It was difficult to tell if their wings were stirred by fear or excitement.

  They passed infected people—’guests’, as her mother insisted she consider them—Lucette doubted that was what they were. There was no bell-hop jumping out to retrieve bags in trade for tips as they did in the movies. No joy.

  Just shuffling Halloween decorations come to life.

  “Hello, little one,” said an old bleached woman to Lucette as they walked down one of those long hallways. At first Lucette recoiled, then stilled. “Come visit later with your Mommy and read me the Tribune.” Her voice was gravelly, though kind. Lucette noted her oversized smile, her knobbled fingers, the sliver of spittle slithering to the floor. The aide by the old woman’s side ushered her away, taking with her some of that distinct Johnny Pepperworth smell.

  They passed a common area where a woman with a guitar was singing to guests propped up in their seats like rows of unmoving dolls in a storefront window. There were no cheers or applause as there had been in Lucette’s concert fantasy.

  I wouldn’t clap, either. Jeez. That lady’s a terrible singer!

  On some level, Lucette knew she should be afraid of this place, with its tall ceilings and off-white walls. Afraid of the woman who had reached out for her, or any one of the dozen others she’d locked eyes with. But there was no fear, at least not as much as she’d assumed there would be. Lucette had almost screamed with panic when her mother explained that there was no other alternative—she would have to stay at the hospice for a while, like it or not. Only now that Lucette was here she wondered what all of her fuss had been over.

  It’s just a place where people help other people. Right?

  They entered the break room, which was small and cramped. It was empty except for a refrigerator, microwave, coffeemaker, two vending machines, notices of every color over the walls, and a table setting. There was a door leading off to a courtyard where the snow was falling. Lucette had no intention of venturing there.

  “Take a seat,” Emily instructed as she rifled through Lucette’s backpack, retrieved her lunchbox, and put it in the refrigerator. A clock ticked from above the wall near a digital screen with numbers flashing on it.

  “What’s that, Mom?”

  “That? It’s a room alert. It flashes when a guest presses their bedside call-button.”

  “So someone’s going to see them? Like, right now.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Do they have to wait long?”

  Her mother closed the refrigerator door and about turned, hands on hips. “Sometimes too long.”

  “Well, hello there,” said a tall black lady in white scrubs from the doorway.

  “Mrs. Woods, this is my daughter, Lucette,” Emily said. “ Lucette, this is my boss.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “And you as well. Your mother’s told me a lot about you. ”

  Lucette felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder. “Mrs. Woods, I just want to thank you again for letting me bring her. Just until I can sort something else out.”

  “It’s fine. As I said yesterday, this isn’t the first time we’ve had little ones here at work. If anything, it brightens the place up. I’ve had to bring my boys in more than once.”

  “I promise, it’s only until I can find a day-sitter, or day-care, or, well, something.”

  “It won’t be easy, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. Not when people find out where you work. An unfortunate prejudice we have to deal with.” Mrs. Woods gave Lucette an unreciprocated smile. “But the year’s almost through. It’ll be Christmas before you know it and you’ll be on holidays, Emily.”

  “Thanks for approving my leave so fast. This situation, obviously, wasn’t planned.”

  “Don’t tell the others I said this, but we work to live, not live to work.” Mrs. Woods crossed her arms. “If we forget that, we tend to slip up. I don’t like slip-ups. Just so long as you can work both Christmas and New Years’ Day mornings we’ve got a deal. I’ve got hardly anybody willing to take those shifts.”

  “I won’t let you down.”

  Lucette took out her crayons and drawing paper, pretending she wasn’t listening, even though she was. The two adults in the room acted as though she weren’t present, let alone discussing the inconvenience she was putting them all through. But there were advantages to keeping quiet; one of the many ways of attaining knowledge was to become invisible and let the real world play out. Sometimes being a witness was a little like being a student. Today was one such time.

  Emily knelt next to her. “I have to get to work, darlin’. I’ll be by to look in on you before you know it.”

  “And my office is just across the hall,” Mrs. Woods said. “I’ll be in there most of the day doing paperwork. If you need anything, knock away. Might even put you to work!”

  Once Lucette had been left alone, the silence of the break room settled over her. She tried to draw, only her mind was as blank as the sheet. Her attention kept returning to the digital display above the door. F-17, it still read in scarlet lettering.

  It blinked down at her, a conspiratorial red eye.

  She looked at the clock, shuddered. Fingers of unease wrapped around her limbs, pulling away the layers of her warm clothing to let in the chill. The person in F-17 had been buzzing for almost twenty minutes now.

  No, not person. ‘Guest’.

  Yeah, right.

  Lucette thought that if she continued to look at the alert she could will it into being answered, though that didn’t seem to be working at all. Soon, another room number flashed up alongside it, this one reading B-2.

  Followed soon by another.

  D-5.

  B-1.

  RESP-2.

  Every flash, a cry for help.

  It didn’t end there. More and more they came—and faster, too—until the display was nothing more than an overlapping sequence of blinking numbers and letters, a kind of confused countdown. It was then, and only then, that Lucette became afraid.

  “Hey there,” came a female voice from a new face striding into the break room. “You must be Emily’s young’un.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m Lucette.”

  “You can call me Mama Metcalf.”

  The woman walked over to the fridge and placed a brown paper bag inside, its bottom discolored by grease stains. Then she stepped over to the snack machine, dropped in a dollar and punched the keypad, a four-pack of peanut butter cups sliding out and falling into the chute.

  “Should you be eating that?” Lucette asked.

  Mama Metcalf plucked at the edges of the package, tearing it open. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know; my mother always tries to get me healthy food. I figured all nurses were that way.”

  “I’ve known some 300 pound nurses that’d blow that theory right outta the water,” Mama Metcalf said with a laugh. “Besides, I ain’t a nurse, just a volunteer. So I can eat all the junk I want.”

  As if to emphasize the point, she popped one of the peanut butter cups in her mouth. “Christmas is right around the corner. You excited?”

  Lucette nodded.

  “What’d you ask Santa for?”

  “Santa isn’t real, Mama Metcalf.”

  The old woman cocked her head and sat down at the table next to her, sparing a quick glance at the half-hearted drawings Lucette had scribbled into existence. “Maybe there’s no fat old coot who flies around dropping presents down chimneys, but he exists in the ‘Christmas spirit’.”

  “I guess. Anyway, I told my mom I want a cell phone. She says I’m too young.”

  “W
ell, Emily probably knows best.”

  “Did you have a cell phone when you were my age?”

  Mama Metcalf laughed again, spewing flecks of chocolate. “Honey, they wasn’t no cell phones when I was your age. Only phone we had was a big rotary dial monstrosity, and we had to talk on the party line.”

  “What’s a party line?”

  “Never mind, you’ll never have to know! Look, I can’t eat any more of these things. Why don’t you take the rest?”

  “Ugh. My mom doesn’t really like me eating that kind of stuff.”

  Mama Metcalf looked toward the door then leaned forward over the table, lowering her voice. “Gobble them up real quick. All girls need a secret or two.”

  Lucette cast her own glance at the doorway, and then snatched up the package and scarfed down the remaining two cups. An explosion of sugary goodness.

  Much better than those stupid carrot sticks in my lunchbox.

  Mama Metcalf took the empty package, crumpled it up, and then carried it to the trashcan. “I got to get to work. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  The woman was almost out the door when Lucette called, “Mama Metcalf?”

  “Yeah, honey?” she said, turning back.

  “I’m sorry I told you there’s no Santa. I thought you would’ve known by now.”

  CORRIDOR 3

  Lucette found it almost silly how nervous and excited she was to meet this total stranger. But the very idea of Robby being alone in this place, abandoned by his family, unable to go out in the sun or play with friends, filled her with an aching she couldn’t describe.

  They passed a woman in a white hospital gown going in the opposite direction, clutching a wheeled metal pole, a bag of clear liquid hanging from the top, a tube snaking down to jab into her arm. Her hair was straw yellow, so thin her sore-covered scalp was visible beneath. She glanced at Lucette, who was being led by her mother, and dipped her head in a slight nod.

  Lucette nodded back, even as her mother grasped her hand tighter and pulled her close. Farther down the hall, Mama Metcalf came out of one of the rooms, waved at her, then disappeared down an intersecting corridor.

  This part of the hospice, which was where the sickest of the guests were put, felt different to everywhere else in the facility. There was little in the way of natural light, only the humming fluorescents, their glow reflected in the over-polished floor. Lucette found it odd that the shadows of the facility didn’t bother her, whilst here in Corridor 3 it was the brightness that made her anxious. It smelled like the school lavatories after the janitor had been through—over-cleaned, artificial. Plus, on top of having to wear the stupid mask over her nose and mouth, this was the only place in the building, with the exception of the front door, that required a code to gain entry. Lucette didn’t think her mother had realized she could see the numbers punched into the wall-mounted keypad outside.