Sixteen Small Deaths

by Christopher J. Dwyer

  “Has anyone ever shown you how to make the perfect snowball?” he asked.

  I shook my head, staring at the ground.

  He leaned forward and scooped a mix of slush and puffy snow, curling it in his fist like it was a hardboiled egg. I watched as he pouted his lips and worked the ice until it was nearly perfect in circumference. He showed it to me, holding it between the tips of his now red fingertips.

  “This,” he said, “is good enough to throw.”

  He tossed it with a gentle heave, nearly tripling the distance of my throw a few minutes earlier. It shattered with a glittery boom, fractures of moonlight shining with each mirrored piece.

  I sighed and adjusted the pillow under my head. I could see the reflection of the storm’s final drippings on the blank television screen a few feet away. The shuffling upstairs stopped, and I silently wondered if my father was going to experience the same memory-laden dreams as I was about to encounter.

  #

  The aromatic pleasure of fresh coffee woke me from a solid dreaming state. I could hear spoons and pans colliding in the kitchen like a momentary morning symphony. I lifted my legs off the couch and stretched the stiffness in my back. Before I could stand up, my father greeted me with a smile and a cornflower-blue mug, wisps of steam floating from its open mouth.

  He sat next to me and placed the mug on the wooden coffee table a few inches away. “Just the way you like it,” he said. “A little bit of skim milk and three spoons of sugar.”

  I took a long sip, sizzling springs of caffeine jolting my body into full consciousness. I crossed my legs over the table and pointed behind me. “How does it look out there?”

  My father inched his head over his shoulder and peeked out the living-room window. “Shouldn’t be too bad out there, son. I bet all of the main roads and highways should be fine.” He cleared his throat. “What time do you have to meet him?”

  “Noon, or a little after.”

  My father nodded, then stood up. “Well, you’re going to have to get some eggs and toast in that body if you want energy for that long drive. It’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

  “Great. Thanks, Dad.” I tilted my mug towards him in a joyous toast.

  He chuckled. “Save the theatrics for breakfast.”

  #

  I shoved my hands through my jet-black pea coat and silently wished for summer. When I was a kid, my father and I traveled to a bakery outside of town for a cake for my mother’s birthday. The roads were icy, and one quick turn forced our Jeep into a nearby tree. Neither of us was hurt, but since then I’ve been afraid to drive with snow and ice on the road.

  I was about to open the front door when I heard his voice from behind me.

  “Trevor?” My father stood with a silver travel mug in his arms. “I know you’re not going to forget our discussion last night, but please, do not let this man sway you with anything, not even memories of your childhood. Your mother swore that she would never let him see you again.”

  I blew a round of cool air through my teeth. “Do you think I’m breaking Mom’s heart by going through with this?”

  “Not at all,” he said, tightening the cap on the mug. “If she were still alive, I know she’d give you her blessing to see him because you’re old enough to deal with that chapter of your life.” He handed the mug to me. “Here, some coffee for the road. I’ll feel better if you call me when you get there.”

  “I’ll ring you as soon as I pull up to his house.”

  “Sounds good.” He initiated a hug that could have lasted for an hour. All I know is that it felt like I was a kid again; the gentle push of his muscles against mine was not nearly as strong as it was years ago. I found myself pressing my forehead into his shoulder, something I would do whenever I was nervous.

  “It’ll be okay,” he said, letting me go. “Now, go on. There’s a long drive ahead of you.” He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small envelope. “Wait…I wanted to give you this,” he said, shoving the small beige envelope into the inside pocket of my jacket. “If you feel that this encounter is going to stir up unwanted emotions, open that little envelope and I promise that it’ll bring a smile to your face.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  We said our goodbyes and in minutes I was behind the wheel of my car, engine beginning to purr in the shriveled air of another winter’s day.

  #

  The conversation last week only lasted a few minutes. My cell phone rang with a number I had never seen before. The voice on the other line sounded familiar, but I didn’t know who the caller was until he said my name with a long and extended breath. For the first minute, every muscle in my body quivered with an icy chill. When you think someone is long dead and forgotten and all of a sudden their voice is loud and clear on the other line of the telephone, you forget where and who you are. You forget that time has passed. You forget that this man on the other line made the decision to cut you out of his life over two decades ago.

  You forget that he’s just an outsider now, nothing more.

  I don’t know why I agreed to meet him, but I said “Yes” after thirty seconds of hesitation. I canceled two days of consulting projects with my clients and packed a small bag, eager to spend the night before the meeting with the man who actually raised me as a boy.

  Five hours after setting out on Interstate-95 and I was idling two houses down from his. I shut off the truck and leaned my head against the seat. My eyes closed, I imagined what he looked like now. I hadn’t seen a picture of him since I was a teenager, and I couldn’t even remember if we shared the same eye color. I couldn’t remember what his favorite food was, what he liked to do on a winter day. When I swung my hand on the door handle, the cold tinge of metallic touch reminded me why this man wasn’t a part of my life anymore. I refrained from opening the door, hoping that I would summon the courage to leave the truck and knock on his door in just a few seconds. A few seconds turned into a few minutes turned into a few tears.

  I didn’t picture a person hopelessly wondering if his son grew up to be a man. I didn’t picture a person spending their days hoping that one day his son would just walk right back into his life as if nothing had occurred oh so many years ago.

  An hour burned off the truck radio and it was at this moment when I pulled out the envelope my father had shoved into my pocket, the one I now realized was dressed with the purple cursive handwriting of my mother. I flicked open the top and a single picture fell onto my lap. My mother’s eyes were the first thing that came to me. Two drops of perfect green, the color of an uncut pine tree glimmering in the morning sun. Snowflakes were frozen in the air and the three of us were smiling as if we knew that life would give us nothing but the best. My father had one arm draped over my mother’s shoulder, the other barely pinching my cheek. I couldn’t quite recall when the picture was taken, but I knew that this was a sliver of happiness, a flash in time where nothing else mattered except the love burning between these three souls.

  I turned on the ignition and blew past his house, not taking a second to see if he was standing by a window. Eyes focused on the road, and soon enough I was flying on the highway, eager traces of snow falling from the sky like little rogue angels dancing in a winter solstice.

  #

  I found a hotel less than an hour later. I plunked down my credit card at the front desk and asked for the cheapest room they had available. I knew that I wanted to sleep off the day, let the thoughts in my head burn into embers wild as a forest fire. Two flights of stairs and my room was in the very corner of the floor. I didn’t bother to turn on the television, just kicked off my boots and placed my cell phone on the nightstand next to the clock radio.

  At some point, my eyes closed and I remember the cooling whispers of the night beckoning me to slumber.

  #

  My cell phone rang around three in the morning. On the second ring I jerked out of a dead sleep, unaware I was resting on a hotel bed. I flipped open the phone without ever
seeing who the caller was. The voice was a woman’s, and if I didn’t know that I was now fully awake I would forever swear that what she said was just the soundtrack to a temporary nightmare.

  Her name was Rianna Peterson and she was a doctor calling from Massachusetts General Hospital. My father had dialed 911 and only a second after the operator answered, silence spilled from the other line. Police and an ambulance rushed to the house and found my father crumpled on the kitchen floor, his fingers still touching the receiver. He had experienced a massive heart attack shortly after noontime. Doctor Peterson said the paramedics found him dead.

  I closed the phone and immediately leaned forward, ignoring the urge to let my insides spill to the carpeted hotel floor.

  #

  I drove that night with fire in my eyes, the smoldering strands of shock still waltzing in my head. The ride to the hospital should have taken three hours, but with my foot on the gas and my heart in my hand, I walked through the front doors in just over two. I was barely coherent at the front desk, managing to say the words “father” and “Armstrong” and “heart attack.”

  Doctor Peterson greeted me a minute after, olive skin somewhat comforting in a sea of lost souls scattered about the hospital lobby. She shook my hand with the grace of a beautiful woman and asked me if I was okay. I told her “No” and smiled, unaware that I was gazing into the distance.

  “I know this is difficult for you, so I’d be happy to call any relatives that might need to know what happened.” She placed a hand on the side of my arm, unpainted fingernails plucking the rogue fuzz from my jacket.

  “Yeah,” I said. “His brother, my Uncle Charlie. If you can, please call him.” I shook her hand again and walked away, forgetting to button up my coat as I walked out the front doors and into the throes of December.

  A gentle sniff of the air told me that another storm was coming. There were already four inches of snow on the ground, and before long I’d be wondering when winter would be over. I knelt down and ran my fingers along the concrete, swirling figures into the ground that were symbolic of my confusion. I stared out into the night, half moon poised in the sky like a low-hanging slice of glowing frost. I removed my gloves and shoved them into my pocket, letting the back of my boots support my backside as I knelt down to scrape up a handful of dirty ice and snow.

  I packed it into a ball, watching the flesh of my fingers begin to flush with red. Smile upon my face, I closed my eyes while I worked the snow until it was as hard as baseball. I opened my eyes and held it in the night air.

  It was good enough to throw.

  Sometimes You Can’t Wait Forever

  She exhales a strand of icy vanilla lace and my heart freezes with uncertainty. The beeps and whirls of the ventilator are a dazzling lullaby and my eyelids start to drop and barely open again before her hand squeezes mine. I’ve spent fourteen straight nights in this room with her and at least once a day she’ll grasp my hand and give it the lightest press. The doctors say it isn’t a sign of things to come but I spoon hope into my mouth everyday regardless of the world raging outside of my head.

  Filthy orange moon in the evening sky and before long I’ll drift off into another fit of slumber without her gentle embrace. I squirm into the cot next to the bed and hear the creaking of its rubber ends against the sterile hospital floor. The nurses in the intensive-care unit walk past the room and each one looks like they’re afraid to smile.

  Autumn’s chest heaves in and out with the help of a machine. I can remember nights watching her sleep before the accident, watching the beautiful chasm between her breasts lift in a strand of moonlight as my breaths drew long and comforting. She wears a white gown with jade polka dots and for only a moment is she the most gorgeous being in this building.

  I clutch her hand in mine and run a finger along her nails, bits of crimson nail-polish like a map to her past. She painted them only a few hours before nearly dying and I hope that I never see the full pink under her fingernails again.

  My eyelids grow heavy and the siren of sleep creeps into my veins, body tired but my mind running with a hundred uneven memories. I stare at the array of stars just beyond the window until I can’t feel my arms or legs but only the dry touch of Autumn’s skin.

  #

  Dead tree limbs dress a perfect mirror of ice and snow, azure sky painted above the horizon. Sparkles of freezing water drip onto my face and the landscape smells like a mix of bourbon vanilla and saffron. Vision is hazy and circles of white light adorn the film reel in my mind, stains and burns of an unforgiving world given to the throes of December. I take a step forward expecting to fall through a thin layer of ice but my steps are weightless burdens on its fragile frame.

  Autumn’s bright red hair speeds by like a flaming comet and I don’t realize I’m smiling. Her arms are wrapped around me and her breath escapes from cobalt lips, tiny clouds of white dissipating before the glitter of winter touches my face. She’s talking in slow motion and I struggle to decipher the words. Her eyes are as blue as a serene ocean and my heart flutters with the recollections of our life together. She brings a red fingernail to my nose, lets it slide down to my upper lip. Autumn leans in for a kiss and my lungs fill with chilled love. It feels like I haven’t kissed her in forever and I want to hold on to this moment until I’m buried with her in the frozen ground beneath our feet.

  Our kiss ends with a hush and the sun starts to dip behind the steaming horizon just beyond a row of trees. Autumn’s arms aren’t around me anymore and she’s standing next to me, looking at the last moments of tepid daylight. She points high in the air and looks at me, her glance attempting to tell me every story she knows. I don’t know what she sees and her lips move again but I can’t hear the words, can’t hear what this exquisite woman is saying to me.

  Time moves forward as quick as it can while all I hear are only my deep breaths in the winter cold.

  Autumn stands in front of me and all the echoes of the bitter terrain are silenced by her eyes. Her eyelids drop and I can finally listen to the supple whisper of her voice.

  “Will you?”

  #

  Carroty streaks of twilight dance into the hospital room and my hand is still entwined with Autumn’s. It looks as if she’s smiling but it could be the haze of early morning affecting my vision. A nurse walks into the room and marks a sheet on a clipboard after looking at the various monitors above the bed. I stand up and leave the room, the sound of my footsteps drowned in a sea of hurried doctors and medical personnel rushing past.

  The ICU visitors’ bathroom is just around the corner. I push the door open and an elderly man wearing a long brown coat exits. He has the eyes of a dead soldier. I turn on the faucet to wash my face and only a few moments pass before I see that my lips are blue. I back away and close my eyes for a second, letting the empty noise of the bathroom stalls soothe the slightest tinges of panic in my mind.

  A deep breath spins in my chest and I finish washing my face. My reflection is now a warm state and lips have returned to the color of tired flesh. The past two weeks have been a time imperfect and before long Autumn’s voice will be replaced by the frightening silence of her death.

  #

  I take another sip of water and imagine that I’m sitting in the café where I met Autumn five years ago, a dull Saturday morning when the sky was as dark as dirty glass. She was wearing a tight tweed skirt, legs like two pale knives with boots creeping up to the middle of her calves. My heart stopped for a few minutes when I first touched her skin and I imagine she stole my breath during our initial kiss and hid it in the corners of her stomach.

  I haven’t drank a latte since that day.

  The beep of the heart monitor forces me back into the present. I sit on the edge of the cot and see that it’s almost nighttime. I haven’t talked to my parents or friends in too many days and I believe they’ve lost faith in Autumn’s recovery. The hustle of medics outside the room has waned, only a lone nurse sits behind the ICU desk, reading a newspa
per and answering the phone on sporadic rings. I stand up and pull the cot closer to Autumn’s bed until the weak metal frame is touching the bed sheets. I lay back and nestle my head against the pillow, taking Autumn’s fingers and placing them over mine. I close my eyes and see the colorless void where my dreams melt with black snow.

  #

  An excess of icy rain at my fingertips and I’m staring into a faultless circle of moonlight. Dead tree limbs hang over my head and Autumn grabs the edge of one, pulls it back and bits of snow fly into the night air. She giggles but the noise is caught somewhere between the stars and my heart. Her hair is like fire caught in a mesh of fuzzy fabric, untamed and flowing behind her ears and neck. She reaches for my hand, black fingernails gracing my pastel skin. Autumn smiles and brings it to her mouth, giving my hand a quick kiss and leaving behind the residue of cherry-flavored Chapstick. I curl an arm around her shoulder and pull her close to me, her wool hat nudged against my chin. She smells like apples and lucidity and my body starts to warm with the glow of the moon.

  A heap of blue roses in her lap, Autumn lifts one to the air, its petals shining amidst a blanket of winter dust, and drops it. It falls to the frozen ground and she grins. I stand up and take her hand, warmth against the chill of December, and try to speak. Before the first of my words escapes, Autumn collapses and sinks into the ice below our feet. Splashes of frosty water, and a quick explosion of blue light blinds me. Seconds or minutes pass and she’s pounding on a thick layer of ice, her screams muffled by water and air bubbles. I fall to my knees and try to break the crystal sheet but she descends deeper into the water until the tip of the fiery swab of her hair burns out as her body slips to the blackness of beyond.

  #

  I wake to the sounds of doctors screaming for help. I’m on the floor of Autumn’s room, huddled in the corner as two nurses try to lift and shove me out of the room. They succeed and slam the glass slider shut behind me, quick wave of beige curtains replacing the view into the room. I stand in silence for moments before the lone sound of a piano plays a single note in my head. It’s not enough to comfort me, not enough to know that the one love of my life could die at any second only ten feet away from me.