“We’ll take him,” the Chief said.
“Where?” I asked.
“We’re taking the bodies to Buscio’s Funeral Home, keeping them there until we figure out what we’re going to do.”
It just seemed inconceivable to me, they were storing all the dead?
“No.” I shook my head, still holding him.
“Travis, it’s cold, your daughter, your wife, need you. I know you’re in pain. I know this is horrible,” Fisher said. “But let us take him.”
“And do what? Just lump him in with everyone else?”
“Do you have a better suggestion?” The Chief asked. “Because right now, goddamn it, I’ll take any suggestions. You can’t stay in the street, and right now you can’t even bury him. Are you even ready to bury him?”
I shook my head.
“No. Just like I am not ready to bury my nephew. We have to process what is happening. It’s too fast, everything that’s happening. You need to go home. Be with your family.”
“He is my family.” I felt his hand grip my shoulder has a showing of sympathy. “I’ll take him.”
“We’ll all go together.”
As hard as it was, I had to do it. I had to take my son from that street and get back to Maranda and Daisy. How would I tell them? I didn’t have the words to explain it to myself.
The Chief helped me carry Beau to the back of Joe Randal’s truck. I stayed back there with him while we drove to the funeral home. It didn’t matter how cold it was, I didn’t feel it. All I felt was heartache.
Pulling up to the funeral home was eerie. The large converted Victorian style house always looked spooky to me. But now, it was dark, surrounded by snow and it was obvious by the abundance of partially open windows it was being used, or at least set up to be a whole house refrigerator storage facility.
The impact of the epidemic on our town didn’t hit me until I carried my son through the door. For days I watched it from my window, not being part of the town, focused only on my family.
There was no ignoring it, reality set in. Not only how much High Water was hit, but how much work Chief Fisher, Joe Randal, Pastor Monroe, Terri and the others had done.
The furniture from the viewing rooms was stacked in the hallway.
The first room to my right was completely filled, bodies lay in neat rows on the floor. Some covered, some not. When I went to the next, Chief Fisher suggested that I put Beau in the director’s office where he had his nephew.
Privacy for me, to say my goodbyes when I was ready.
All those people, I felt as though I was suffocating, unable to breathe because the truth of it all was crashing down.
It took me some time to be able to leave Beau, but I knew I could come back. I knew I had to come back, I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. Not yet.
I had the hurdle of facing my family. I guess Terri heard the news, because she raced out of the bookstore before I even reached for the door.
“Go home and change,” she said. “You cannot let your daughter see you like this.”
I didn’t know what that meant, did she mean how distraught I was, until I glanced down and saw I was covered in blood.
I crossed the street, went back to my place and showered. I stood under the hot water long enough to cry, to try to get some of it out of me so I could be strong enough to tell them.
That wall I thought I put up, crumbled piece by piece every time my daughter asked. “Daddy, did you find Beau? Do you know where he is?”
I didn’t know how to tell her, but I would.
Once I brought Daisy and Maranda back to the apartment, I asked Daisy to go to her room and I’d be up shortly.
I watched her go up the stairs, I tried to keep my eyes from straying and looking at Beau’s room.
Maranda stood in the living room, she had this look, this smile on her face as she too watched Daisy.
Was she there? Did she know her daughter? I led her to the sofa and sat her down, grabbing her hands as I knelt before her.
“You look sad,” she said.
“I am.”
She tilted her head, her eyes shifting back and forth looking at me.
“Sweetheart.” I squeezed her hands. “I don’t know if you even know what I am saying, but … he’s gone. I went to look for him. I found him. Beau … Beau is gone, he died.”
“Oh,” she softly gasped out. “I am sorry. Do I know him?”
There was a fine line for a few seconds that I clung to, trying not to cross. It was fleeting but there. An understanding for her condition and anger for her forgetting our son. But I had to understand. She didn’t register it, nor did she feel it.
A part of me envied her. She would never know the crushing heartache of losing her child. She was spared that pain. It was in that moment I realized, my wife, my Maranda was truly one of The Lost, and in a sense, right there and then, in my own way, so was I.
TWELVE – MERCY ME
February 22
The smoke from the crematorium at Buscio’s rose high into the sky and I could see it from my living room window. I noticed it when I looked out after hearing the loud sounds of engines.
Four large military trucks rolled down Main Street.
It was a diversion from the television that had some old school black screen and typewriter type lettering, while the emergency alert recording continuously played asking for those not affected, those not vaccinated to call a number, to give their time and help. There was something strange about an electronic voice with no emotion saying, “Humanity is tested and we must pull together to help those who cannot help themselves.” Robotic and cold. Something about it I couldn’t tolerate and it didn’t urge me to do anything.
Perhaps it was just me. I was beginning to think it was.
The trucks though sent a different message to me.
It was the first sign of outside life I had seen in days.
Then again, the previous two days since Beau had died were a blur.
I didn’t know why the trucks arrived, rolling in noisily like some sort of cavalry, but I did know the smoke from Buscio’s wasn’t from my son.
I had been there twice and couldn’t make the call. I wanted to bury him, but the ground was frozen solid. I knew I had to make the decision soon. But I was dealing with Daisy who was devasted about Beau. She cried all the time and hadn’t listened to music in two days.
I also was dealing with Maranda whose rapid decline was painful to watch. Chief Fisher told me most people didn’t hold on longer than four or five days and Maranda was already at ten.
My breaking point was in reach. So many times I watched through the window as the Chief, Terri, Joe and others did their part, while I stayed home. What choice did I have?
“Daddy?”
I turned from the window to see Daisy. I was so grateful to hear my name, she was still fine and that made me happy.
“What was that noise?” she asked.
“Military trucks,” I answered.
“Why are they here?”
“I don’t know.” I glanced again through the window then back to Daisy. “Did you want to go find out?”
Biting her bottom lip, she nodded.
“Okay, get your boots and coat,” I told her. I knew she needed to get out of the apartment. We both needed it. It wasn’t as cold as the previous days, the sun finally came out, melting the snow some.
Daisy rushed for her coat and boots, quickly throwing them on. I zipped her little pink coat, placed on the hood, then I grabbed my own coat.
I didn’t worry about locking Maranda in the room.
She wasn’t walking anywhere, not now.
We made our way out of the building, and I told my daughter, we’d follow the slushy tracks. Just as we hit the street, I saw the door to Terri’s book store open and she and another man carried out a body.
There was no truck, what were they doing with it? Then I noticed several bodies, all covered, neatly lined up on the sidewalk.
&nbs
p; Daisy’s head turned that way and I hurriedly, brought her in closer to me. “Don’t look, sweetie,” I told her. “Keep walking. Follow the tracks.”
I could have taken my truck, the snow had drifted from it enough that clearing it wasn’t a problem, and with the way the military trucks just barreled down the street, Chief Fisher’s request to stay off the roads was probably lifted, but walking was good.
Daisy enjoyed it.
Following them was like going on a treasure hunt, at least for her, for me … it worried me.
My gut instinct was confirmed when we got closer to the trucks. I heard them running, the engines were idle and loud, so they were parked.
They were parked on the street by the Municipal Building, large trucks with canvas coverings. When I saw them I thought they were bringing in equipment, until I saw the line of people on the sidewalk.
They had no belongings, some weren’t wearing much more than a blanket draped over their shoulders. It looked like they were standing in a soup line, no one spoke, a lost dazed look in their eyes.
Standing across the street, I watched the situation while holding tight to my daughter’s hand. From one truck they unloaded crates, a woman with a clipboard marked something down as two soldiers carried them by her to the building. She wasn’t dressed as military, she wore jeans, and a flannel jacket. They didn’t unload many crates, and once the final one was carried by her, she walked over to Chief Fisher. That’s when I saw the people of our town led like sheep into the trucks.
“Where are they taking them, Daddy?” Daisy asked.
“I don’t know. But let’s find out.” I lifted Daisy to my hip to carry her across the street, then set her down when we arrived to where Chief Fisher and the woman stood.
“Oh, Travis, hey,” the Chief said. “This is Dr. Tina Myers from the National Guard out of Nashville. Dr. Myers, this is Travis Grady.”
“You can call me Tina,” she extended her hand. “Are you an NVI?”
“I’m sorry an ... NVI?” I asked.
“Non-Vaccinated Individual,” she explained.
“I am. Are you?”
“Yes, as is every volunteer here,” she said. “Is this your daughter?”
“I’m Daisy,” my daughter spoke brightly.
“Well, that’s a beautiful name.”
Really, I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I wanted to know why they were in town and were they able to help.
I asked, “So do you know about all this?”
“I know from what I see,” she replied. “Sadly, no one is an expert.”
“Do you know if a person hasn’t turned … Lost, if maybe it won’t happen?” I questioned. “I mean, are there people that haven’t been affected that were vaccinated?”
“I haven’t heard of any cases. Again, I am limited to what I have personally witnessed and read in reports, that’s not to say it can’t happen.”
She must have noticed me looking down to Daisy.
“Is Daisy vaccinated?” she asked.
I nodded. “She is. And she’s fine.”
“Well, that’s great news. I’ll share that,” she said.
“Dr. Myers, here,” Chief Fisher said. “Came to help out with late stages. The ones that can’t travel. We’re going to try to move as many here to the auditorium as we can.”
“And do what?” I asked.
Tina answered. “End of life care. Make them comfortable. We have the means for that.”
“And those folks?” I pointed to the ones getting in the truck. “Where are they going?”
“Franklin. We have volunteers there,” Tina said. “They will help with the transitioning to end of life. It’s difficult. Fortunately, more people are rallying to help than those healthy and taking advantage of things.”
“That’s happening?” I asked.
“You’d be surprised,” she replied. “Or maybe not. Are you a volunteer in town?”
Before I could answer, Chief Fisher did. “Travis has been dealing with his own situation. He lost his boy a couple days ago in a tragic wandering accident. And his wife …his wife has been hanging on.”
“Will you be bringing her here or will she go to the facility in Franklin?” Tina asked.
“My wife will stay home, thank you.”
Daisy spoke up. “Mommy doesn’t talk anymore. She isn’t moving or eating.”
There was something about hearing my daughter say those words and the look on the doctor’s face when she heard them.
“Mr. Grady, if you want, I can give you some medication or I can come take a look …”
“No, we’re fine,” I abruptly stopped her. “In fact, we need to go. Come on Daisy.”
“Mr. Grady.” She walked to me, stopping us. “It can get very challenging. Please know we’re here. If you need anything, please just stop by.”
“Thank you but no, I can handle my wife.”
I walked off with my daughter. I don’t know why I shunned the help or even the medication. Maybe it was another slap of reality or maybe I didn’t want to admit I needed help.
Handling my wife was easier said than done. I wanted to handle her, take care of her. What I and others were dealing with was a rapid decline that we were ill prepared for.
It was fast.
I hated myself because it killed me to even look at her.
How did Maranda go from a vibrant and creative woman to a mere shell of everything I loved and adored?
She didn’t even look like herself. Her hair suddenly grew dull, her face drawn and pale. She stared out with lifeless eyes and mouth agape. She wasn’t gasping for breath, but she looked like she was barely breathing. I propped her up in bed on pillows, and she hadn’t moved, laying slightly on her side legs curled and hands drawn in.
It was heartbreaking.
While I wanted to say I couldn’t believe she was holding on so long, it didn’t surprise me. Maranda was a fighter.
When we arrived back home. Daisy said she was hungry. I was glad to hear that. She barely ate since Beau had died.
The cupboards were pretty bare and I had taken the last of the freezer stuff out the night before. I knew there was food in town, stuff I could get, but I hadn’t gone out. I literally was taking us down to nothing.
Pickings were slim and there was some pancake mix left in the box. Enough to make a batch. I guess I was in the flow, focusing on making my daughter a meal when I heard my daughter’s scream.
As a parent you can recognize the type of cries and screams, and hers was riddled with fear and pain.
Had she hurt herself?
Stopping immediately what I was doing, I followed the screams. They were high pitched and continuous. They came from the first floor and I found her in my bedroom.
Daisy stood next to the bed, desperately trying to get away, but Maranda clutched on to her arm.
My daughter struggled to get free, crying out while Maranda stared at her, making this noise, this throaty noise. I rushed to the bed and immediately grabbed on to Daisy, but not only was Maranda’s grip tight, her fingernails dug into the under part of Daisy’s forearm, drawing blood.
I literally had to pry Maranda’s fingers from my daughter. When she was free, Maranda began making that noise louder and Daisy grabbed onto me, jumping into my arms.
“I just wanted to see Mommy, I just wanted to see her,” Daisy sobbed.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” I cradled her, carrying her from the bedroom.
I took her straight to the kitchen to wipe off her arms, Daisy sobbed the entire way there. Sitting her on the counter, I turned on the sink, trying like hell to block out the moans and cries of Maranda.
“Why won’t she stop?” Daisy asked crying. “Why is she doing that?”
I focused on wiping off her arm. But it was hard to ignore the aching, non-verbal yelling of my wife. It was as if she were trying to say something, calling out for something, but what?
After I finished Daisy’s arm, placing bandages on th
e small fingernail cuts, I lifted her from the counter. “Go to your room and turn the music up really loud. Okay.”
She nodded quickly and raced away.
I really didn’t understand my thought process at that moment, or why I instructed Daisy to do that. The moment, I heard her footsteps on the stairs, a part of me knew and I walked back to the bedroom, closing the door.
The cries from Maranda were loud, steady and almost rhythmic. They had this off tune, demonic sound to them.
She lay half on her side, the bed and night dress soiled, her arm outstretched as if she still were reaching for Daisy.
Who was this woman on the bed? This mere ghost of the woman I married. I loved her, but the person she was had left us and she who remained was fighting with every last ounce of her strength not to let go.
Or was she?
Maybe the cries were those of pain, frustration … cries for help.
She shifted her eyes, looked at me and screamed out even louder.
I wanted to cover my ears, instead I closed my eyes, wishing it would stop. Just stop. Please stop.
It didn’t.
My wife, my beautiful wife didn’t deserve what was happening to her. No one that was inflicted deserved it. It was horrendous, heartbreaking and demoralizing.
Gone was her being, her dignity.
If I knew my wife, and I believed I did, she wouldn’t want to be like that.
I … didn’t want her to be like that.
But all the wishing in the world wasn’t going to make it stop.
And it had to stop.
“I’m sorry, Maranda, sweetie, I am so sorry.” I stepped to the bed, leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “I’m so sorry.”
Lifting the pillow next to her, I placed it over her face. At first it was gentle, but then as the screams continued, I put more pressure on that pillow.
One hand.
Both.
The screams muffled, then softened and I pushed harder.
Her cries out were the only fight she gave, and they weakened, slowing down, farther apart, until finally …. silence.
It seemed like forever for it to stop, the entire time I held that pillow to her, I felt the pain in my chest and I fought it, pushed it back, shoved any and all emotions away.
Last Dance at the End of the World Page 8