Never Come Back

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I saw people in uniform first—two cops, two paramedics. They were standing in the living room of my mom’s small house, their thumbs hooked into their belts, muttering to one another. Small talk and jokes. One of them, a cop about my age, laughed at something, then looked up and saw me in the doorway.

“Ma’am?” he said. A question. It meant: Do you have any business here?

The other cop nodded. He understood who I was and what I was doing there.

“Are you… ?” he said.

“I’m Elizabeth Hampton,” I said. “This is my mother’s house.”

“Of course,” the second cop said. He held up his index finger. “Just one moment.”

“My mom,” I said. “I got a call from a detective. He said—”

I didn’t feel well. My body felt liquid and loose, as if my joints were made of rubber and water. Everything shook. I was scared. I leaned against the doorjamb, trying not to collapse.

The cop left, went down the hallway toward the bedrooms. One of the paramedics, a thick, barrel-chested guy, his arms bulging against his short sleeves, came over and steadied me.

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