Maddie dies first. Before anything else happens, Maddie is already dead.
She died in a car crash on a rainy summer evening on her way back home in The Redlands. Nobody was drinking and, as far as the investigators can tell, nobody was texting. Maddie’s beat-up red Ford Explorer just sort of drifted out of its lane and caught the front-left corner of some other woman’s car, killing Maddie.
The other driver died, too, but this isn’t about them.
Maddie dies a sudden, tragic death. Time passes.
Chapter One
Bix stood in front of his apartment door and inspected the piece of paper in his hand. The paper itself was a thick, heavy piece of white paper—maybe some kind of artistic cardstock—with big, looping, childish letters and a drawing of a small rodent on it. The paper read:
LOST
Lost hamster. Answers to Fatty. Does not like to be photographed.
If found, please feed him and return to Apartment 217.
The hamster in the drawing had fluffy black and white fur, sticking out far to either side. His tiny pink hands held some kind of seed—sunflower, maybe? His pink nose and shiny black eyes were raised, looking up through the paper, staring at Bix. Bix flipped the paper over, but the back was blank.
Weird.
His first instinct was to look for the hamster. He looked down at his feet, pivoting carefully in a small circle in case the hamster had somehow snuck up behind him, daring to dance beneath his heavy feet. With no hamster in incidental stomping distance, Bix looked at the edges of the walls, where a hamster might scurry against the safety of some cover. His apartment complex, like many in southern California, had no roof over the quad in the middle of the building, letting lots of natural lighting into each unit on either side. The open design also allowed for a community pool in the center of the complex. Bix peered over the metal railing, to see if the hamster had made the treacherous mistake of falling from the second story onto the hard concrete ground below.
The hamster hadn’t; at least, not in an obvious way. And if the hamster had fallen into the pool, he wasn’t floating at the top. The greenish blue water looked freshly skimmed.
Bix looked at the note again, this time flipping the paper over. If this lost hamster poster was some kind of practical joke, Bix wasn’t getting it. He looked at the surrounding apartments, confirming none of them had their own lost hamster posters taped to the door. It wasn’t until his eyes went all the way across the vast expanse of open air to the other side of the building that he saw apartment 217. Nothing stood out about the unit—which itself kind of stood out. Most apartments had some kind of outward identity to them—potted plants outside the front door, a lawn chair, maybe a towel rack of some sort. Even Bix, who lived a somewhat Spartan lifestyle decoration-wise, felt it necessary to buy a brown welcome mat that actually read “welcome.” From across the way, apartment 217 seemed very plain. The blinds were pulled closed on the big front window.
There’s no chance a hamster made it all the way around the building. If he got outside his own apartment and didn’t fall to his death immediately, a hawk or hungry cat probably picked him up by now.
Bix fumbled with his keys and looked at the poster once more. The paper itself was heavy and a bit thick, construction paper, maybe, the white piece of construction paper no kids want to get stuck with in elementary school. There was no doubt in the writing on the page—no mistakes crossed out, no unsure letters touched up and thickened. Even the drawing itself was clean in precise. With only a few strokes, the artist made a clear picture of the hamster, Fatty. The big, block lettering of “LOST” and the last circles in every letter like ‘a’ or ‘o’ gave it the distinct feeling of being written by a careful child. He opened his stylish leather satchel and slid the poster in it, tucking it between the pages of his notebook in an effort to keep it from bending.
There was a routine Bix followed when he got home. First, he kicked his shiny black dress shoes off when he walked through the door, loosening each shoe by stepping on the heel of the other. He aimed his kick at a spot besides his desk, just in front of the floor lamp, so he could slide them on easily the next morning. With the right shoe, he was far left, the left shoe, far right. One shot far under the desk and the other bounced against the wall at hip level, leaving a small black skid mark Bix didn’t want to worry about now. Next, Bix set his satchel besides his desk. He took his keys, cell phone, and wallet from his front pockets and put them on his desk as well.
Bix sank deeply into his recliner, the leather of the chair squeaking softly as Bix sighed in relief as a man does after a long day of work. He ran both his hands over his soft, short bangs, and let them settle behind his head, cradling the back of his neck. He closed his eyes briefly before snapping them back open.
“Fuck,” Bix said to himself, remembering where he was supposed to be. He grabbed the copy of A Happy Death from his desk and headed to the hospital.
Bix moved briskly down the halls of Presbyterian Hospital, navigating the familiar hallways on his way to the hospice unit. He gave a little nod or said a polite hello to all the nurses he passed—all of them Filipino, all of them women, making them blend together in his mind. Those who worked in the hospice unit knew him well enough to make a number of exceptions for him, not that any were serious. Once a week, he’d bring In N Out to share with his dad. Occasionally, if he was in the middle of a conversation or a movie, he’d stay past visiting hours. Often he’d bring more than two visitors into the building, entertaining more than the stated maximum of two visitors at a time. As Bix approached his father’s room, he slowed to a stop, hoping he’d look through the doorway to see his father entertaining guests.
Irving was alone, sitting up in the angled hospital bed, head turned away, facing towards the window. It had been there for years, but the sight of a tube in his father’s throat still gave Bix a chill every time he saw it—Bix’s daily visits hadn’t changed that. Bix had, however, mastered the art of looking just above his father’s eyes as they talked, putting the constantly inflating and contracting plastic tube out of view.
Bix put the thought out of his head. He knocked loudly on the doorframe. “Hey, Dad,” he said, excitedly.
“You’re late,” his father turned his head towards Bix, smiling as he always did.
“When I’m late you tell me I’m late, but when I’m on time you tell me I don’t have to come visit.”
“You didn’t have to come visit me,” Irving laughed into a wheeze. “That’s what I was going to say next.”
These exchanges took a long time. Irving could only speak through the hole in his throat and he could only manage or word or two with his lungs full of artificial air being pumped into his chest. If he tried to speak any more, his already quiet voice would be nearly silent. Bix spoke a bit more slowly when talking to his dad, saying each word loudly (though his father could hear fine) and clearly (though his father could understand everything).
Bix sat down in the chair by the door—the comfortable little lounge chair with the thick cushioning and wooden armrests and the back that angled slightly in a recline—where he always sat. He left the two chairs closest to his father’s bedside open for his father’s many well-wishers. Those chairs weren’t very comfortable at all; hard plastic backs and bottoms with thin metal armrests.
Bix pulled his book from his satchel and found the bookmark. He had a few rules for visiting his father he always tried to follow:
- Don’t burden the dying man.
Dad didn’t need to hear details on the neurosis in Bix’s head and the minute problems Bix was so good at complaining about. Everything in Bix’s life paled in comparison to his father’s struggle against ALS. - Keep it light.
Asking general questions will keep the conversation general. “How are you doing?” is better than “how are you feeling about your condition?” or any questions about his time in his numerous comas, his lack of mobility, or his thoughts on the life he’s lived. - Stay for at least two hours.
The hardest rule to follow, but the one Bix values the most. His father is not always in a talkative mood, which makes visiting more awkward (though they’ve helped him get more reading done). Regardless, Bix was always determined to give his father company. Even if the two of them sat in silence, Bix knew it was better to give his dad some company.
“Why were you late?” Irving asked.
Bix looked up to see his father still smiling—he always smiled—looking right at him. “I forgot my book at home today,” he said. “The last time I did that I had to read a copy of Runner’s World you had laying around.”
“What’s wrong with Runner’s World?”
“Nothing if you’re a runner.”
“Maybe you’ll start running one day.”
“Is that why you keep a subscription? In case I want to go out for a run?”
“No,” his father shook his head weakly, “in case I want to go out for a run.”
They both laughed at Irving’s self-deprecating humor. Stubbornness had kept a man who had been bedridden for a year and wheelchair-bound for the previous three subscribed to a magazine written for runners. Stubbornness and a genuine love for running, a passion that had been taken from him. Bix often wondered if memories did more to sustain his father or if they acted as a painful reminded of how quickly and completely his body betrayed him.
Bix would never ask such a question. That would be far from keeping it light.
“I was hoping,” Irving started, “you wouldn’t be coming today.”
Bix twisted his face. “And what, miss all this?” He stuck his arms out in an overdramatic shrug. “Come on, Dad! Where else would I want to be?”
Irving laughed himself into a noisy wheeze. Phlegm and other fluids built up in his throat hole, causing a disturbing gurgling to emerge. “No,” Irving spoke a bit louder, to be heard over the sound of the fluid, smile still plastered on his face, “I was hoping maybe you had a date. It is Friday night.”
“Oh!” Bix exclaimed, teasing, “what, you’re making fun of me now? Or do you just want some time to yourself with one of these nurses?”
“I’m serious,” Irving countered. “You’ve got to start taking care of yourself.
Taking care of myself? Bix wondered.
“You spend all your time here,” Irving tried to continue, but couldn’t. The spittle built up in his throat and one of the many machines at his bedside beeped softly.
A small, blue-scrubbed Filipina nurse walked into the room with a shallow pink bucket full of equipment. She pulled on a pair of clear plastic gloves with expert speed and went to work suctioning the fluid from Irving’s neck hole.
Bix knew well enough to look away as the machine beeped—a Pavolonian response—but he couldn’t avoid the tingle of goose pimples during the process. No matter where he point his head, he still heard the whir of the suction device. It sounded like a mix between a handheld Black and Decker vacuum cleaner Bix had in his first apartment and the little plastic hose the dentist sticks in your mouth to suck out all the blood, spit, and toothpaste. Bix hated the sensation of that dental suction thing. Every time he got a cleaning, the hose would push up against the side of his mouth or his tongue and get stuck. He couldn’t imagine the feeling of that device on the inside of his throat.
He shuddered at the thought and nervously ran his hands through his hair, hoping to hide his fear.
On her way out of the room, the nurse looked at Bix and smiled. Bix smiled back. Neither were particularly happy at that moment, but some social construct had them exchange artificial pleasantries.
“Why not her?” Irving asked, his voice much clearer. “She thinks you’re nice. She tells me so.”
“What?” Bix, confused. “Go out with her?”
“This is no way to live. You’re here every day… what are you going to do with life?”
“You’re being ridiculous, Dad,” Bix shook his head dismissively. “I can come here and have a life. I work hard, I come here, but I enjoy myself and spend time with my friends, too.”
“Who?” Irving challenged, “Tony?”
Bix laughed. “Yes, Tony. I thought you liked Tony?”
“He’s turned his life around, from what you tell me. I like Tony, but Tony is more a part of your past than your future.”
They looked at each other deeply. Bix arms crossed, frowning with anger in his eyes, Irving, arms laying lifelessly at his side, smiling wide.
“What are you going to do with life?” Irving asked once more.
“I don’t know!” Bix exclaimed. “I mean I’m doing it, aren’t I? I’m not totally unhappy but I’m not totally happy, but that’s normal, isn’t it? Right? Do you want to know what I’m doing when I’m not here? How I’m spending my time?”
“No,” Irving shook his head slightly, “Not now. Later. What will you do later?”
“I don’t know what will happen, Dad. I’m just kind of living it.”
“I don’t know either, Bix,” Irving answered, “I wish I had some idea about it. That’s all.”
Tenseness permeated the room. Irving turned his head towards the window and Bix once again opened up his book.
He opened his book and tried to read from it, but was too upset to make sense of the words. Taking care of myself? he considered the words, swishing them around in his mouth like a wine tasting. He had always been independent, perhaps to a fault. His pride had stopped him from asking for any financial support except in the most dire of circumstances and even then he tormented himself for hours before breaking down to call his father, who, with nothing but love in his voice, said, “Of course I can help you out. You can always come to me when you need it.” Those words only made Bix feel guiltier, like he was taking advantage of kindness he didn’t deserve.
The past was to visit. The present the part of life he was forced in which to live. Why did his father have to bring up the future? They both knew it wasn’t going to start until Irving was gone.