All This Life

He has one more bite of his eggs, retches. He knows he’ll sneak back to his room, get his suitcase, and walk out. But he’s going to leave this plate of leftovers on the table, so someone remembers he was here.

HE’S HOLDING THE Ziploc bag up for the TSA agent to inspect, cradling it across his arm like an injured animal. He says, “This is my sister. I’m bringing her back.”

“We see a lot of cremains pass through here,” she says, a sixty-something white woman with oxblood hair, “but they’re usually in a. . you know. . proper. . receptacle.”

“I know; I will. This is my sister,” he says again.

“I’m so sorry, dear,” she says.

“Thanks.”

“Let us x-ray her and then you can go.”

Gently, Noah911 places them in one of those gray plastic bins, the conveyor belt carrying her through the machine.

“Take care of yourself,” the TSA agent says to him.

He wants to reciprocate her compassion. The people in her profession have the rap of having no grace. Noah911 has had this thought many times, slowly snaking through these screening lines, but this woman, this one woman, has been kind to him.

“I like your hair,” he says.

She smiles, averts her eyes, caught off-guard.

“Get your sister, dear,” she says.

HE SITS ON the airplane, somewhere around 35,000 feet, and has the ashes sitting on his tray table. He’s alone in his row, the plane filled with empty seats. Noah911 stares at the baggy. He’s with her. A handful of Tracey.

He caresses the outside of the baggy and shuts his eyes, feeling a bit of peace, a sliver of it, being alone with Tracey.

It’s not torture having these ashes. At least, not in this moment.

His face doesn’t hurt and the broken rib isn’t too bad, and he knows what he has to do with the ashes. It’s obvious. Noah911 smiles and every jolt of anxiety and guilt subsides. He doesn’t know if this feeling will last and he doesn’t care.

Gently, he pets the outside of the baggy.

Tenderly, he brings the baggy up to his lips, kissing it.

Quietly, he says, “I know how we can find peace.”

17

Paul storms into the police station and says to the officer behind the front desk, “I need to see Detective Esperanto.”

“Regarding?”

“My son.”

“What’s your name?”

“My kid is missing.”

“Name.”

“My son is actively communicating with me and the officer has to have this piece of information so we can pinpoint his location.”

“Communicating how?”

“He just said to me ‘I’m here.’”

“He called you?”

“Twitter.”

“He posted that to Twitter?”

“We have to track his cell so we can find him.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Paul Gamache.”

“Have a seat.”

Paul does not have a seat. He walks toward the window, doesn’t notice the weather or time of day. Those details from this world don’t matter. Nothing matters except where Jake is.

It is also apparent that his ex, Naomi, would be so much better at all this. She’d never be kept waiting. She’d have earned the cops’ trust and respect and would know everything about the case. Paul knows nothing, except that his boy vanished on his watch and the guilt that pumps like adrenaline. But specifics? Paul couldn’t tell you shit and that embarrasses him so much. He needs to do a better job, needs to stop being so soft, so easily placed aside. He needs to demand, not ask, for the attention he deserves.

That was what made Paul stampede to the station in the first place: Jake answering him, reaching out. The boy might be missing in an analog sense but his voice comes through digitally. He is here, as he said he was, and now Paul has to unite his Jakes.

Paul is back on his side of the desk, watching the cop fill out an ancient-looking form by hand.

“What did he say?” Paul asks the officer.

“I’m sorry?”

“Esperanto.”

“I’m finishing something up and then I’ll call him.”

“Call now,” he says, wishing Naomi could see this.

“Excuse me?”

“Call him now.”

“Don’t raise your voice.”

“My son is missing.”

Paul opens up the laptop, logs on, refreshes his feed, sees there’s a new tweet from Jake: I am striking out on my own, @Paul_Gamache.

“This came in while I was driving over,” says Paul, turning his computer around and thrusting it at the cop, who only sits there.

The cop doesn’t read from the laptop, doesn’t make eye contact with Paul. She picks up the phone and says, “Paul Gamache is here. And he’s pissed.”

She hangs up and Paul says, “Thanks.”

She doesn’t answer.

“I’m not pissed. I’m scared,” he says.

She’s back to filling out that old form.

The door between the waiting area and the actual precinct opens, and Esperanto waddles out. If at first Paul lamented the young age of the initial officer on the scene, Paul wishes Esperanto were in better shape. He has the lumbering look of an old athlete with no cartilage left in his knees.

“What can I do for you?” he asks Paul.

“It’s Jake. He’s talking to me on Twitter.”

“Is this how you normally communicate with him?”