guard at the subway station orders her to spread her legs, because it looks like she's hiding a bomb up there. He loses interest when she tells him she's got antibiotic resistant syphilis. After an hour, the F train never shows, because the 59th Street Bridge is closed due to a bomb threat. She hikes it north over the Triborough, then grabs the 6 Train downtown. By the time she gets to the CEM it's night, but the city is lit up so bright it feels like day.
She takes a number and waits. The woman sitting next to her is wearing a trash bag. This time, it's white and lemon scented, so slightly less offensive. She falls asleep for a while. When she wakes it's morning, and her number is three spots away. They call her name. She's up in a flash.
'Ramesh Narayan?' she asks.
A woman punches something into a computer. 'Rammy Naran? Nope. Next!'
'No, wait. You spelled it wrong. Here. ' the woman enters the name again. Then she frowns. 'Cremated or buried?'
Trina tries not to hear this. She tries very hard. There is something bad on her tongue. Bile, maybe. 'No. He was taken in for voluntary questioning. '
'So it says. ' then she leans over the counter. She is wheezing badly, and her backpack is hissing like a bum who got stabbed. 'Heart attack during interrogation,' she answers. 'Cremation or burial?'
Trina's tries to think, but the words don't make sense. She's not sure they're English. Her hand is in her mouth and she's biting hard. It tastes like salt. 'I love my dad,' she mumbles. 'And he loves me. '
'Which? Your insurance covers both,' the woman says. Her backpack is gasping.
Trina thinks about the cold bottle against her cheek. The bruise is still tender, and she touches it now, and pushes hard until it hurts. She'd like it to reverse heal. She'd like to wear the scar for the rest of her life. 'It's a mistake,' she says. 'He was going to get us out. I made a mistake. '
The woman shakes her head. 'You're right. There was a mistake. '
Trina's crying all of a sudden, from relief. 'Yes! I knew! they only took him for questioning. ' She's holding onto the counter, because otherwise she'll fall. 'Daddy!' she shouts, 'Daddy, where are you?' because maybe he'll hear her voice in one of the interrogation rooms, and know that she came all the way from Queens to rescue him. He'll know she's sorry.
The woman grabs hold of Trina's wrist like a lobster catching prey. Her grip clamps tighter when Trina tries to shake her off. 'We couldn't find next of kin. So the CEM already incinerated him. That's the mistake. He's still dead, kid. Now shut your mouth before the guards arrest you for making a racket. ' then she lets go, and places a bar-coded ticket on the counter. 'You can pick him up at that address. '
'No,' Trina says. 'that's wrong. Ramesh Narayan. Before the war he gave lectures all over the country. He was an important man. '
'The ticket,' the woman says, only Trina sees that she's not mad, just tired. Her lips are almost blue from lack of oxygen. 'Sure, maybe it's a mistake, but that's where you'll find out. '
Trina looks down at her shoes. In her mind there is a bomb at her feet. When it explodes, a hole opens in the earth, and swallows her. The girl left standing in the CEM lobby is just a shell. Made of tubes and plastic surgery. A confection of the doctor. Sweet and stupid as cotton candy.
She's panting and wet with sweat by the time she jogs the forty blocks downtown to the East Village. She'd keep running forever, if she could, but the building's name comes into view: City Morgue. She stands in front of it for a long while, catching her breath.
Unlike Jackson Heights, a lot of people in Manhattan don't have mechanical lungs. Instead they're zipped inside big plastic bubbles equipped with molecular air generators. They're skinny and they dress in high heels, even the men. They look like a different species. As they pass the front of the building, she thinks about poking holes in their generators. The air will leak slowly, and then they'll start coughing, just like everybody else.
Once inside the building, she exchanges her ticket for a number, and waits. After a while a guy with no teeth hands her a Styrofoam urn. She's not sure it's her dad, but there's a picture burned into the side. In it, Ramesh is wearing his tan work suit. His dead eyes are closed.
She'd like to eat the urn. That way she'll never forget. There were the animals that died in his lab. Little spotted mice with pink tongues. They couldn't survive the debris. There are buildings that fall. The third world war in the last twenty years. There is her mother, who used to laugh. There is her best friend Lulu. They blend together. They coalesce, like mercury. Like morphine. They bathe her. She is bathed in death.
Perhaps she'll run out of here, and never stop. There is Canada, like her dad planned. But would they really have gotten there? Or would Patriot Day have come with blood and fireworks, and then gone gently, into another day? She knows the answer, and for once it makes her think no less of him. He would have anesthetized his new port with vodka, and after a visit or two to the doctor, he'd have become just like everyone else. There was no plan for escape. There was only rage and talk. But these were better that nothing.
She walks the whole way, and doesn't get home until the next morning. Her feet are bleeding. Squish- squish.
When she walks inside, Drea is on the couch. She's been sneaking extra visits to the doctor, and Trina can tell from her dilated blue eyes that she saw him recently.
She puts the ashes on the table. The television is tuned to four channels. This time there is a view of the neighbor's apartment. The weird guy is having sex with his daughter. Drea is sad about that, so she's hiding her face. Trina can't figure out if it's really happening, or a programmed show.
She turns off the television. 'this is dad,' she says.
Drea is quiet. She knows she's supposed to explain, but she doesn't know how. She can't help it; she laughs. This is dad, light as a feather. This is my hand, covered in open sores.
Drea examines the photo, and then opens the Styrofoam top. 'If this is your father, what does that make me?' she asks.
When she wakes the next morning, she can't help it. She forgets she was supposed to remember. She spies Drea running her fingers through the ashes, and goes on automatic pilot. She calls the doctor. He can't squeeze her in until tonight. She uses Lulu's name. She figures Lulu won't care. It's all for a good cause. Just the thought of the needle makes her skin tingle. She can't wait for the needle.
Drea is playing the television so loud that it gives her a headache, so even though she'd rather stay home, she walks to school. It's Patriot Day, so everyone is wearing maroon and orange. In her black jeans and T-shirt, Trina sticks out like a bloody thumb. There aren't any classes, just lines of people waiting to sit on gurneys in the auditorium and get their free ports. Along the aisles, they're handing out Tang juice and Fluff sandwiches.
In her mind she tears the ports from kids' skulls, and watches them bleed. She tears out her own port, too. Up on the podium, the seniors are giving speeches to the underclassmen: 'Before my port I wasn't sure, but now I know I'm happy!' 'the Doctor makes everything better. ''this will be the best day of your life. '
But then Hitler interrupts the testimonials for a special announcement. Something about a pep rally and bonfire tonight after the fireworks. He wants people to bring things to burn. She stops listening until she hears Lulu's name. She's been hiding from Lulu all day, because if she sees her, it'll make what happened to her father real, instead of a dream. She'll have to talk about it. She'll have to say his name.
Hitler Lite continues. 'Complications of the complication on the complication,' he says. Blah blah blah. 'Let's bow our heads for a moment, in memory of Lulu Walker. '
Her face goes red. It's so hot she's sweating. She doesn't stay to hear any more. She's out the door.
She knows she shouldn't be here. She promised she wouldn't come. She hates him. Then again, she's got no place else to go. 'Emergency,' she tells the nurse in pleather and vinyl. 'I have to see the doctor. Lulu Walker. '
She takes a ticket. The woman sitting next to her is wearing a sheet. She's shaking like she needs a fix real bad. Trina doesn't look too closely, because the woman is Drea.
She closes her eyes and thinks about the trickle through her veins. She thinks about emptiness. She thinks about the filter in her lungs full of ashes. The dead are all around her. She is breathing them. And still the buildings topple while the televisions sing.
