Chapter 1

Every now and then, one sees things in which the brain cannot assign value. Still, the brain fires synapses and translates the sight into that which can be defined by the words and images to which it had been previously exposed so that it may file the images away as memory.

Think to your discovery of a word and having the thought that the word prior to the discovery had never been present in your world until your ears took notice of it. The word exists. And by the proof of seeing it on a page amongst other words, it clearly had existed prior to your discovery. In fact, with a minuscule amount of research, you can learn the etymological history of the word to further prove that it existed in the past as well as the present and will move into the future. Think further to now having knowledge of that word. It becomes a part of your habit and you become receptive to the sight and sound of the word. In fact, the word presents itself more frequently until the word is as common as any other in your vernacular.

Now think to the strange occurrences of sight and sound and taste and smell and touch.

A person walks through their days seeing things they cannot connect with anything they have seen in the past and therefore cannot assign value to the sight.

There are numinous people walking amongst the masses both fearful and fascinated, open to the sights and sounds and feelings that others cannot see because they are clouded with ignorance and indifference. Those open to the dehiscence of the universe are the ostranenie. And when they share with others their perspective, there is an immediate reaction to insulate our thoughts from theirs with the cloud of perceived normalcy. But, just as a change in temperature causes the formation and dissipation of fog, so too a change in reception changes perception.

Chapter 2

Her name was Anne Marie, but everyone in the neighborhood called her Ree. Ree knew Sevy when he walked into the bar whose name was long forgotten. The bracket that remained over the door was evidence of the heavy sign, once a beacon for the neighborhood to come and quench their thirst before the days of prohibition. The white walls were covered with announcements and mirrors. The lighting was bright and odd for a neighborhood tap room. The lighting was one of the reasons Sevy liked coming to this tavern. He was cautious about people being in the shadows around him. Ree pulled the tap for a light pilsner filling a glass mug for Sevy. She said no words to him as she placed it down on one cocktail napkin and placed a second napkin in front of him on the bar.

Sevy picked up the mug and looked through the liquid. He eyed the beverage from rim to base and thought consciously that the beer looked clear of debris and would be safe to imbibe. As usual, he took it all into his mouth in almost one mouthful. He placed the empty mug back on the bar for his barmaid. She knew the routine. She picked up the empty mug without comment and stuffed it right over the scrub brush in the sink to wash any residue away and display her work on a mat used to aerate the clean glasses before reusing. Sevy watched her work in silence and only after the mug was sitting clean and drying did he speak.

"Did you read the newspaper this morning," Sevy questioned?

Ree shook her head in negation.

Sevy looked to his left and right assessing the other patrons of the bar before relating the information he remembered from the newspaper to his bartender. "You didn’t read about Fletcher?"

Ree leaned on the bar and smiled, "Darlin’, if it ain’t happenin’ in this neighborhood, I ain’t wastin’ my time tryin’ to figure it out."

Sevy’s brow furrowed.

Ree knew her words would not stop Sevy from talking. They went through this routine almost every afternoon. Sevy always had something he wanted to discuss. And Ree let him talk.

"Fletcher was killed in London."

"England," Ree questioned?

Sevy pursed his lips holding in his reprimand for not being more aware of global occurrences. He nodded as he reached into the briefcase he carried to pull out a newspaper.

The briefcase was soft Italian tanned bridle leather with an oversized brass buckle holding a lock. It came into Sevy’s possession from his father and before his father had it Sevy did not know who carried the bag.

He read from the front page, "Fletcher had been helping to control a small demonstration when shots from an automatic weapon were responsible for what would become a fatal stomach wound." Sevy looked up to his bartender and confidant. "They are calling it a murder. Listen," Sevy was reading the article aloud but no longer cared if anyone else was drawing in his words. "Woman Police Constable Yvonne Fletcher, 25 died soon after the shooting at Westminster Hospital." Sevy paused and took out a journal and a pen as he said, "she did not die at the scene." He paused before saying, "Westminster Hospital," and then took another long silent pause before continuing aloud, "Horseferry Road. That’s almost two miles away from St. James Square." Sevy picked up the newspaper again and said, "There was a protest at the Libyan People’s Bureau. Yvonne Fletcher was on patrol to control the demonstration and gunfire came from an automatic weapon. Ten other people were injured. What happened to them? Who are they? Now the Libyans have diplomats trapped inside Britain’s embassy in Tripoli." Sevy wrote notes in his journal. He transferred the words from the article as well as making notations of his own opinions on the matter.

Ree looked at the clock and asked Sevy if he was ready for his second beer. Sevy looked up from his book and papers. He nodded and waved his pen at her before closing his eyes, again furrowing his brow to help untangle the thoughts that seemed to be twisting into a morass within his head.

Sevy rubbed his fingertips against his forehead to relax the muscles. He looked up to the tin punched tiles of the ceiling. He put his things back into the leather briefcase and as his hand touched the metal of the buckle to secure the contents, two people he had never seen before walked into the tap room. A woman he estimated at thirty-five years of age and her companion who was visibly older from the looks of the silver streaks in his hair but whose skin was pale and smooth as porcelain sat at a back table.

Sevy reached in his lapel pocket and pulled a soft pack of Lucky Strikes. He lit his unfiltered cigarette and slid his fingertip over the light green circle surrounding the red center of the pack.

Ree placed another mug of pilsner down on the bar over a fresh cocktail napkin and Sevy nodded in silence. She placed a red plastic ashtray on the bar and lit one of her own cigarettes after placing an additional napkin within Sevy’s reach.

"Are they from around here," Sevy questioned while nodding to the couple who had taken a place at a table in the back?

Ree shook her head in negation, "I’ve never seen them before. They just ordered whiskey. Didn’t even have a preference on which one."

Sevy took out his journal again and started writing. Ree rolled her eyes. She knew her regular customer was sitting making notes on those things he thought were unusual. She busied herself with side work waiting for the afternoon to pass.

Sevy nursed his second beer. With every sip, he wiped his fingerprints off the glass and wiped a napkin around the rim to clean any residue from his mouth.

The couple motioned to Ree and she attended them quickly to find out if they wanted some food.

"I can get you something from Ralph and Rickey’s but we don’t have a cook in here right now."

Ree returned to the bar and opened the register to pull from under the cash drawer a takeout menu from a sandwich shop across the street.

She leaned in to Sevy and asked if he wanted some food as well. He declined but whispered to Ree, "see if you can find out what they are doing here," as he motioned toward the unfamiliar duo.

When he snuffed out his cigarette, he folded it within a napkin that sat before him and after touching the folded napkin several times to assure the item was cool, he stuffed the pack into his briefcase.

"They just moved into the neighborhood," Ree reported. "They said they moved in down the street." Knowing Sevy's next question, she continued, "What street? I don’t know yet." She placed the takeout menu once again before Sevy and said, "Let me get you a sandwich honey."

Sevy nodded. He was interested in watching the newcomers. He listened as Ree dialed the sandwich shop and ordered four meatball parms. Sevy never would have eaten a meatball from an unknown source but both Ralph and Rickey were in the neighborhood as long as he could remember and the two brothers cooked for him as frequently as his mother would let them.

Sevy stayed in the tavern to eat his sandwich and drink a glass of cola as two was his personal daily limit for alcoholic beverages outside the comfort of his home.

۝

Sevy walked down the street to his home looking intently at the sidewalk cracks as his feet passed over each one. He walked past his house to the stop sign and then crossed the street to walk back assuring no one was following him. When he was directly across the street from his house, he leaned up against a street light pole and lit another Lucky Strike. He stood smoking and dropping ash at the curb as he looked at the front of his house and his fathom green Chevy Camaro. There was no movement from within. The only person who lived in the house was standing outside looking at the exterior brick. When he smoked half his cigarette, he snuffed the edge on the light pole and held the short fag in his palm.

Sevy stepped off the curb and looked south to see there was no oncoming traffic and crossed to the steps leading to his front door. He depressed the button on the handle of the storm door assuring it remained locked as he left it. He reached into his jacket pocket to reveal a key case that looked to be a leather wallet. When unclasped, there were six hooks allowing Sevy to carry all the keys for his home in a tidy package. He opened the screen door and again went through the testing process to assure his house remained locked while he was out. When he was in his home, he secured the doors again engaging the locks.

Sevy pulled the newspaper from his briefcase again looking at the article recounting activities in London and Libya. He read the words over and over again while sitting at his kitchen table.

Woman Police Constable Yvonne Fletcher, 25 was fatally shot during a protest outside the Libyan Embassy at St. James Square. Fletcher was deployed as part of a patrol of 30 officers to control the small protest at the Libyan Embassy. Eleven people were struck by ammunition from a Sterling sub-machine gun that came from the first floor of the embassy. Fetcher's fiancé remained at her side while transported to Westminster Hospital where she died within the hour.

Sevy read the headline again: Murder of London Officer. He looked at the word murder over and over again. It was not an accidental fatality in the eyes of this journalist.

Sevy pulled the journal in which he had been writing and the pen he used to write. He placed the pen back into his briefcase and opened the journal to a fresh page. He walked to a hulking piece of furniture separating his living space into two specific rooms. The desk was made by the Derby Desk Company in Boston Massachusetts in 1809 from the wood of a walnut tree. It belonged to Sevy’s grandfather and became Sevy’s when he passed away. Sevy placed his hands on the tambour and slid them from top to bottom to feel the ribbing of the interwoven wooden slats under his fingertips. He always ran his hand along the desk in this manner before exposing the innards containing the compartments for his personal things. He slid a drawer toward him and pulled a mechanical pencil made from metal and black glass. He depressed a button with his thumb on the pencil to push forward small pieces of lead through the chamber. Satisfied with the contents, he placed his hand on the drawer to hide it again under the shutter of the roll top desk. But, as his hand reached to slide the wooden slats into position, he heard voices outside his door and stood frozen with his hand hovering in mid-air. Sevy could not discern the words but remained twelve feet from the door. A muffled laughter erupted. The only words Sevy could distinguish were, yes I will. He wondered who will and what had they been willing to do?

When the air again was silent, he moved to the front of the house, and moved the drapes slightly with his fingertips. He looked to the front street to find an absence of people. Whoever had been speaking had gone. He looked through the small crack he made in the window dressing to the south and to the north but could see nothing out of place. He stood for a full three minutes without realizing the time that passed waiting for activity before his house. There was nothing.

When Sevy moved from the window, he walked to the door and disengaged the deadbolt lock. He reengaged the lock. Over and over until he had completed eight cycles of unlocking and locking and then walked through the room to the kitchen, tapping the arch of the doorway as he passed. He flipped the light switch to illuminate the room and spread out the newspaper to cover even more of the white speckled formica surface of the table.

Sevy went to task underlining words he thought were integral to the article about Yvonne Fletcher. Murder. He noticed the word murder only once. The word was used in the headline but not the body of the article. He read the article over and over placing a small dot under any word that began with the letter m. He then took the fresh page of the journal and filled it with all those words. He looked for the words to make sense. He looked for a pattern that could be configured differently to unravel the mystery of the article. He found nothing. He turned the page and wrote all the words he had underlined. Sevy expected the words to swirl before him creating reason. Again, the words sat still on the paper.

The phone rang startling Sevy into motion. He rose from the vinyl seat of his chair and pulled the receiver from the base that hung on the wall.

"Hello," he questioned in a relaxed tone and then stood quietly for a moment listening to the caller? Sevy replied, "Thank you. I’m on my way."

He looked at the time on his wristwatch. It was 7:42 pm. The sky was letting pink light wash over his home. When he hung up the phone, Sevy went to work folding the newspaper and returning it with his journal to his briefcase. He returned the mechanical pencil to its home within a compartment drawer behind the shutter on his desk after performing the habitual stroke of the slats. He walked through his house and turned some lamps on and others that had been on, off. When he was satisfied with the state of his home, he went to the front door and disengaged the deadbolt only once and then when he pulled the handle to close the door, he turned the key to lock and unlock the deadbolt from the outside eight times and then again performed the habit on the storm door before stepping from the front and visually examining his house from the roof to foundation. He walked north on his street and then turned left to walk west.

     Sevy walked to Wharton St. quickly. He made a direct path to Broad and then turned north. As he walked, he noticed the dead birds on the ground. He thought consciously, it is dead bird season again. He noticed when he was young that during the late spring and early summer each year the sidewalks were peppered with dead baby birds. And then within weeks, there were full grown and feathered birds that met their end lying on their sides atop the warm concrete. To the very vocal disappointment of his family, Sevy explored the seasonal aviary demise several times throughout his life. Every year there are seasons that people accept and even await. Allergies, pumpkin, tomato, flies, June bugs – or as Sevy knew them, lightening bugs. The cicadas come every seven years. It is no stranger to notice the cycle of dead baby birds than any of these other creatures and vegetables. And still the words he found to ask if anyone else had noticed dead birds, were classified as morbid by adults and gross by children.

     This evening Sevy walked cupping his hand over his forehead as the sun was low in the sky and shone bright showing the purple and pink streaks in the sky.

     When Sevy arrived at the corner of Broad and Wharton, he walked past to a space on Rosewood Street where the garage connecting the sidewalk to the business stands, and pulled the key wallet from his pocket to unlock the t-shaped handle and pull the gate up exposing a hearse. He visually inspected the car and unlocked the door to deposit his briefcase in the passenger seat. He placed orange traffic cones on the asphalt marking the space he would need when he returned from the pick-up he had been called to make.

      Mrs. Megglio stood on the opposite side of the street wrapped in a fur stole. Her boney fingers waved with scarlet red nails, “Are you working Sevy?”

     Sevy nodded and walked across to place his hand upon Mrs. Megglio's elbow and kiss her cheek. “Yes ma'am.”

     She made the sign of the cross and said, “God bless you.” She placed her hand over the space concealing her heart and continued, “It's so sad, isn't it?”

     Sevy did not know of what Mrs. Megglio spoke but she always had this vague sorrow she would convey. Her husband emerged from his store and locked the door. He reached up to pull a metal grate over the windows that spanned the building and locked them in place before extending his hand for a shake to Sevy.

     Sevy responded with the handshake and a nod of his head and said, “Have a good night.”

     He walked back to his place of business and turned the key in the brass doorknob before walking through double wooden doors onto the marble tile of the foyer. Beneath the stained glass transom containing the numbers 1244, he tapped the door jamb eight quick times. He walked to his office door and opened it giving a visual inspection. Everything seemed in order. Sevy walked from his office to find his brother Anthony standing in the hall. He nodded at his twin and walked from the building to the car and drove to a hospital less than a mile away.

     Picking up a body had always been just work for Sevy. He grew up in the funerary industry having his father and grandfather morticians before he moved into the business. He grew up in the home above the building housing the business and on the days they didn't spend in their shore home, Sevy's parents still lived in the quarters above.

     The staff at the hospital knew Sevy well. The administrative desk at the front nodded to Sevy indicating she knew he was there and then picked up a phone to call another desk. She spoke in hushed tones and then motioned to Sevy. He walked over and leaned into her as she spoke.

    “The family is still up with him. You can wait here.”

     Sevy took a seat in a molded plastic chair. He opened his briefcase and gathered the papers he needed to complete. He clipped a fresh packet of pages to a brown fiberboard clipboard and reviewed it again before rising, handing it to the administrator still without words.

     The administrator threw Sevy nervous shaky smiles every now and then. She thought it was strange that he dressed so formally each time he came to pick up a body. Other morticians would come in various stages of dress. Sevy though has only ever come to the hospital in a three piece suit with a necktie fixing his collar close to his throat. In the winter, he would wear a long dark overcoat and brimmed hat. His body was thin and she thought it to be even skinny. Although his age was twenty four, he looked much older. His hands had long skinny fingers with hardly any fat to cushion the skin that stretched over his bones. In the cold dark months of winter she would look at his paler skin and wonder if he was really just a skeleton under the suit.

     When the paperwork was complete, she motioned toward Sevy to take his papers. He inspected them to assure everything was in its place and returned them to their place in his briefcase. Sevy approached the administrator to ask how long she estimates the family would be with the decedent. With her estimate, he walked with his briefcase to the outside and lit a Lucky Strike to smoke and look at his wristwatch.

     Sevy looked at the people moving in and out of the hospital. At this time of evening, there were more people going than coming. Visiting hours were concluding. The emergency room entrance was on the opposite side of the building. There was no chaotic activity and the sirens of ambulances were muffled.

    Sevy finished his cigarette and snuffed the butt on the bricks of the wall. He pulled a tissue pack from his briefcase to wrap the butt.

    When Sevy walked up to the administrator's desk, she was on the phone. Although Sevy was walking toward the waiting chair, she motioned for him to come to the desk. The body was ready for removal.

     Sevy walked outside again and pulled the hearse into the loading zone designated for the job and went up the staff elevator with a gurney and thick black bag taken from the back of his car. A nurse met Sevy at the double doors of the pediatric ward. She smiled with discomfort having met him before. She sighed heavily having just spoken to colleagues wishing it was not Sevy who comes to pick up the deceased children.

    “The last thing we need after one of these babies die is a tall creepy guy who looks like the angel of death in a black suit picking them up.”

     “How are you today Sevy,” she still asked with a cheerful disposition although Sevy knew the smile curling around her lips was phony?

     “I'm quite well. Is everything finished,” Sevy asked stolidly? He wanted to get the body out of the pediatric ward with as little interaction as possible.

     The nurse nodded knowing the everything to which Sevy was inquiring. Was the paperwork filled out? Did the family have enough time with the decedent? Is everyone out of the room and has enough time elapsed so that he will not see the family members while exiting the hospital. Little details that could not only encumber the time frame, but has the potential to disrupt the function of the hospital and the lives of the bereft, not to mention those with children in the hospital with the potential to heal.

     Sevy wheeled his gurney into the room and closed the door behind him. He pulled down the white sheet and allowed the air to touch the body. He unfolded and unzipped the thick black plastic bag and laid it open on the gurney. He pushed the lever on the hospital bed to make it parallel to the floor. It lowered to the same height as the gurney. Sevy opened a small black bag and draped a plastic lined black apron over his suit. He threaded his fingers though vinyl gloves that stretched over the cuffs of his jacket. He placed plastic goggles over his eyes. Finally, he covered his face with a white handkerchief that was folded into a triangle.

     Sevy put his hands around the ankles of the child. He moved her legs onto the gurney and slid her body closer to the movable bed. He then moved to her shoulders and slid her so that her body was fully supported by the gurney and within the black bag. He wheeled it away from the bed and put his body between the gurney and the hospital bed. He smoothed out the soiled sheets and pulled the white sheet over the bed again.

     Sevy knew the next thing to happen in the room would be someone from the custodial staff to strip the bed and sanitize the room. Others, including Sevy's brother, leave the sheets in disarray knowing the expectation is to remove them fully. Sevy still always made the sheets smooth before he left a hospital room.

     Sevy zipped the black bag, checked the sides to assure it was centered on the gurney and then pulled from his small black bag a clean white sheet to drape over the bag containing the expired little girl. He then took off the protective gloves, goggles and apron. He pulled the handkerchief down around his neck and untied the knot he made with his boney fingers placing all his items into a plastic zippered bag and then placed that within his black leather bag. He placed his black leather bag on the foot of the gurney, opened the door to the hall and went to the nurse’s station to ask permission to walk through to the elevator once again.

     The nurse nodded. She never rejected his request to walk to the elevator and again, no other mortician who made these pick-ups asked permission to walk with their charge through to the elevator.

     Sevy returned to the room, propped the door open and then wheeled the deceased to the elevator on the gurney, sealed in a black plastic bag and covered with a white sheet that smelled of disinfecting bleach.

     He loaded the body into the hearse and drove back to the funeral home. It was just a job for him. This day he noticed how many funeral parlors he passed between the hospital and his workplace. Seven. Within one mile, there were two hospitals and seven funeral parlors.

     Sevy backed into the open garage and opened sliding stainless steel doors of an elevator with the press of a button. Inside the elevator, he opened the doors opposite on the same level of the building in which he stood. He wheeled the gurney through a hall into a sterile room leaving the body on the gurney within.

     Sevy took the large elevator upstairs to the level of the building in which the parlor was housed. He walked to his office, opened the door and looked inside. Everything was in its place. He removed his suit coat and hung it in the closet on a wooden hanger. He went to his desk to pull from a drawer elastic belts he slid over his shirt sleeves to keep them secure while he worked. Sevy heard voices and walked across the hall to his brother's office. Inside were the parents of the little girl who he just picked up. He stood at the threshold listening to his brother comfort them and review the arrangements they had previously discussed.

     Anthony's eyes did not acknowledge Sevy's presence. Anthony did not take any notes during this consultation. Instead, he used a concealed recorder to assure he gave his full attention to the bereft and could review their complete wishes for the final arrangements when he needed.

     Sevy took a drink of water from the water fountain in the hall and then went into the restroom to relieve his bladder and wash his face before returning downstairs to get to work preserving the body for the funeral.

     His work room was kept cold. It was a frigid 48 degrees. Sevy opened a closet and threaded his arms through two plastic sleeves covering his shirt sleeves. He pulled a plastic apron over his head and secured it with a snap on the back of the waistband. He covered his shoes with plastic covers and finally threaded his fingers through vinyl gloves. He opened his black medical bag and took the small plastic bag he used in the hospital and deposited it into a plastic barrel in his prep room. He then wheeled the gurney to a permanent stainless steel table that stood to the side in this room but directly under a line of fluorescent light bulbs. In the same manner and with the same care he placed the body into the bag, he removed it and put it onto his work table. He wheeled the gurney out of his way and zipped the black body bag to dispose of it in the plastic barrel.

     Sevy went to work with a scalpel and tubes, draining fluids and gases from the body and filling it with embalming fluid to stop tissue decay. He showed special care in placing cotton soaked in the embalming fluid under the eyelids to keep their shape. Finally, he shaved the skin of her face to ready it for the make-up artist who would come in the day before the service.

     Sevy put the stiff and cold body back on to the gurney for transport across the room into a cooler to further retard the process of decay. He closed the door and placed the placard he prepared earlier into an identification slot on the metal door. He then went to work discarding the disposable tools and putting the reusable tools into cleaning fluids for sanitizing. He used a disposable cloth to wipe down all surfaces and then finally took the protective plastic coverings from his body and dropped them into the plastic barrel before sealing the liner bag. He turned off the lights and locked the prep room.

     As he rode the elevator up to the office and parlor level of the building, he adjusted his shirt sleeves and minutes after he was back in his office, he removed the elastic belts from his sleeves and threaded his arms again through his suit coat.

     Sevy sat in the chair behind his desk. He listened for activity in the parlor. He heard nothing. He wondered if his brother remained. It was unusual for Anthony to leave without acknowledgment. But it was not unusual for him to leave Sevy to the work in the prep room without interruption.

     While he worked, he did not think about the little girl. It was a body to him. If he was a butcher, he would equate it to being a slab of meat. A butcher never thought of the cow in the field when he was cutting steaks. But in his office, without his apron and goggles, he knew the girl was a person. She had thoughts and smiles and words that would no longer emerge from the shell that used to house the things giving her individuality. Sevy knew when her parents came to the funeral parlor it would be him to make this pick up and prepare her body for the funeral. Anthony did not do children. He never did. Sevy attributes it to the trauma of seeing their sister die as a child. Anthony had never admitted that his discomfort in performing the service on a child is a result of witnessing his sister's accident. Sevy did not share the discomfort. He also would never coerce his brother into picking up a child or presiding over a child's memorial service knowing the memory his twin keeps locked away.

۝

     Sevy and Anthony grew up in the funeral parlor. Their parents owned the business. Sevy and Anthony's grandparents were from Italy. They spoke very little English which was the language common in their neighborhood and the little English they spoke was broken. Sevy and Anthony were six years old and their grandparents had been babysitting. Their sister Corina had been four years old. She had long thick brown plaits on either side of her head and the three of them had been playing hide and seek in the house. Nonno Moscara had been listening to opera and drinking red wine and Nona Moscara had been cooking while Sevy's parents worked downstairs in the parlor. Nona Moscara gave the children a snack of green grapes and apple juice. The children sat at the table and were laughing and telling jokes while they ate. The grapes were slippery and while laughing, a grape slid into Corina's throat and stopped her breathing. By the time her head fell to the table alerting the boys of the accidental choking, she had not had air for several minutes. By the time Nona Moscara realized the boys were calling for help and not laughing, Corina had been without air even longer. And by the time Nona Moscara ran the girl down to the parlor for the phone call to emergency services, it had been too long for Corina to be without air. Anthony never spoke about having to see his sister lose her life to a grape and he never spoke about having to see his sister carried from the house to another funeral parlor because Sevy's father did not want to perform the service in his own home for one of his children.

     Sevy wanted to talk about the accident over and over again with anyone who would listen. He wanted to broach the topic of preserving life and explore the question why anyone had to die. He wanted to explore the chemicals being used to retard the decomposition being used to preserve life. At the time of his sister's death, he had been around grief more times than anyone should, but Corina was left to be an unspoken mystery. In the years that followed all signs of Corina were discarded and anyone visiting would be hard pressed to find any evidence of a daughter who lived in the home.

۝

     The analog clock over the door frame showed it was after ten pm. Sevy inhaled deeply and lit a Lucky Strike at his desk. As he exhaled and closed his eyes, Anthony came and poured himself into a chair.

    “You finished,” Anthony asked knowing Sevy would not be in his office if he had not completed his work?

     Sevy nodded without words.

     “Did you walk here tonight?”

     Again, Sevy nodded silently.

     “You want a ride home?”

     Sevy nodded and asked, “Did you finish what you need to do tonight?”

     Anthony replied, “Yeah. I hate when it's a kid.”

     Sevy snuffed out his cigarette and said, “I know.”

     Anthony stood and walked to the door. Sevy walked to the door picking up his briefcase on the way out and looked one last time at his office before flipping the light switch.

Journal - April 18, 1984

Roxanne Addolorata. D.O.B. April 12, 1976. D. O.D. April 18, 1984. Roxanne was eight years old when she sustained injuries from a collision with a car while riding her bike on her birthday. Roxanne was said to have internal bleeding and was kept alive long enough for family members to arrive and say final farewells. Her paternal grandparents lived three states away and the little girl was put on machines to keep her body alive so that when they arrived, her face would not have to be exposed from under a white sheet without movement from breath. I don't know anything about the driver of the car that struck the little girl and unless it becomes a social issue for change in speed limits, traffic signals or bicycle laws, it is doubtful that I will ever know anything about the driver.

Anthony did his best to care for the parents needs professionally while I cared for the utility of the job. We do make a good team. As hard as it was for him to talk to Roxannes' parents to determine what accommodations they wanted for the services, it was as difficult for me to treat this case as just a pick up. I wanted to find out what was done to keep the girl's body alive and what prevented the same methods to be explored to keep her mind alive. It is the heart and the brain together; it is the vascular and the nervous system that need to work together to keep a person whole.

If the vascular system can remain functional by mimicking the machine of the body, then why is it unfathomable to bring someone back from loss of brain function?