It Was To Be Expected

The shock of the fall was still on Mother‘s face when I found her at the bottom of the stairs. If only she had been plucked discretely by the Reaper, with no knowledge of the end—not that losing her would have been any easier; just that, perhaps, my skin would have crawled a little bit less. She lied limp on the expensive Italian marble floor. Her eyes—blue like the lagoons on our last trip to Tahiti—were open, looking up as if searching for a way out. I pulled down the hem of her night robe to preserve her dignity. This one was her favorite, white with dark blue lilies—her family’s beloved fleur de lys.

All was still. The velvety walls held their breaths and reflected upon the turning of this page in our family history. I took nervous, shallow breaths, under the watchful eyes of our forebears, all comfortably perched in their portraits, eyes stern, lips pinched; the soft rattle of rain drops on the glass windows a substitute for their voices. Containing my emotions was no easy feat. I dug into the pocket of my trench coat and pulled my phone.

“Hello… I just arrived at my mother’s home and I found her on the floor.” I said to the operator. “She’s not breathing. I don’t know how long she’s been there.” Then I let the operator know I had talked to her that morning and, to my knowledge, no-one else had been in the house. My voice did not break and I was calmer than I would have expected.

For a moment, I paused and stared at Mother, wondering if she had suffered. Then she and I waited, lulled by the humming of the showers outside, until the police arrived.

The detective entered first and slipped on a pair of overshoes. Then the team followed, mirroring him.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Ma’am.” His voice was devoid of emotions. I could tell he meant none of those words and merely said them as a matter of habit.

“Thank you,” I replied anyway, matching his tone.

He crouched to look at Mother and took some notes, speaking to no one. His face was cold and calculating. I suppose that was part of the job but it was a strange thing to experience outside of a screen. He stood and stepped towards me.

“Did you see anyone leave the house? Was the door locked when you arrived?” Two questions at once… Perhaps I was not allowed to catch a breath or had he already placed me on his list of suspects?

“It was locked. My mother wasn’t one for visitors and she barely left the house. On rainy days, like today, she wouldn’t even go to the garden.”

“Did you touch anything or check any of the rooms?” He continued.

“No, I stayed right here and called right away. I had no reason to think it was anything but an accident.”

As I answered the detective’s questions, a medical examiner was checking Mother’s vitals and her blooming bruises. She looked pretty; not at all the kind portrayed on television. Her bouncy blonde ponytail was sleek and perfect.

“Detective Calahan! The time of death is just within the hour,” she said with a Southern accent.

“Hum…” The detective turned away from her and focused his attention back on me. “Did you hear her fall, by any chance?”

“I’m afraid not. If it happened when I was by the door, the rain most likely muffled the sound.”

He did not reply.

“Davis!” He called to a young officer. “Come. We’re gonna check out the top of the stairs to see if she might have tripped.”

“Yes, sir,” the officer replied.

They climbed the stairs—their overshoes looking like neon blue stains over the precious Persian rug—leaving me alone with the medical examiner and the rest of the team. Some were taking pictures of what was now mine by law—well, almost. It was an unsettling feeling and I did not know how to feel about it but all were gentle and respectful. That, I could appreciate. I stood immobile, drained of all emotions, as they creeped around me like ants.

The detective came back down and addressed me once again.

“Ma’am, you said your mother did not leave the house and I believe that’s true. Her slippers are clean and dry. But there’s a very fresh mud print at the top of the stairs.” Then he looked down at my dirty Martens.

My stomach sank.