Deanna Cameron - What Happened That Night

Bright yellow crime-scene tape blocked the Tomlins property, looping around the telephone poles and their mailbox, on that Tuesday morning while my family prepared breakfast. Since there were only two police cars parked on the shoulder of the road, my father speculated maybe they were robbed in the middle of night or something. My mother grabbed the phone from the kitchen counter as she cooked, her other hand reaching to turn down the heat on the oven burner as bacon sizzled in a pan.

I didnt hear their house alarm go off, she was saying to my dad, cradling the phone on her shoulder and flipping the bacon over with a fork. Ill give them a call. Maybe Her face shifted as the sound of a frantic voice came on the other line. The noise (so loud even we could hear it) interrupted my father mid-sip of his coffee. Hello, Lisa? Its Samantha.

He set down his mug, brow furrowing, as the piercing voice on the other end of the phone continued. Whats going on?

My mothers hand was still on the burner dial when she let out a breath, a word lost somewhere in the exhale. My father was mouthing something at her. I turned to my sister, Emily, sitting beside me as she stirred her cereal, barely looking up as my mother finally took her hand off the dial to cover her mouth, a gasp issuing through her teeth.

My chest tensed.

My mother was focused on something in front of her, like if she stared at the handle of her frying pan intently enough, shed be able to understand whatever was being said. The bacon started to burn, so my father turned off the heat and moved the pan, still looking at my mother, raising his eyebrows whenever she met his gaze, her lips still agape.

Finally she tilted the phone away from her mouth as the voice on the other end quietened slightly, and she craned her neck to look at my father. I was annoyed with Emily because she was chewing so loudly on her cereal, I couldnt hear Mrs. Tomlin on the phone.

Moms eyes were beginning to turn pink and water as she told us, Griffin died last night.

What? my dad asked, eyes widening. The pan slid out of his hand and fell into the sink with a deafening crash. What happened? How did he die?

I was too shocked to say anything at all. Griffin died last night. But he couldnt have. Id seen him last night, playing Marco Polo, eating hot dogs at our neighborhoods Labor Day party.

Dad leaned closer to Mom, like he thought hed heard her wrong, he must have heard her wrong, before she started crying silently, her hand over her lips. Then he glanced over at us, as if just now realizing that we were still sitting there, watching. Clara, Emily, head up to your rooms, okay?

What about school? Emily asked. We have to leave in, like, ten minutes.

My father shot her a look as he placed both his hands on Moms shoulders, squeezing as she cried into the phone receiver.

I looked over my shoulder, through the window to the Tomlins house across the street, almost expecting there to be visual proof of this impossible eventthat Griffin was dead, that he was really gone. But all I saw were the same two police cars still parked alongside the curb, the crime-scene tape fluttering in the breeze.

A hollowness opened in my chest as I heard my mother tearfully ask what had happened to him... wed just seen him the night before, and hed been fine. Then a numbness settled into my fingers and extended to my arms and my legs and everywhere in between. I slumped against the back of the chair and listened to the faint sound of the hysterical voice through the phone, feeling as if nothing was sinking in. Everything felt blank and unreal.

Griffin Tomlin was dead.