Tyler Johnson Was Here(34)

I lose all the air in my lungs. Mama blinks hard, her face wearing shock, before she stiffens and falls to the floor, screaming like she’s being tortured, crying like she’s supplying the world with another body of water, grieving like grief is a living organism hugging her tight.

And I lunge my body down to pick her up, and she fights me at first, before her body goes limp and she screams into my shoulders and chest, her voice’s vibration rattling my organs. My eyes fill fast with tears, and I blink and blink so many times, but everything’s a mess and there’s an entire apocalypse going on inside my chest. I’m going to split at the seams.

Is this real? This can’t be real. Tears keep rolling down my face. I try to wipe them away with my arm, but they won’t stop.

She’s pounding on my chest as I lift her up, her face tear-streaked, eyes shut tight.

“May we come inside?” Detective Bills asks.

Mama doesn’t stop wailing.

I nod, walking Mama to the kitchen table, her legs not wanting to move right.

The detectives follow us to the kitchen, glancing at each other and then at us and then back at each other. They stay quiet—real quiet.

I pull up a chair next to Mama, and the detectives sit across from us. I’m taking turns patting her on the back and wiping my face with my sleeve.

“Oh, God!” Mama wails even louder. “My baby boy!”

“I’m so sorry,” Detective Bills says.

“Yes, Mrs. Johnson,” Detective Parker adds. “I know this isn’t the news you were hoping for, but I assure you all the details will be transparent soon. There wasn’t a police report on file, but our team is gathering all the details as we speak.”

This doesn’t stop Mama from breaking down. And it doesn’t take my heart from out of my stomach or stop me from feeling like there’s a house fire inside me, burning everything to ash.

It hits me—so damn hard.

Tyler didn’t even disappear. He was dead all along. And realizing that a part of me is now gone, I can’t stop shaking my head and my chest goes numb. I can’t believe it. From here on out, every memory between us will be one-sided, and only I will be able to piece together all the little details, without Tyler correcting me, telling his version of them.

A lump rises in my throat. I forget how to swallow.

This ain’t even fair, man.

I place my hands in front of me, looking at them and wondering why Tyler and not anyone else? Hell, why him and not me?

Detective Bills clears his throat and leans in. “We think this death was somehow linked to the gang fight that occurred on Friday, where we arrested Mr. Johntae Smith and two other minors.”

Mama shakes her head, sobbing. These words bang up on one another in my head.

“Detective Bills and I could take the two of you down to identify the body right now, if you’d like, ma’am,” Detective Parker says.

“I gotta see if it’s real. I gotta see if it’s really my baby,” Mama says, her voice breaking. We all rise from the table, and my legs feel tingly and weak. The detectives open the front door, and I help Mama walk out to their black car.

The inside of the car smells like mints and coffee. Mama and I soak the black leather seats with our tears. It’s so hard to breathe, but I squeeze Mama’s hand and shut my eyes and try my best to allow air into my lungs.





The ride to the county morgue is painfully long. Mama wraps her arms around me and presses my head into her shoulder. It’s soft, and I can hear her heart beating fast, no, breaking, over and over again.

When we arrive at the morgue, Detective Bills opens the door for us and Detective Parker walks us toward the building. I look up, taking tiny steps next to Mama, keeping my eyes on the brown-and-red brick building that gives me chills. Each step closer to the concrete stairs leading to the door makes something inside me tighten.

Detective Bills comes up behind me and places his hand on my back.

Walking inside, it feels like I’m stepping into a hospital, and the smell of bleach and glass cleaner hits me in the face. I expected it to smell like death—sulfur or rotten eggs. The smell of sterilization is too strong, so I cover my nose with my shirt.

We’re greeted by two people in long white lab coats, Mr. Garcia and Ms. Collins. They lead us down a long hallway of doors, and we walk into a small room with three normal walls and one made of glass. It’s cramped and looks like an interrogation room, four chairs around a metal table in the center.

Mama and I sit on one side.

Mr. Garcia and Ms. Collins sit on the other, pulling out manila folders and paperwork.

“Where is he? When can I see him? I need to see him,” Mama says, her eyes looking up at the ceiling, lips vibrating, legs shaking.

“The body is in the other room,” Mr. Garcia says.

“I need to see him,” Mama says over and over again. My face feels so hot and my throat tightens.

“We don’t wish to trigger any further trauma, so we give the option of showing a photograph of the body instead,” Ms. Collins says.

“I want to see him,” I blurt out, not really realizing that I even opened my mouth.

The two of them nod at each other.

“Very well,” Mr. Garcia says, putting away the manila folders.

Ms. Collins murmurs, like she’s trying to keep her voice down, “Mr. Garcia will show you the body and the autopsy report.”