The call came at 7:30 on a Tuesday morning. After a few terse words, I was in motion. There was no job, no boss to inform; I hadn’t worked a legitimate job in almost a decade.  Regular insurance money made it unnecessary. I was out of the shower and into jeans and an old tee in a matter of minutes. This appointment wouldn’t require me looking my best.

In my mid-teens, I tried to work several times without my parents’ knowledge. The bakery. The hardware store. My parents always made me quit as soon as they found out. Then we’d have to move and do it quickly, leaving everything behind. One year, I was actually popular at school. Cool with guys and girls. Had my first kiss. I begged to be able to keep in touch with my crowd. Call to hear another adolescent voice. But I said nothing further as I watched the pages of telephone numbers written in glittery lavender ink and good wishes paired with crude, silly drawings burn to ashes in the fireplace. “No ties, Jamie. You know that.”

A cop as wide as he was tall met me at the morgue entrance. Even in plain clothes, I could tell. There was a certain look, a stance they all had.  Recognizing a cop was one of my first lessons. Playing on their sympathy was next.  Limply shaking his sausage fingers, I confirmed my current identity and followed him down the empty, dimly lit corridor. Our footsteps echoed forlornly off the tiled walls. The journey ended behind swinging double doors.

My eyes skittered across the room, darting away from the metal drawer as it slid out smoothly and stopped with a soft “click”. Against rows and rows of polished steel, the walls, floor and sheet were starkly white. My badge-wearing companion introduced me to the attendant, whose lab coat and sagging flesh matched perfectly. A ridiculous bit of trivia popped into my mind. White is the absence of color. My eyes burned, aching for any hue. The green trees lining East Boulevard. My red Honda as I got the hell out of here. For good, this time.

Shivering, I rubbed my upper arms for a spark of frictional heat. I hated this part most. Cold sunk through my skin and into my bones. The urge to flee out into the sunshine seized me. The attendant’s latex hands paused briefly on the sheet before pulling it slowly back.

“Do you recognize him?” The attendant’s voice reached me, sterile and wan. Bored. Anything, I knew, could become routine. His eyes searched mine briefly; then flicked to the body on the slab. The body that looked so serene in death. How fleeting serenity was.

It’s more believable to stare in shock and incomprehension first.  Hysterical sobbing and shaking come off as too contrived. The cop’s hot, moist palm and landed on my shoulder in a reassuring gesture and he talked to me softly, as though I were still a child. “Do you know who that man is?”

I nodded.

“I need you to say it out loud.”

“Yes.”

The attendant seemed surprised at how strong my voice sounded. I almost scoffed out loud. I’ve been here before, buddy. Too many times. Instead, I swallowed audibly and forced a tremor into my tone.

“He--he’s my father.”

Immediate sympathy ensued from both men. The attendant voiced what countless people had over the years, even my late mother. “You look just like him. I see it now.”

I accepted that with great resign. Five cities, five morgues, five fathers who were all the same man. So familiar, I had it memorized like a script. But this was to be my final scene. No longer would I play grieving son turned grave digger and resurrector. This time he was staying dead.