Dead Ringer

                He pushed the doorbell again, listening as a dog scrambled over the tile to reach the door and a woman yelled “Coming! Coming!” These were the hard days. A modest suburban home. A wife that was home in the middle of the day. A dog. A well-worn swing set outside. Chipped paint and a dent in the garage door, no doubt part of the “Honey Do” list. A list, he thought as his stomach turned in another loop, that would never be done.

                Each morning, he thanked God he didn’t work homicide. This was hard enough. He couldn’t imagine having to ask questions. These were people with families. They were parents and children, siblings and lovers. To treat them with suspicion as they reeled where they stood, stupidly staring through him and towards the sky as though their loved one would appear laughing, claiming that it was all just a joke, all just a misunderstanding, would have been too much.

                As the doorknob turned, he snuck a glance as his partner. He too bore the weight of the notification, the weight of the dead and of the living. The oath they had taken had prepared them for the worst, or so it had seemed. In reality, it was only preparation for their bodies. It was their hearts and minds that suffered the worst blows.

                The woman opened the door, her bright smile wavering as she noticed the glint of their badges.

                “Mrs. Garcia?” he asked, wondering if for once it would be no, that this was a mistake, that nothing bad had happened. Instead, she put her hand to her mouth as she slid down the doorframe and crouched as if she were holding herself together. Her head nodded jerkily as her voice spoke of its own accord, gasps of pain and anguish. It was, he knew, a pain that would always be as raw as it was now.

                These were the hard days.