Caution to sensitive readers. This post may be emotionally unsettling.
“Yes,” I said.
He introduced himself. They showed me their badges. Two of them. “Can we come in?” I hesitated. Were they really police? Had someone broken into my car?
“What is it?” I asked.
“It would be best if we came in to talk with you,” one of them said.
I lead them into the kitchen. I don’t remember if they asked me to sit down, but I sat down. They stayed standing across the counter from me.
My son is dead
“Your son Elliot is dead. He was found in his dorm room last night. He was hanging by his belt. Paramedics came and attempted to revive him but were unsuccessful.”
For a moment I sat in shock, then I fell on my hands and cried out, “My boy, my boy, my boy, Elliot, my boy, my boy, no!” Anne came down. It went so fast, Elliot went from alive and about to take mid-terms to dead from suicide in the time it took Anne to throw on some clothes. “Our son is dead!” I cried.
Guilty
I don’t remember any other details, just cold. I talked with the detective for a little while longer. At one point I remember realizing that he wasn’t just talking to me to be nice or comforting. His questions were part of the investigation. Was I guilty? Had I had any part in this? They left and I sat there shivering. I turned up the heat.
Anne was there too, but I don’t remember her reaction. Everything was hazy, and I could not stop imagining Elliot’s cold body alone in the morgue waiting for an autopsy in the morning.
Alex was upstairs, and he had definitely heard me cry. We would have to talk to him now, but did we wake up the girls right away? I don’t remember. We must have woken up the girls and told them all. Sarah. She was in Kansas City. We would need to call. Oh God, how do we make that call?
