Free The Isle of Youth: Stories by Laura van den Berg Page B

to a hit-and-run. This was two months ago, in Jefferson City. She had just walked out of a bank the Gorillas were casing and was waiting to cross the street. A car ran a red light and struck a girl on a bicycle. The girl was dead by the time the ambulance came. Dana could remember the twisted handlebars and the crushed bell. She could remember the peculiar angle of the girl’s torso and her open eyes. Her lips were parted. Her teeth were straight and white. She was still wearing her helmet. She looked like a life-size doll someone had left in the street. Pedestrians gathered. The police were called. Dana tried to slip away, but someone identified her as a witness and she was taken down to the station. She got to ride up front with the officer. She wondered what Cora or Jackie would think if they saw her, if they would think she had turned on them.
    At the station, the officer brought her a cup of coffee. He was handsome, with his broad shoulders and gelled hair. So this is the lair of the enemy, Dana thought as they settled into an interrogation room. She held the warm foam cup with both hands. If only this officer knew what she had done, what she was going to do, she would not be answering questions over coffee. There would be handcuffs and threats. She figured that one day he would see her face on the news and feel like a dolt.
    He asked her the usual questions: what she’d seen, if the light had been red, if she’d gotten a look at the driver, if she remembered the license plate. She answered honestly. She hadn’t seen anything but the collision itself, hadn’t taken in anything but the shock of the crash. She didn’t mention that she hadn’t been paying closer attention because she’d been busy imprinting the interior of the bank onto her brain.
    “Do you need someone to identify the body?” Dana asked. She surprised herself with the question.
    “You knew her?” The office frowned. He pulled in his chin and a little roll of fat appeared.
    He had mentioned the girl was a college student. Dana muttered something about being classmates and seeing her around campus. She didn’t know what had come over her. She had never seen a dead body before and up until then, that was A-okay. But she had been gripped by an urge she could not recognize or understand, only follow.
    “Her parents are coming in from Chicago,” the officer said. “We could save them the grief.”
    Dana sighed. Didn’t he know there was no saving anyone any grief?
    They took an elevator down to the morgue and passed through a cool, shadowed hallway. They stopped in front of a dark window. Dana could hear music coming through the glass. It was faint. A Michael Jackson song. For a moment, she imagined the medical examiner moonwalking around the autopsy room. The officer asked if she was ready. She nodded. A light came on.
    The girl was lying on a coroner’s table. She was naked, which alarmed Dana. It didn’t seem right for her to be uncovered; someone had been careless. Her breasts were small and her knees seemed too big for her body. Her eyes were closed. Her hair looked wet and sleek. The blood had been cleaned away. Dana wondered where her bicycle helmet was. She couldn’t believe this was the same girl she’d seen sprawled out on the street. It looked like her body had been replaced by a fake. How could these parents from Chicago identify their daughter with any kind of certainty? Maybe that was what happened when you died, Dana thought. Your real body went one place and a replica was provided for the rituals. And if that were true, where did the real bodies go? Someplace nice? Probably not.
    “So is it her?” the officer said.
    “What?” Dana turned from the window.
    “Is she your classmate? Do you know her name?”
    “It’s not her,” Dana said.
    “What do you mean it’s not her?” The officer frowned again. He was getting less attractive by the minute.
    “I made a mistake,” she said.
    “Who makes that kind of mistake?”