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When the call comes in, I nearly ignore it. I assume it is probably a scammer, someone trying to tell me about my car’s extended warranty expiring or to sell me something I don’t need for a price I can’t afford.
I’m not sure what causes me to change my mind. Perhaps it’s the fact that the area code is local, though that doesn’t always mean it is safe. Maybe it is something deeper than that, a sort of gut feeling that something is terribly wrong. The only way I can think of to describe it is that it is the sort of knowing many people talk about but few have ever experienced. At least, I’ve never experienced anything like it.
In the end, I do answer my phone, and when I do, I hear a voice and a phrase I’m certain I’ll forever have nightmares about.
“Is this Celine Thompson?”
I swallow, my throat suddenly too dry. I step farther into the hallway, pressing a finger to my ear to drown out the sounds of the customers and machines in the background. There’s something ironic and cruel about the fact that my world is falling apart at the exact moment someone is ordering a mocha breve with oat milk and extra caramel.
“Yes, it is.”
“My name is Officer Simone with the Oakton County Police Department. I’m calling about a Tatum Thompson. He has you listed as an emergency contact in his phone.”
Tate. A pang of sadness shoots through my heart, and all I want to do is see him right now. My chest aches suddenly with worry. Something must be wrong. “That’s my husband.”
The woman on the phone draws in a deep breath, keeping her voice steady and calm. “Ma’am, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but this afternoon your husband was involved in an accident in which he sustained injuries he was unable to survive.” I have absolutely no idea what she says next, only that she keeps talking for what feels like an eternity while my brain sputters and gasps and tries to process everything I’m being told.
Minutes, hours, or days later, when the phone call ends, I know what she has told me. The stuff that matters, anyway.
My husband has been involved in a car crash.
He is dead.
I need to go to the police station to identify the body.
Back behind the counter, I find my supervisor and pull her aside in a sort of catatonic state. Margie is the kind of person who lives and breathes our job. She has worked for The Bold Bean for as long as it’s been open, and I’m still not sure it won’t be forced to close the day she retires.
She isn’t an unkind person, she’s just the type of boss who finds it hard to believe anyone could possibly have a life outside of the coffee shop that pays our bills.
I don’t remember much of the conversation between us, just that I rush to tell her, between my tears, that something has happened to Tate and I need to leave, and that she will have to find someone to come in to cover the rest of my shift. I don’t wait for her to grant permission—the simple act of telling her instead of running out the door immediately feels like more than enough, so with that taken care of, I hurry to my car as fast as my legs will carry me.
In the small parking lot, I put the police station’s address into my GPS, my mind a blurry mess of terror, confusion, and heartbreak as I drive across town and soon find myself walking into the building where my life will forever change.
Once inside, I’m directed to a room where a woman with dark hair and fair skin who looks not much older than I am sits down across from me and introduces herself as Officer Simone. It’s the same voice I spoke to on the phone, and somehow, each time she speaks, it’s a shot to the heart.
“When will I get to see him?” I ask, wringing my hands together in my lap.
She places her hands on top of the table, smoothing them out calmly. “The way this works is I’m going to show you a few photographs the medical examiner took of your husband’s body after the crash.” She picks up a folder from the seat beside her, laying it down on the table. “These photographs will help—”
“Photographs?” That doesn’t make any sense. Why isn’t she taking me to see him? I need to see him. Not photographs. His body. I need to see his body. “What are you talking about? Why can’t I see his body?”
She pauses, her eyes searching mine with a sort of frustrated compassion. Her next sentence explains why. “I know television shows would have you believe that’s how this happens, but in reality, this situation is about minimizing trauma to the family, not creating dramatic moments, Mrs. Thompson. Your husband sustained serious bodily injuries in the crash. Of course, his body is in the morgue, and we can arrange for you to see it, but please know that I would strongly advise against that. This process is designed to prepare you for what you’ll see, to minimize the trauma of what you’ll have to see, and to make sure you feel safe and supported during this time. None of this is easy, we just want to make it as comfortable as possible. I also have the contact information for an excellent grief counselor that I’m happy to provide you with.”
I swallow. Of course this isn’t like the crime shows Tate and I watch together. Just the thought of him, of those memories, sends another wave of pain through me. I’ll never get to see his face when he correctly guesses the murderer before it’s revealed again, never get to hear him bragging
as he catches a blooper.
Everything about my life is about to change into something unrecognizable.
Clearing her throat and sitting straighter in her seat, she goes on, “Now, whenever you’re ready, just so you know what to expect from these photographs, your husband’s face has several severe lacerations across both his right and left brows, down his forehead, and across his temple. The skin on the right side of his face is, for the most part, missing due to his injuries. You will notice that his mouth is concave due to the accident causing him to lose several of his teeth.”
I think I’m going to be sick. Or pass out. Every breath I take is so loud in my ears.
“He was cleaned up to the best of our abilities before the photos were taken, but I want to prepare you for what you’re going to see. There is also a photograph of a tattoo on his right shoulder, a birthmark on his hip, and a photograph of the wedding ring he was wearing. Your husband’s injuries were severe, and though our team made their best effort to keep the photographs tasteful, you will likely find the photo of his face especially gruesome, Mrs. Thompson. As I said, this process is designed to minimize trauma for people in your position, but I still want you to know that this will likely be traumatic for you, and that’s completely understandable and to be expected. Please take your time looking at these photos. No one here is going to rush you, okay?” She slides the folder toward me cautiously, lifting her hand. “Take all the time you need.”
I replace her hand with mine, pulling the brown folder the rest of the way across the table and glancing down. The second I open the folder, I know everything is going to change. It has to. Once I look into his face—the face I kissed just this morning before he left for work—and know he is gone, all of this will be real.
No more pretending.
The officer sits quietly, waiting patiently just like she promised she would while I stare down at the brown folder, my heart pounding in my chest. I don’t want to open it. I want to pretend like none of this is happening. I want to go back to this morning and pretend, for just a few more minutes, that life is normal.
But it isn’t, and it will
never be the old version of normal again.
All I have to do is open the folder and prove it. And so, with a deep breath and tense muscles, I do. I flip the folder open, holding my breath, and stare down at the photograph on top.
My breath catches in my throat. It’s the lion tattoo on his shoulder that I’ve stared at each morning while he brushes his teeth, or every time we’ve showered together. The one I’ve rubbed sunscreen over during summer vacations to the lake or the beach.
Tears line my eyes at once, blurring my vision, and I move the photo just in time to prevent it from getting wet as the tears cascade off my cheeks. I’m already nodding, already confirming, when I lift the photo to see the next one, and it’s the one she warned me about. Bile rises in my throat as I take in the remaining features of his face—the ones that weren’t destroyed by the accident.
Except…it isn’t his face.
I blink, drying my eyes, and lift the photograph closer to my face, trying to understand. It doesn’t make sense.
Seeming to realize that something is wrong, the officer leans forward. “Ma’am? Is everything alright?”
“It’s…it’s not him,” I say, my voice soft and trembling as though I’m afraid if I speak the words too loudly, the universe might hear me and correct its mistake.
“Ma’am?” she asks again, her voice rising with tension. “What do you mean?”
Shaking my head, with new, fresh, more persistent tears filling my eyes, I force myself to look more closely. He has dark hair like Tate, pale skin, and with the bruises and wounds, it’s possible for him to pass as my husband to an outsider perhaps, but not to me.
I know Tate’s features. I’ve spent years of my life studying them, being mesmerized by them. Falling in love with them. These features are different. This man is different.
I pass the photograph back to her. “The tattoo…it’s his, but…this isn’t my husband.” I jab my finger into the photograph, into the face I don’t recognize. “I have no idea who this is.”
The officer just stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. As if there could be a chance I might not recognize the man I married, might just be mistaken when I say the face they’re showing me isn’t his.
“This man isn’t your husband?” She points toward the photograph again, sliding it closer to me.
I shake my head, sniffling as more tears come. Tears of relief this time. Of confusion. “No. I…I’ve never seen this man.”
“With injuries of this extent, it would be understandable if you had a hard time recognizing him.”
“It’s not that. I know my husband’s face. His nose is different. His eyes are smaller. This isn’t my husband, I’m positive.”
“He was driving your husband’s car,” she says, turning the photograph around and lifting it so she can stare at the man’s face. “He was carrying his phone and ID.” She’s talking to herself now as she stands. “You said…you said the tattoo is a match, though?”
Suddenly, I realize we’re thinking the same thing: did the face photographs get mixed up?
How many car crash victims did they have today? How many bodies are there to identify?
I picture a lineup of devastated wives, filing into this room one after the next.
Looking down, I realize there are still two other photographs she gave me to look at. A ring placed next to a hand—a hand that’s supposed to be his—and a birthmark. With trembling fingers, I examine both photographs before shaking my head. My lungs release air as if it’s sadness and I can’t get it out of me quickly enough.
“It’s not him,” I tell her, pushing the photographs away. “He doesn’t have a birthmark on his hip, and his ring is custom—inlaid with wood from a bourbon barrel with a guitar string on top. I got it for him on our anniversary a few years ago. Plus his hands have burn scars on them from an accident years ago. They’re light but noticeable up close. Especially along his thumb. The hands in the photograph don’t have scars.”
Her face is serious as she turns away, preparing to leave the room, then turns back one last time. “You’re absolutely sure.”
I close the folder and slide it back to her, keeping my voice as steady as I can. “It’s not Tate.”
She gathers the photos, hurriedly shoving them back into the folder. “I’ll be right back, Mrs. Thompson. Please wait here.”
I swallow and look down, gathering my hands in my lap as I try to understand what might be happening. The tattoo was his, the car, the phone, and wallet were his, but the ring, hands, face, and birthmark were not.
Does this mean there’s a chance he’s alive?
My throat clenches, and I want to call him, to hear his voice, but the police have his phone, so I’d simply be calling them. Still, I have to try.
I pull out my phone and find his name in my call log, clicking on it. I press the phone to my ear, my heart in my throat as I listen to it ringing.
Pick up.
Pick up.
Pick up.
Please pick up and tell me this has all been a misunderstanding. Laugh and ask what in the world I’m talking about. Tell me I should’ve called you before I rushed to the police station. Tell me you’re coming for me right now. Come and get me and—
“You’ve reached Tate Thompson with Morris Realty. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number, I’ll call you back soon. Thanks.”
With tears in my eyes, I end the call. It was a long shot. I knew that, but it was a bit of hope I was still clinging to.
Where are you, Tate?
My chest feels hollow as I sit and wait, wanting nothing more than to get out of here and go look for my husband. When Officer Simone returns with two more officers in tow, I have a feeling it’s going to be a long time before I can do that.
The officers take their seats across from me, one pulling a chair from my side around to hers.
“Mrs. Thompson,” Officer Simone says, “these are my colleagues, Officer Chatham and Detective Monroe. We want to ask you a few other questions surrounding this investigation.”
It sounds so formal now. It went from a car crash—a terrible accident—to an investigation.
I nod, leaning forward. “Okay. Sure.”
“Officer Simone says you can’t confirm that the man who was driving your husband’s car was your husband,” Officer Chatham says. She’s older than Officer Simone, I’d guess, with thin wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. She has a kind but firm smile that tells me she means business.
Next to her, Detective Monroe, a Black man with a buzz cut, stares at me without saying a word. ...
