wildscape. literary journal

Nametag
by Erin Matson

There is a community center down the road. It is on the farthest edge of the inside of the secure perimeter. The school is not visible. If her name is called you can go. If her name is called she is alive. Her name is Samantha.

If her name is called she is alive. This is the agreement. No one has articulated the agreement. You have decided this agreement. You are talking to yourself in the third person because otherwise you will lose your fucking mind. They will only call Samantha’s name if she is alive. Otherwise, they will call your name: Donna. No one has articulated this protocol. You have created it. It is common sense that if you hear your name in the room you’ve been sitting in for three and a half hours now, your daughter is dead.

The room is hot. Halogen lights drone overhead. It looks like the waiting room of a DMV. For a time, there was a rapid succession of names, called out in inscrutable order. Fourth graders mixed in with second graders mixed in with upper schoolers.

What were they doing, you wonder. Acid burns the back of your tongue. You have a Rolaid in your purse.

You wish you had gotten to know parents better. You wish you hadn’t turned down gift wrap fundraiser captain. You wish you hadn’t worried about the big projects coming up at work.

Mort is the father of Harley. Mort shits his pants. I’m so sorry, he says. I can’t take this pressure. He stands, walks toward the door. It’s okay, the officer says. I understand.

You made scrambled eggs and toast this morning. If you had known, you would have made Samantha’s favorite strawberry waffle with whipped cream. You would have told her you were going to stay home and watch movies. You would have. If you had known.

Mort and the officer return. There is a window that looks out to a parking lot. It is the opposite direction of the school. It is not dark yet, but the brightest light of day is gone.

The door opens. Eight officers walk inside, single-file. They are in various stages of clasping their hands or looking down.

Eight sets of parents.

Samantha’s dad is not here. Samantha’s dad is never here, wherever here is. But your sister is here. Your sister grabs your hand. Your sister’s hand is cold.

An officer walks over to Christopher’s parents. His voice is low. You cannot hear it. But his lips move. Christopher’s mother is Valerie. Valerie begins to scream. Christopher’s father gasps and cries. You are ashamed to see this moment, to not know his name.

The officer who had been there the whole time, the one guarding the door, escorts them from the room. It is audible from the other side of the door:

What do you mean, you can’t identify him?

Mort’s dad vomits. Another parent vomits. You retch yourself. There is an American flag hanging from the corner of the room.

Seven sets remain. Together, you begin to wail. You liked to sing in choir growing up—you had made the traveling troupe; you guys were good. You know that what you are hearing now is beyond the realm of practice. It is guttural. It is from God. You feel as if you emanate from one body together, spontaneously moving in unison through chords of sobs.

You realize, the longer you can think like this, the longer you can count the cracks in the linoleum tile you threw up upon, the longer someone is not telling you what has become of Samantha. The longer you hear nothing the longer she may be alive. You will do anything, as you press into the other parents, wailing, to keep Samantha alive.

An officer approaches. He is tentative.

“Are you Donna?”

Inspired by: Lamenting Group, by Paul Albert Bartholomé

about the author // Erin Matson