Chapter 1My Mother Came Back… The Day I Identified the Dead

My mom came back from her trip.

She was suddenly incredibly sweet, cooking for me every single day.

But in the dead of night, she would always hide in her room, frantically slathering cheap concealer all over her body. Her movements were unnervingly stiff, and stubborn, dark purple splotches kept blooming across her skin, refusing to wash away. She wept as she apologized to me, sobbing that she had caught some bizarre disease that made her hideous, terrified that I would start to hate her.

I didn't pull away.

I was the chief orthopedic surgeon at the county hospital.

I calmly took her ice-cold hand and injected a full vial of formaldehyde straight into her veins.

Tears of deep gratitude welled in her eyes, and she swore she would protect me for the rest of her life.

But I didn't feel a thing.

Because she had no idea that just yesterday, the police had called me to the morgue to identify a dismembered body. And on the shattered knee of that corpse was a custom titanium joint I had personally implanted in my mother.

…

The fluorescent lights in the autopsy room flickered, buzzing with a faint, low hum.

I stood before the cold, stainless steel table, staring at the pile of remains. They had been cleaned, but they were still a jigsaw puzzle missing half its pieces.

The blood in my veins felt like it had instantly turned to ice, leaving my hands and feet completely numb.

Detective Carter stood beside me, holding a freshly printed report. He looked at me with a heavy, sympathetic gaze.

"Dr. Brooks, do you need to take a closer look?"

There was no need.

My eyes were locked onto a fractured section of the femur. Embedded in the bone was a titanium artificial joint, gleaming with a cold, metallic luster under the sterile lights. Etched into the metal was a unique medical serial number: A-7734.

I had flown to Switzerland myself last year to beg my former doctoral advisor to expedite its custom fabrication.

My mom was dead.

She had died on a winding mountain road in the Appalachians, caught in what was described as a horrific multi-car pileup.

I signed the release forms, but I couldn't even remember how I walked out of the station, let alone how I drove myself home. My mind was a chaotic blur of my mother at the airport terminal, holding my hands and fussing over me before she boarded.

"Gwenny, sweetie, Mom's only going to be gone for a few days. I left three hundred homemade chicken pot pies in the chest freezer."

"Just bake some when you get off work. Stop ordering that greasy takeout..."

The deadbolt clicked.

I pushed the front door open, and the warm light of the entryway greeted me.

My entire body froze, the air caught in my throat.

The kitchen exhaust fan was humming, carrying the rich, savory aroma of a beef and potato stew.

"Gwenny, is that you? Go wash your hands, dinner's almost ready."

A voice, so familiar it made my chest ache, drifted out from the kitchen.

I pinched my thigh as hard as I could, letting the sharp pain force me into a cold state of focus. I tossed my bag onto the entryway bench and pumped a generous glob of hand sanitizer, scrubbing my hands fiercely.

I washed them three times until the pungent, chemical sting of the morgue's formaldehyde was completely gone. Only then did I step into my slippers and slowly, stiffly, force myself toward the dining room.

The table was laden with a comforting feast. Glazed pork chops, garlic butter shrimp, roasted green beans, and sautéed spinach. Every single one of my favorites.

"You look like you've starved yourself since I've been gone," she said.

She walked out of the kitchen carrying a heavy, bubbling cast-iron pot, her face lit with a warm, maternal smile. The fine lines around her eyes, the gentle curve of her lips, even the slight tilt of her head when she spoke, they were all carbon copies of my mother. She was wearing the floral lounge dress I bought her last Christmas, down to the slightly frayed collar.

But my eyes instantly locked onto her hands.

The stew had just been pulled off the raging stove. Steam rose in thick, white plumes, and the liquid inside was still boiling violently.

She wasn't using a towel. She wasn't wearing oven mitts.

She was carrying the blistering metal pot with her bare hands.

The scorching iron was pressed directly against her palms. A normal person's pain receptors would have screamed in agony within a fraction of a second, resulting in severe, blistering burns.

Yet her face didn't twitch. She simply kept smiling warmly at me, setting the pot down gently onto the wooden trivet.

"Eat up. Mom let this simmer for three whole hours."

She let go and casually wiped her hands on her apron.

I stared intensely at her palms. There was no redness, no blisters, no damage at all. Her skin just looked incredibly pale, like old, fragile paper that hadn't seen the sun in decades.

As the steam from the stew filled the room, another scent began to seep through the rich aroma. It was a very faint, sickeningly sweet smell.

I knew that smell all too well. It was the scent of organic matter losing its spark of life.

The smell of decay.

"Mom, isn't that too hot?"

My voice sounded hollow, scraping against my throat.

She blinked, following my gaze down to her hands. In an instant, she yanked her hands behind her back, and her eyes welled with tears.

"N-no... I'm just getting old, sweetie. My hands are getting numb. I can't really feel much of anything anymore."

Her voice trembled with a heavy sob, and her eyes filled with a desperate, pleading urge to please me. Her frame shook slightly.

"Gwenny, did I ruin the table? I'll clean it up right away..."

If I hadn't seen that custom titanium plate with my own eyes in the morgue, I would have believed her.

"It's fine," I said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. I picked up my spoon and stirred the hot stew. "Mom, did you have fun on your trip?"

I kept my head down, not daring to look her in the eyes.

"I did. But I missed you terribly."

Seeing that I wasn't upset, her face instantly brightened through her tears. She reached out, wanting to stroke my hair, but she hesitated midway, awkwardly pulling her hand back and nervously twisting her apron.

"The world is beautiful, but nothing beats being home."

"I'm not going anywhere else. I'll stay right here and cook for you every day."

"How is the stew?"

Her eyes shone with hopeful anticipation.

I took a bite. The flavor was exceptionally light, the vegetables perfectly tender, the seasoning incredibly subtle.

But my mother was from the Midwest. She loved heavy, salty seasonings. She had mild hypertension, and every time I begged her to cut back on the salt, she couldn't help herself. We used to bicker about it constantly.

But today, this stew was seasoned exactly to my strict medical standards.

"It's perfect," I said, forcing a tight, rigid smile. "Stay as long as you want, Mom. I'll make sure to keep you company."