Colored Glass Marbles

Five minutes ago they strung up the clinging, yellow caution tape.

The apartment 3B was small, and seemed even smaller swarming with bodies. The windows were open, and flashing blue and red lights played off the far wall of her room, thrown from a darkening street. A woman was on her knees in the room, looking carefully through a child’s painted toy box. Her pleated skirt bunched at a bent leg, and her jacket had fallen partially off. She was alone despite the two men, wrapped in white, who hovered around her. The air in the little room tasted metallic.

Twelve hours ago, the apartment was still. A sweet wind blew through it from an open window, and a little girl slept in the bed beside the toy box. Nestled down under the blankets, one of her small hands was wrapped partway around a simple, red cloth doll. She smiled as she slept.

In the next room, a man and a woman were coiled around each other. The man was asleep, his strong arms curling around the woman’s stomach. She was awake, staring at six picture frames, huddled on her bureau. From one her daughter grinned toothily, eyes squeezed shut. In another, her husband kneeled on top of a boulder in the woods, backpack sliding off one shoulder, smiling winningly. There were no pictures of the woman; she lived behind the camera.

Nine hours ago, the sunlight streamed thick and golden into the apartment. The woman was moving quickly around the small kitchen, dropping sandwich, apple, juice box into a crumpled paper bag. The little girl was sitting on a woven chair at the table, feet dangling, swinging her legs gently back and forth, the words bubbling out of her. In the bedroom the man was still asleep, spreading across the vacated mattress. One arm hung over the edge, and his fingers brushed the floor.

The woman stopped at an apartment two floors down to drop the little girl off. The door opened and swallows her daughter, and her neighbor’s wide, friendly face filled the opening. She’ll be fine, the woman said. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about us. I know a thing or two about children.

The mother handed her the paper bag, presses a few crumpled bills into her hand, and walked slowly back down the worn, green stairs.

Seven hours ago, the man finally stirred, rolling to his feet. He staggered around the empty apartment, shrugging into a loose, gray suit. He considered not leaving, taking a day off, then he walked into the hall anyway, down the stairs with the chipped green paint. His briefcase swung back and forth as he jogged across the street and disappeared into a subway station.

The woman, the mother sat behind a desk, legs crossed, moving papers around. On her desk is another picture of her daughter, proudly showing her new striped bathing suit off for the camera. She had laughed when the picture was being taken, the woman remembered. Laughed, and held her arms out wide, above her head.

Four hours ago, the babysitter received a phone call. She bit her lip, standing on one leg and gently scratching the back of a calf with her foot. The little girl, her yellow hair newly swept into pigtails, played with painted, plastic horses, each frozen into a different pose. As the woman’s anxious voice filled the room, the girl looked up and smiled for no reason at all, then went back to playing.

The man, the father was swathed in white, holding a cold, metal ring to a young boy’s chest. The heartbeat was unsteady, faltering, and the man looked up into another mother’s gray, lined face with a frown. Bring him to a specialist, he said. I’m worried about that palpitation.

Two hours ago, the babysitter led the little girl back into apartment 3B. Worried, distracted, she knelt beside the little girl. Be good, she told her. Don’t get into any trouble. My mother is very sick, and I have to leave. I’ll send someone up, baby.

She taped a quick note to the refrigerator, then swept out of the apartment. Dying, her mind screamed. Mother. She forgot all about the little girl.

The child stood on tiptoe, brushing the small, yellow note with her fingers. She stared at the black lines for a minute, then ran into her room. The room was a pale, frosted blue. The little girl knelt beside her toy box, digging into it. She missed the horses. Her fingers closed around a small jar of tinted, glass marbles.

She played with her favorite, a large, round bead of wine-red glass, shot through with opaque black streaks. It looked like the cherries her mother gave her on weekends. She rolled it back and forth, then placed it in her mouth, enjoying the feel of the cool, smooth glass on her tongue. The marble slid down her small throat.

The little girl began to choke, her small hands pressed against her neck. She lay back on the floor of her room, her small body shaking as she tried to cough.

Thirty minutes ago, she found the little girl. Her mother saw the note, heard the empty, hollow silence, ran into the small blue room. The girl was white, hinting purple, and sickeningly still. The woman dropped to her knees, shaking her daughter. Wake up, she said. Her throat was thick, useless, and she screamed through her tears. Pleaded, through the cold, crushing pressure inside, for her daughter’s life. Wake up wake up wake up.

Fifteen minutes ago, the father called the ambulance. He tried to pry his wife off of the cold little body. Watched her rocking the girl back and forth, her voice soothing, aching, desperate. Saw the cold ring of panic edging her eyes. He told himself not to think, not to look at the tiny corpse. 9-1-1, what is your emergency, personalized disaster, it’s my daughter. She’s not moving. Tiptoe around the word, the short word like something slamming. Like a last chapter, like acceptance. She’s hurt. She past hurting.

Five minutes ago, they strung up the caution tape. They carried the cold, white body out to the ambulance. Under a sheet, she looked like nothing at all. They led the man, the woman away. The little apartment was empty, quiet again. And on the floor of the little blue room a jar of marbles had spilled, spreading, rolling across the floor.