A Whisper in the Static
A Novel By Bryce Davidson
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CHAPTER ONE
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My name is Bill Jennings. For the past 20 years, I’ve been a police detective in the New York City Police Department. For 22 years, I was married to Christie Jennings, the love of my life and the mother of my son Paul. Things were good until that fateful day in July 2015, when Christie was diagnosed with Ovarian cancer. We and the doctors decided on a treatment plan involving chemotherapy and surgery, and for a while, it seemed to be working. But a few months later, we got the devastating news: the cancer had spread to Christie’s liver, brain, and lungs. We knew what that meant, and I took emergency leave to be with Christie and to prepare for the inevitable. She took the terminal diagnosis like the strong lady that she was, telling Paul and me not to dwell on the bad, but think of all the great times we’ve had. I kept from losing my mind, not for my sake, but because I wanted her to have peace at the end, and know that we’d be OK. Finally, at 4:15 AM on May 17, 2016, my Christie took her last breath, just three weeks from her 48th birthday. “I love you, both of you,” she whispered as she faded away.
One week after we lost her, Christie was laid to rest in a service that I went through in slow motion. Through tears, I eulogized her as the best wife, mother, and best friend that a man and son could ever ask for. I really don’t know how I made it through the service. Even though Paul, my sister Paula, and her husband Chuck, as well as most of my other relatives and just about everyone from the precinct, were there, I felt totally alone. How do you say goodbye to the woman that you have loved for more than two decades when you know that it’s forever? For the two hours that the service went on, I felt like I was having a horrible nightmare that I wanted desperately to wake up from. When the service was over and Christie had been placed in her grave, Paul and I stuck around for a bit so that we could be with her one final time. As we walked back to the car, I looked around the cemetery, and in a row behind Christie, I read one grave stone. It said:
Melanie Anne Taylor 1960-1976
Beloved Daughter Taken From Us Way Before Her Time
“Only 16 years old, how sad,” I thought to myself. “Way too young to die,” I thought to myself. “I wonder what happened to her? Did she have a fatal illness like cancer? Was she killed in an accident, or was it something else?” “Come on, Dad, let’s get going, we have to get home for the reception,” Paul announced, jogging my mind back into the real world. With that, we went home and spent a couple of hours attempting to entertain well-wishers, but it felt so hollow.
