Invisible City
Authors: M. G. Harris
THE JOSHUA FILES
M. G. HARRIS
For Josie and Lilia
Any life is made up of a single moment: the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is.
Jorge Luis Borges
you have wandered into a conspiracy-theory zone
This blog belongs to:
Josh Garcia
What's it all about?
This is a record of my search for the truth behind my father's death.
Age:
Thirteen
About me:
I'm the son of a Mexican archaeologist (Dad) and a British history teacher (Mom).
Favorite bands:
Green Day, Arctic Monkeys, Nirvana
Favorite books:
His Dark Materials
Favorite sports:
Capoeiraâit's a Brazilian martial art.
Um ⦠that's about it!
If eight out of ten cat owners prefer M&M's, what do the other two like?
They live on a pure diet of Reese's Pieces.
BLOG ENTRY: WALKING CONTRADICTION
I need a place where I can get rid of all these things going on in my head. Things you don't want to talk about. Things your friends, your family don't want you to talk about.
So here's this blog
.
I never used to be like this, mooching around on my own, writing down my deepest, darkest thoughts. It wasn't even that long ago that it happenedâa couple of weeks back, I was just another guy at school. Okay, probably not the smartest or strongest, definitely not the best-looking or most popular, but apart from that I don't think I had a single complaint in the world.
The thing was, I didn't know it. I thought my problems were a big deal
.
Well ⦠I had no idea.
There was this phone call and people are telling me I need to go home early. So I'm on my skateboard and down the road.
Never thinking it through. Never guessing that somewhere up the street a storm was brewing. I sailed toward it, practically singing
.
Innocent
.
Stupid
.
It's capoeira night. Capoeira is this cool Brazilian martial art that I've been learning for almost two years. Our teacher, “Mestre” Ricardo, receives a call on his cell phone and calls me out of the
roda
âa circle we make around the two players who “fight.” He tells me to get my stuff, to go straight home. At the time I don't really notice, but later I remember something about the look in his eyes.
Mestre Ricardo is a former soldier. Not an easy guy to worry would be my guess. The way he looks at me is something I've never seen from him, never dreamed I'd see: pity.
I remember every detail about the skateboard ride home, over the bridge, the college towers behind me, big puffs of marshmallow cloud in a blue sky reflected in the lead-paned windows. It's the last memory I have where I'm really happy.
I arrive home to find my mother perched on the living room sofa. Jackie from next door, she's there too, holding Mom's hand. As soon as Mom stands up, I can tell she's been crying. Her face is a color closer to gray than her normal rose pink.
There's a smile of affection on her lipsâit looks forced. The ends of her hair are wet, like she's just washed her face. She tries to kiss me, and I shrink from her touch, pull back to look into her eyes.
She's actually shaking, won't even look at me.
She can't
.
A chill seeps into my blood. Dread floods through me. A suspicion grows, a tiny seed of horror in the deepest recesses of my mind. It's such a heart-stopping idea that I can't even bring myself to take it seriously.
Mom begins. “Josh, sit down; there's some bad news, I'm afraid. Terrible, terrible news.”
She doesn't get any further, though; she's overwhelmed by tears. Her palms go up to her face, cover her eyes. She sinks back down onto the sofa. Jackie takes hold of both my hands, which feel rough, cold, and huge in her small fingers.
Between Mom's sobs I make out, “The Cessna plane your dad was renting in Mexico. It went down. And ⦠Josh, I'm so sorry. So sorry, but ⦠he's dead.”
Then it's like I'm disconnected from the moment. Bodily I'm still there, holding hands with my middle-aged neighbor, nodding slightly. But somewhere deep inside I begin a scream of rage and disbelief. I can hear that Jackie is talking, but she seems distant, remote. Mom's face is nothing but a blur as I struggle to grasp what I'm hearing.
Then the screams in my head finally catch up with my
mouth. It's as though I'm possessed. I start shouting: “
What? What?!
”
Both women try to hug me, but I shake them off. I can't take it in. Then I'm punching the living room door, yelling at them, “No, no, no, no, no!” For an instant I catch the fear in Mom's eyes at my sudden violence.
But within seconds I've stopped, already exhausted. I feel sick. My legs actually buckle slightly underneath me. I slump onto the couch. When I glance up, I notice a shimmering haze around Mom and Jackie. I'm shocked, trembling, numb. Mom grabs hold of me, holds on tight, but all I can think is how her arms aren't long enough for a strong hug. And I wonder: How would it have been if Mom, not Dad, had died? Would Dad's arms be long enough? At the thought of losing Mom too, I burst into tears.
Yet there's this hard little kernel of me that's still holding steady. Still able to look on the bright side.
Wait a minute ⦠what if it isn't him?
I'm full of questions. How can they be sure it's my dad? Maybe Dad changed his mind about hiring that plane. Maybe it's some other guy.
“No, Josh, no,” Mom murmurs. “The detective who came aroundâDetective Barrattâsays the Mexican police are sure it's him. Your dad hadn't been seen for three days since he'd rented this plane.”
I shake my head, thinking furiously. Trying to find any
loophole. “No. Not Dad. Just âcause he's missing ⦠he could be camping near some ruins. They can't be sure without proof. Have they got proof? What is it they doâthey look at dental records, don't they? Yeah, I've seen it a million times in movies. I bet the dental records will show it's not my dad.”
“I'm sorry, dear,” Jackie explains kindly. “It wasn't that simple. Wish it was, sweetie.”
“What ⦠why not?”
Mom holds my hand. They exchange a look. Mom nods at Jackie. Very slightly.
“Your dad's plane hit a tree. A branch. Would have shot through the windshield at God knows what speed. He had no chance, Josh. No chance at all.”
“What?! Just tell me,” I insist through my tears. “What aren't you telling me?”
Jackie straightens up; her voice steels, becomes faint, distant, cold.
“He was decapitated,” she says. “In the plane crash. There is no head. Just your poor dad's burned, broken body.”
I take a few moments to absorb that. I'm already beginning to join Jackie in that remote place.
That's where I need to be now. Somewhere else. Anywhere.
Death would have been instantaneous, she's quick to assure me.
Better hope so
. The thought of something like that happening slowly is unbearable.
There was no sign of foul play. No severed fuel lines, nothing
suspicious. The best guess from the Mexican police is that he fell asleep at the controls, lost altitude, and plunged to his doom.
My emotions start to shut down. Movements become purely mechanical. Would I like some tea? I'm nodding, asking for milk and two sugars.
