the Places we keeP our dead TYLER EVANS
I listen as my father reads Uncle Vanya with a thick Russian accent into an old transistor radio. The only light on in the house is from his work station across the hall. It filters a low glow like electric candlelight under the frame of my door. He won’t sleep again tonight. His voice will break on tragicomedy notes of the play until he sobs. Maggie, are you awake yet? The transistor radio breathes static and we both know we’re alone.
H On the day before Maggie died, my dad and I sat at her bedside in the terminal ward for children at St. Mark’s hospital. Maggie’s black Vietnamese eyes shone more dead with her hair gone. I could feel them devouring the light from the room when she asked us what we thought was the best way to be buried. “You aren’t going to die,” I said fighting back tears. “You always were such a pretty liar, Mary,” I winced every time she mentioned my name. My mother spent my childhood reminding me I was named after the whore, not the Virgin. 22
Berkeley Fiction Review
