Too Sweet to Die by T. Doyle (namjoon book recommendations .TXT) 📕

My blood seemed to have congealed and my heart pumped hard.

Something was wrong.

“Oscar? It’s Charlie.” There was no reply except for my nerves coiling tight. I stepped off the porch and walked around the cabin. I didn’t care if it was rude; I peeked in his bedroom window. Oscar’s made bed sent a shiver of ice down my spine. If he was sick, why wasn’t he in bed?

I moved to the back of the house and opened the screen door. Keeping it open with my hip, I fumbled with the key. I blamed the trembling on caffeine, not fear. The key slid in, and I turned the knob, the wheeze of the hinges prickled my neck hair.

Inside, the unnatural quietness rattled my brain, shuddered through my body and turned my bones to ash.

The whisper of my feet across the linoleum seemed to echo in the silence.

“Oscar? It’s Charlie. Are you okay?” The small kitchen was tidy, even his kitchen towel hung neatly folded over the handle of the dishwasher. It was like Oscar channeled June Cleaver—and he was too young to even know who she was.

Oscar sat in the living room recliner.

Not breathing.

Not moving.

Eyes open, unseeing.

Dead.

Very dead.

I reached out to take his pulse but flinched when I touched his icy cold wrist. My heart squeezed; a crescendo of thumps echoed in my ears and I fumbled with my phone. I swiped at the screen, but my troll-like uncoordinated fingers hit 991, 611, 941. I held my breath and slowed down, tapped 9-1-1 and send. I pressed my fingertips to his neck, prepared for the cold this time, but not the hard, lifeless muscle underneath.

“911. What is your emergency?” It sounded like my sister-in-law using her I’m-in-charge-now tone.

“Liz, is that you?”

“Charlie?”

“Yeah, I’m at the lake cabin. Oscar’s work asked me to check on him. I think he’s dead.” I swallowed against the knot creeping up my throat and threatening to release itself as a sob.

“I’m sending an ambulance and the police.”

“Good.” I knelt next to the chair, my knees digging into the carpet. “Maybe he’s in a diabetic coma…a really deep coma.”

“Maybe.” I recognized her mom ‘maybe’ tone, meaning no.

I put my hand in front of his nose. “Oscar, it’s Charlie. Honey, you don’t look so good.” There was no response.

“He’s not breathing,” I whispered like I was afraid he’d hear me and think it was an insult.

“Okay, just hang on. The ambulance will be there in another five.”

I swallowed around the lump in my throat and a low mournful sound escaped. He was so young. He was my son’s age. What happened?

“Don’t touch anything,” Liz said.

Had I touched anything? The screen door handle, but I’d used the key to unlock and open the door. I fisted my hands, stood, and looked around the cozy cabin where we’d spent almost every summer weekend with the kids, from diapers until Oscar moved in. One thousand square feet, two bedrooms, one bath, and filled with wonderful memories.

“What happened, Oscar?” Wiping the tears from my face, I wanted to shake him, make him wake up; but I’d known he was dead even before touching him. He was too still.

“Just another minute, Charlie,” Liz said.

It wouldn’t matter.

I waited in the confined space, inches from a dead body that once contained the life of a sweet, lovable, trustworthy man. He looked older in death. Missing was his infectious smile that could charm an old lady out of her last bingo card. He wasn’t exuberant. Perhaps being a gay man growing up in a small town like Forest Forks, he’d chosen to adopt a steady persona. But he was quick to smile and enjoyed life. He’d been a great friend to Drew in middle school and a supportive soccer teammate.

An Argyle Sweater daily calendar sat on the television stand with a book of limericks underneath. A photo of Joe and I with Oscar and Drew at their high school graduation was taped to the bottom of his television. We should have invited him over to dinner more often than just major holidays.

The sticker on his tablet proclaimed Kimmy Schmidt for President. He’d kicked off his shoes revealing socks decorated with turkeys and pilgrims.

Where did he find size thirteen pilgrim socks? Did he have matching boxers? Because Joe would look hilarious in those. Am I getting shocky?

The ambulance’s siren grew louder. “Tell the ambulance to use the back entrance,” I said to Liz.

“Okay.” She relayed my message.

A moment later a voice called out from the kitchen. “Hello? EMT.”

“In here,” I answered. “They’re here, Liz,” I said into the phone.

“Okay, sweetie. Call me if you need anything.”

Two men entered and I stepped away from Oscar. I recognized Eddie from our church, St. Lawrence, and he gave me a quick nod.

“Hey, Charlie. How long have you been here?” Eddie asked.

“Ten minutes, maybe.” I sat on the couch, then rose quickly, not sure what I was supposed to do.

“Charlie, maybe you should wait outside,” Eddie said while his partner attempted to take Oscar’s vitals. I didn’t want to watch. At my work at Sunnyview Villages Rehab and Retirement, my elderly patients had prepared for death. It was expected. Oscar was supposed to find love and grow old.

“Alright.” I left through the kitchen with its white appliances and cabinets, and Oscar’s cheerful blue towels and coffee pot. I sat on the picnic table bench in the side yard, hugging myself tight, reining in my grief. A young man gone… There would be time for emotions later. Glowing amber and yellow danced on the surface of the lake, reflections from the deciduous forest preparing to hibernate.

Please just be hibernating, Oscar.

The deputy’s cruiser parked next to my car. I pushed off the bench and headed toward it. A rush of dread slid down and weighted my legs, making each step heavier than the last.

A closely-shaved square head popped up from the car, followed by big shoulders—no neck. The head swung around and a steel-blue