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The doctor’s lounge was neither
bright nor inviting. It was full of
lockers and lounge chairs and a couple of daybeds. Several small tables were scattered about as
if a giant child had tired of trying to arrange her dollhouse furniture and
simply swept the little tables all willy-nilly.
The smell of burned coffee made my nose tingle. My scratchy throat
constricted with desire. No one offered
Styrofoam cups of conciliation. No one
had time. There was too much work to
do. Too much news to impart.
“Folks,”
the manager began. “I’ve got a list of
people who’ve been accounted for. I’ll
read out the names and their whereabouts.
Some have been taken to other hospitals in the area, a couple were
airlifted to Lubbock.” He paused
and ran a trembling hand through his thin hair, and I felt something close to
compassion. What an awful job, telling
family members their loved ones have died or been mangled or burned. Joe,
that’s his name. I think Quinn introduced
us at last year’s Christmas party, though I met so many that night, I hadn’t
been able to keep them all straight. At
that time, the plant had just been sold and the new members of management were
all in attendance. How odd that this
near stranger was now about to tell me the most horrific, the most intimately
life-changing news one could possibly hear.
My
mind tried to wander away again: After
the funeral, I’ll go somewhere. I’m
thinking this as Joe is going through the list of names. I recognize so many of the names, but I don’t
recognize many of the people around me. Quinn talked about his work constantly. I was
familiar with many of his coworkers only because I heard about them over dinner
each evening. Lots of his friends
had moved on to other companies when the plant sold—I recalled that Bill, one of
his oldest friends, even said he was moving on because of the new owner’s poor
safety record.
I
pushed that thought away. I didn’t want
to think that this might be something that could have been avoided. Should have been avoided. Of course, that would all come later.
Without
knowing what I was about to do, I stood shakily. “My husband, Quinn Rose. Is he on your list there?”
Joe’s
face blanched. Ronnie patted me
awkwardly, but no one told me to sit down.
No one knew what to do with me.
Later, in the restroom mirror, I would understand why no one felt the
need to tell me to wait my turn. Surely
everyone there was in the same boat so what gave me the right to demand an
accounting right there and then? My
face. That’s what did it. The face looking back at me out of that
restroom mirror was the face of an apparition.
My husband may have been the one who died, but I was the one still
haunting the earth.
Afterthought: Back to work on Moonbow now. It is a much cheerier book ~ although, in my defense, All For Love has a very uplifiting ending ~ it's just the rest of the book that's dark. LOL.
