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There’s a wide gap between the two beds.
My Tom and Denise are separated.
No, that’s not going to happen.
I push against the bed.
It doesn’t move.
I push the bed and the nurse says, “What are you doing?”
“They belong together,” I say. “Help me push the beds together.”
“No,” she says, “that’s not allowed.”
I don’t remember pulling it, but my Beretta is out, pointing right at her.
“Help me move these goddamn beds or I’ll drop you right here,” I say, my voice dim, like it’s being spoken a hundred miles away. “Then I’ll drop the next person who comes in and doesn’t help until I’m out of bullets or I’m dead. Your choice.”
The nurse bites her lower lip and Jeremy steps in. “Here, let me help. Amy, please—put the pistol away.”
With the nurse releasing the brakes on the wheels and Jeremy pushing, my daughter’s deathbed is pushed against her father’s. I sit on the edge of Denise’s bed, roll up my legs, take my dead daughter in my arms, and then stroke the cold forehead of my dead husband. The nurse leaves.
And I start whispering, and I start weeping.
“Oh, Denise…I wanted so much for you…a life with love and laughs…oh, Denise…my girl…my sweet girl…I’m so sorry…oh, so sorry.”
I stroke her hair, knowing that somewhere in the ER I have to find a hairbrush and comb out the tangles. And somewhere back at our townhouse—where I will never spend another night, even if by some miracle my smoke order gets lifted—I will need to find the right clean clothes to…to dress her for the last time.
What will I pick? How will I choose?
A deep rending sob comes out. “And I never said goodbye to you…never talked to you these last few days…and now I never will…oh, Hon…”
I reach over, touch Tom’s forehead, his lips, his cool cheeks.
He has only two suits. Why would a reporter need more than that? Should I buy him a new one?
“My sweet man,” I say, weeping again. “I’m sorry for the times I barked at you, gave you the cold shoulder…oh, Tom…we could have gotten old together, seen our daughter get married…spoil her children…Tom…oh, Tom…”
Jeremy sits in the corner, not moving, not saying a word.
And so a good portion of the day slides by, my body feeling like an empty husk, not wanting anything, not thirsty, not hungry, not being.
Time passes.
The curtain opens.
A deeply tanned man comes in, wearing a fine gray suit, white shirt, blue necktie.
His face is troubled, and he spots Jeremy, sees me, and then my dead family.
This man is why I joined the CIA after my service in the Army.
Jeremy stands up and says, “Amy. I need to leave. Please forgive me.”
He slips out through the curtains, out to where there’s life.
“Amy,” the man says. “I’m so deeply, deeply sorry.”
