Page 25 of The Unraveling

“Come with me, please.”

I took a deep breath and followed. The treatment area was a wide square, with glass, podlike examination rooms lining all four walls. Patients lay in beds, and doctors and nurses sat around chatting at the center nurses’ station. This was supposed to be an emergency room, but no one was moving like anything was urgent. When we got to the last room on the left, the woman held her hand out.

I expected to see my husband lying in a bed. But instead there were three men standing, a doctor in a white coat and two men in gray suits. The gurney next to them caught my attention. The entire top half was a deep red, stained with so much blood.

The doctor followed my line of sight and pulled a blanket up to cover it. Though I could still see the red through the threadbare linens. He extended a hand. “Mrs. Fitzgerald?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Dr. Bruner. We spoke a little while ago on the phone.”

I nodded. At least I think I did. “Where’s Connor?”

He exchanged a quick glance with the two men and pointed to a chair. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

“I don’t want to sit. Where’s my husband?”

One of the two men in suits extended his hand. “Mrs. Fitzgerald, I’m Detective Green. Your husband was in a very serious accident. I arrived at the scene when Mr. Fitzgerald was being extricated from the vehicle.”

Extricated? My nerves couldn’t take it anymore. “Can someone please tell me where Connor is?”

The doctor stepped forward. He reached out and took my hand. “Mr. Fitzgerald sustained very serious head injuries in the accident. He was unresponsive when brought in by ambulance. I’m very sorry to tell you that we were unable to revive him. Your husband died, Mrs. Fitzgerald.”

The room started to spin. “What?”

The doctor put his hand on my back. “Is there anyone we can call for you?”

“Call?”

He nodded. “To be with you. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Nausea rose from my gut. My hand went to my stomach. “I need to sit down.”

The shorter of the two detectives grabbed the chair next to him. Metal legs skidded across linoleum as he pulled it over to me.

“Can I get you some water?” The doctor guided me to sit. “I’ll grab you some.” He nodded at the men in suits before stepping out and sliding the glass door closed behind him.

I looked down at my hands, rubbing my thumb over the tip of each finger.

I couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel the tips of my fingers.

I watched my thumb touch each one, but there was no sensation at all.

Was this even real?

Maybe I’m dreaming.

Why aren’t I crying?

A doctor just told me my husband is dead. I should be crying. Hysterical. Gasping for air.

I looked up at the two men who watched me in silence.

“Am I dreaming?” I held up my right hand and showed them how my thumb touched all of my other fingertips. “I don’t feel this.”

Detective Green crouched down in front of me. “You’re likely in shock, Mrs. Fitzgerald. It happens.”

But I was a psychiatrist. Wouldn’t I know if I was in shock?

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