Page 8 of The Wrong Heart

“Mrs. March… I’m very,verysorry.”

Her voice is sweet, so gentle and kind.

A sympathetic whisper.

It’s the antipode to the hideous moan that erupts from my core, like I’m a weeping volcano, exploding with denial, disbelief, and hot lava tears.

She catches me before I hit the ground, but it’s not enough. Her arms weren’t built to hold the weight of my grief, so I fall—I fall so hard, I know there’s no crawling out of this black abyss, this endless hole of disrepair. The sun has permanently set inside me, hijacked by a cruel winter.

Dr. Whitley wraps her arms around my shaking shoulders as I wail and sob, begging for it to not be true, cursing and blaming and self-destructing in her embrace. She’s trying, I know she’s trying, but her efforts are futile—she did not prepare for this winter, and neither did I.

I’m not sure how long we stand like that, crumpled in the middle of the bereavement room, but I don’t think it’s very long. Dr. Whitley has more patients to care for, more lives to save.

More seasons to change.

Life goes on around me as I numbly follow Dr. Whitley out of the room, and I don’t think I’ve ever borne witness to something so honest.

So stripped down and painfully raw.

Conversations in the waiting room. Sitcoms on the television. The rattling of a vending machine while children purchase snacks. Telephones ringing.

Laughter.

Someone is laughing while my husband lies dead in a hospital bed.

It’s then that I grasp the fact that I have my own conversations to have, my own phone calls to make—I need to talk to the detectives who are waiting for me. I need to inform my family.

I need to informhisfamily.

Oh,God.

His mother. His poor mother.

My grief washes over me like a tsunami as I make my way through the hospital hallways to say my final goodbye to Charlie.

But my knees buckle, my ankles giving out, and I collapse before I make it very far.

My purse falls beside me on the tiles, spilling its contents everywhere. Lip balm, loose change, random receipts, an assortment of junk and knick-knacks.

All of it stares back at me, a scattered mess of drivel, and I realize, I realize with a sickening cry of horror—

This is what he died for.

Two Weeks Later

The shower jets are hot, pelting me with liquid fire—a feeble attempt to cauterize these open wounds.

With my palms pressed against the fiberglass walls, fingers splayed, I bow my head when I feel an added warmth trickle down my inner thighs.

My throat tightens.

The lump swells as my stomach churns, causing my legs to quake.

No.

Please, no.

I watch in horror, mute and numb, as the water runs red, and my only remaining glimmer of hope disappears down the shower drain.

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