Page 23 of A Me and You Thing
“A horrific tragedy?” No. My wife is not a horrific tragedy. That doesn’t sum up her life. Not at all. No. What is happening? I’m so confused.
“I’m sorry, sir. This is only my fourth phone call. I still have eight more calls to make. It’s getting harder each time.” His voice trembles, and I finally hear a little emotion. He’s trying. The Voice sounds young, too young to have to make phone calls of this nature. He clears his throat and continues. “I know this comes as quite a shock.”
Shock? I can’t feel my legs and my fingers are numb. My breath is scraping through my lungs, and I can’t seem to get enough air. I think that qualifies as more than shock. I think I’m about to hyperventilate, something I’ve never experienced.
“The Nicaraguan government is asking family members to please remain in the States. There’s nothing for you there. Nothing to see, nothing to do. No personal effects to collect. It was just an unfortunate accident and there’s nothing more to be done. The American Embassy will issue the necessary paperwork to allow you to obtain a death certificate as soon as possible, so you can put things in order.”
Order? There’s no order. My life has just been turned upside down.
“We’re so very sorry, Mr. Denali. We want you to know how much we appreciate your wife and her willingness to serve.”
That does it. I hang up the phone angrily, wishing I had an old landline phone I could crash down on its cradle, creating a loud bang in the receiver’s ear. Instead the abrupt click will have to suffice; payback for calmly telling me the worst news I’ve ever heard in my life. Other than one human moment, he may as well have been a robot telling me the weather.
I sit there on the floor of my office as if the conversation never happened, as if my life didn’t just change in monumental ways in a matter of minutes.
I have so many questions. I just can’t ask them, I can’t even form them in my mind.
Quinn.No, this can’t be true. Just barely a week ago, she was here in my office, sitting on my lap, seducing me in a way only she knows how to do. If my love is enough to keep her alive, then there’s no way she’s gone.
The urge to lash out, to throw things around the room—to break and smash things—is overwhelming. I spring to my feet and grab the first thing I see—a vase from the shelving unit. I hurl it against the wall, and it shatters into a million pieces.
I don’t feel any better. I collapse onto the floor, my back against the wall. I run my hands over my face and into my hair.
Head bowed, I whisper her name over and over. “Quinn, Quinn.”I want Quinn.
This can’t be true. It simply can’t. She can’t be gone. No. I don’t accept it.
Something deep inside me propels me to action. It’s denial—and it gives me strength. Breaking down is not an option. I get up, rush to my bedroom, and begin tossing clothes into a duffle. They can’t stop me from going there. They can’t stop me from searching for Quinn. I’m not going to just take their word for it that she’s gone—and there’s nothing left of her. The entire situation sounds... suspicious. I know I’m acting rashly, yet I don’t care. I have to act. If I don’t, I’ll explode. I feel out of control, like I want to punch something really, really hard.
“Sawyer?”
It’s my mom. I’m sure she’s wondering about all the racket—the crashing vase and me banging around.
“Yeah.” My voice is thick with emotion.
“Is everything okay? What was all that noise?” Her eyes lower to my duffle. “What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving for Nicaragua.”
“What? Why? Has something happened? Is Quinn all right?”
“She was in a bus accident.” I face Mom, the words I just uttered bitter on my tongue.
Her bottom lip quivers as her face pales. “Is she okay?”
A heavy moment hangs in the air between us. “There were no survivors,” I whisper, because I suddenly don’t have a voice. My statement sounds more like a question, as if I’m asking Mom to tell me it isn’t true.
I hear her gasp, and the next thing I know, she’s touching my shoulder and then I’m in her arms as she hugs me tightly. She’s crying on my shoulder, soft little sobs that barely make any sound. I know she’s holding back for my sake.
“No, not Quinn,” she cries.
I refuse to break down. “I don’t believe she’s gone. Not for a second. No way. I’m going there and I’m gonna find out what really happened.”
Mom backs up, holding me by my shoulders, looking into my crazed eyes.
I can see her mind ticking away, even though tears are dripping down her cheeks. “Yes, yes you’re right. You have to go. Go. Go find Quinn and bring her home.”
Her words surprise me, but she’s always been on my side. She’s not going to stop now. It’s not lost on me that we’re both in shock and acting impetuously.
