Page 2 of The Retreat

Before he can respond, I say, “I’ll be there in a minute,” and hang up, scoop my notebook and pens into my satchel, and break into a half-jog.

I spy the officer as I round the carrels. He’s not alone. A female officer is with him and the moment our gazes lock, her expression of practiced sympathy makes my stomach drop.

My steps slow, keeping pace with the pounding of my heart as I approach. Dread makes my palms clammy and I surreptitiously swipe them down the side of my denim skirt. The gesture doesn’t go unnoticed as both officers watch me do it, almost as if they don’t want to look me in the eye.

That’s when I notice the front desk is empty. Glenda never leaves her post, ever, unless for scheduled breaks, and even then she’s vigilant about someone covering for her to the extent she draws up a roster every Monday. Her absence reinforces what I already know deep in my gut.

The news the officers need to impart isn’t good.

When I reach them, Officer Lewis says, “Is there somewhere we can talk more privately?”

“We have rooms reserved for students.” My voice quavers as I point toward four conference-style rooms to our left.

He nods, as the female officer introduces herself. “I’m Officer Helsham.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I say, a polite, rote response when on the inside I’m a mess. Every instinct is screaming at me to run and hide in the stacks, far from the bad news the officers are likely to impart.

We don’t speak as we head toward the first vacant room, and once Officer Lewis closes the door, Officer Helsham gestures to a chair. “Have a seat.”

When I don’t move, my panicked gaze swinging between them, she exchanges a quick glance with her male counterpart before continuing. “I’m afraid we have some bad news for you, Lucy.”

I collapse into the nearest chair, my legs wobbly and my trepidation increasing. My satchel clangs against the metal leg of the chair and it opens, sending a pack of colorful tabs I use for annotation and several pens rolling beneath the table. I don’t care. My gaze rivets to Office Helsham, who sits opposite me. She’s too close, like she expects I’ll sway or faint when she tells me what’s happened.

“Your mother has been involved in a vehicular accident, and I’m afraid she didn’t survive.”

I bark out a laugh, and both officers rear back in surprise. “There must be some mistake. My mom doesn’t own a car, and she never gets into one. She barely sets foot out of our home because she’s agoraphobic. So it’s not possible she’s been involved in a car accident.”

The officers exchange another of those loaded glances before Officer Helsham says, “We’re sorry to say a bus hit your mother and she didn’t survive the impact.”

My blood runs cold, thick, and sluggish in arteries and veins that constrict with shock, making me lightheaded. My instant dismissal when they first told me gives way to doubt. Mom rarely leaves our brownstone, but it has happened before. On those occasions, she cited medical treatment as the reason and I hoped she’d improve enough to make it a regular occurrence. If she set foot outside a few times, maybe she’d learn she had nothing to fear. But she didn’t change, and I grew accustomed to keeping her company at home rather than going out. We were a couple of hermits, comfortable in our environment, and the fact I’m using ‘were’, past tense, in my mind means the news is sinking in.

My quiet, staid, sensible mom is dead.

My throat tightens, and tears burn my eyes as I begin to shake. My teeth clatter and Office Helsham reaches out to place a comforting hand on my forearm.

“I’m sorry to ask this of you, Lucy, but we’ll need you to come with us to the Medical Examiner’s office now and confirm her identity.”

I stare at the policewoman, unseeing, her face distorted by my tears as the sobs welling in my chest burst forth and I’m ugly crying, hunched over, wrapping my arms around my middle, wishing this nightmare would end.

The next two hours are a blur. Accompanying the police to the M.E.’s office, refusing to peer through the glass at the sheet-covered body on a steel gurney, being led into the room by the two officers bracing me either side, their grip firm on my elbows but useless against my overwhelming grief as the sheet is tugged back and I glimpse the familiar face of my mom. She’s surprisingly bruise-free and I’m glad her body took the brunt of the impact, because I would’ve hated seeing her mangled. Her expression is serene, like she’s taking a nap, and I almost reach out to give her a little shake to wake up.

As I’m being led from the room, an examiner lifts the sheet from her feet, checks the toe tag and scribbles something on a document. Confirmation that my life as I know it is over.

I’m alone.

We have no family. Mom hated talking about her past, which included my father and her parents, and would almost hyperventilate if I probed, so I gave up asking in my teens. I’ve never understood why I have my father’s surname if she hated him so much and I didn’t like having a different surname to her, particularly at high school where bullies latched onto anything to make my life hell. Online searches proved futile too and I often wonder if she’d changed our names because she was running from something.

Now I’ll never know.

I stumble and the officers tighten their grip, and as I glance at my mother’s lifeless body for the last time, I see it.

A tattoo on the sole of her right foot.

My pristine, strait-laced mom, who never drank, smoked, and always abhorred tattoos of any kind, has a strange nautical compass branded on her body.

“Is something wrong?” Officer Helsham asks, her tone soft and solicitous, and I shake my head.

What can I say? That everything is wrong and even in death, my secretive mom is surprising me?

---