Forever, Interrupted(3)

My body calms. My eyes dry. My face freezes, and my gaze falls onto a scaffolding and stays there. My arms feel numb. I’m not sure if I’m standing or sitting.

“What happened to the driver?” I ask the officer, calm and composed.

“I’m sorry?”

“What happened to the person driving the moving truck?”

“He passed away, ma’am.”

“Good,” I say to him. I say it like a sociopath. The police officer just nods his head at me, perhaps indicating some unspoken contract that he will pretend he didn’t hear me say it, and I can pretend I don’t wish another person to have died. But I don’t want to take it back.

He grabs my hand and leads me into the front of his police car. He uses his siren to break through traffic and I see the streets of Los Angeles in fast-forward. They have never looked so ugly.





When we get to the hospital, the officer sits me down in the waiting room. I’m shaking so hard that the chair shakes with me.

“I need to go back there,” I say to him. “I need to go back there!” I yell louder. I take notice of his name tag. Officer Hernandez.

“I understand. I’m going to find out all of the information that I can. I believe you will have a social worker assigned to you. I’ll be right back.”

I can hear him talking but I can’t make myself react or acknowledge him. I just sit in the chair and stare at the far wall. I can feel my head sway from side to side. I feel myself stand and walk toward the nurses’ station, but I am cut off by Officer Hernandez coming back. He is now with a short, middle-aged man. The man has on a blue shirt with a red tie. I bet this idiot calls it his power tie. I bet he thinks he has a good day when he wears this tie.

“Elsie,” he says. I must have told Officer Hernandez my name. I don’t even remember doing that. He puts out his hand as if I were going to shake it. I see no need for formality in the midst of tragedy. I let it hang there. Before all this, I would never have rejected someone’s handshake. I am a nice person. Sometimes, I’m even a pushover. I’m not someone who is considered “difficult” or “unruly.”

“You are the wife of Ben Ross? Do you have a driver’s license on you?” the man asks me.

“No. I . . . ran right out of the house. I don’t . . . ” I look down at my feet. I don’t even have on shoes and this man thinks I have my driver’s license?

Officer Hernandez leaves. I can see him step away slowly, awkwardly. He feels like his job is done here, I’m sure. I wish I was him. I wish I could walk away from this and go home. I’d go home to my husband and a warm bed. My husband, a warm bed, and a f*cking bowl of Fruity Pebbles.

“I’m afraid we cannot let you back there yet, Elsie,” the man in the red tie says.

“Why not?”

“The doctors are working.”

“He’s alive?” I scream. How quickly hope can come flying back.

“No, I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “Your husband died earlier this evening. He was listed as an organ donor.”

I feel like I’m in an elevator that is plummeting to the ground floor. They are taking pieces of him and giving them to other people. They are taking his parts.

I sit back down in the chair, dead inside. Part of me wants to scream at this man to let me back there. To let me see him. I want to run through the twin doors and find him, hold him. What are they doing to him? But I’m frozen. I am dead too.

The man in the red tie leaves briefly and comes back with hot chocolate and slippers. My eyes are dry and tired. I can barely see through them. All of my senses feel muted. I feel trapped in my own body, separated from everyone around me.

“Do you have someone we can call? Your parents?”

I shake my head. “Ana,” I say. “I should call Ana.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Can you write down Ana’s number? I’ll call her.”

I nod and he hands me a piece of paper and a pen. It takes me a minute to remember her number. I write it down wrong a few times before I write it down correctly, but I’m pretty sure, when I hand over the piece of paper, it’s the correct number.

“What about Ben?” I ask. I don’t know what exactly I mean. I just . . . I can’t give up yet. I can’t be at the call-someone-to-take-her-home-and-watch-her phase yet. We have to fight this, right? I have to find him and save him. How can I find him and save him?

“The nurses have called the next of kin.”

“What? I’m his next of kin.”

“Apparently his driver’s license listed an address in Orange County. We had to legally notify his family.”

“So who did you call? Who is coming?” But I already know who’s coming.

“I will see if I can find out. I’m going to go phone Ana. I’ll be back shortly, okay?”

I nod.

In this lobby, I can see and hear other families waiting. Some look somber but most look okay. There is a mother with her young daughter. They are reading a book. There is a young boy holding an ice pack to his face next to a father who seems annoyed. There is a teenage couple holding hands. I don’t know why they are here, but judging from the smiles on their faces and the way they are flirting, I can only assume it’s not dire and I . . . I want to scream at them. I want to say that emergency rooms are for emergencies and they shouldn’t be here if they are going to look happy and carefree. I want to tell them to go home and be happy somewhere else because I don’t need to see it. I don’t remember what it feels like to be them. I don’t even remember how it feels to be myself before this happened. All I have is this overwhelming sense of dread. That and my anger toward these two little shitheads who won’t get their smiles out of my f*cking face.