Nothing's Wrong

"Julie..."

Oh no. Something in that one word "Julie." Something's wrong . . . No, it can't be wrong. Nothing's wrong. She's just staring at me like that because . . . She's just using that tone of voice because . . . She's just . . .

"I'm sorry."

Don't say that. She can't be sorry. Nothing's wrong. Why is she so God damn sorry if nothing's wrong? She places a hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it off, backing away and shaking my head. My vision blurs, and I realize that thick, hot tears are rolling down my cheeks.

No, I'm not crying. I'm not crying because nothing's wrong. I haven't fallen to my knees and strung my fingers through my hair. I haven't allowed the sobs to wrack my body so violently that I'm trembling beyond my control and nearly hyperventilating. I haven't done these things because nothing's wrong.

And now I'm pleading. No, I'm not. I'm not pleading some higher power to take me instead or cursing them for taking my family in the first place. I'm not huddled in his arms, clenching his white coat with whitened knuckles and waning strength. I'm not because there's nothing wrong.

There's nothing wrong because any moment now, He's going to come walking out of those double doors, our three-year-old son in His arms and a silly smile on His face as He tells me that I'm getting my beautiful dress dirty and that we'll never get to the babysitter's if we don't get a move on. It's our fifth anniversary, and we're going to His favorite restaurant, where we'll order the most expensive bottle of champagne on the menu, and right in the middle of dessert, He’ll gently nudge a rectangular black box across the table. I'll wrinkle my nose and cock my head to one side, complaining that we promised not to get each other gifts this year, and He'll smirk and say something that will make me laugh or blush or both, and I'll pick up the box and gasp as I find a diamond necklace or a pair of earrings or new ring. I'll look at Him with watery eyes and He’ll stand and carefully remove the gleaming object, and carefully place it on me, and He'll sit back down and admire it. I'll finger it softly and tell Him it's beautiful, and He'll say that it's so much more beautiful because I'm wearing it, and we'll dance the night away and laugh and cry of happiness.

There's nothing wrong because none of this has taken place yet. And it has to. It's going to.

But she is still murmuring apologies into my ear, and my dress is still stained with crimson spatters -- probably both of our blood, but mostly His. And my mind is trying to accept that they're gone -- really it is -- but it keeps thinking about His clothes on his side of the closet, our son's toys still scattered about his nursery, our bed that He had made only this morning, the laundry in front of the washer that He had scolded me about earlier, the dishes still in the sink from our late lunch. The doctor is by the doors, his scrubs still soaked in His blood and a tired, sad look on his face as he wipes tears from his cheeks and shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, unable to decide whether to approach me or leave me to the woman currently rocking me back and forth on the floor. And, suddenly, the memories are assaulting me, reminding me of why I'm here pretending that nothing is wrong . . . because it seems that something -- just maybe -- is out of place.

//I remember the green shimmer of the traffic light. He's making faces at the squealing, giggling little boy in the back seat, turning to me with a smile and a laugh of His own as I start to pull into the intersection. And then that smile is gone, replaced by a look of utter horror as He fills His lungs as if to shout but never gets the chance as the other car speeds through a red light, slamming into the passenger’s side of our little car at nearly eighty kilometers a hour in a sixty- kilometers-per-hour zone. Through the blood pounding in my ears and the muffled sounds of people outside screaming or calling 000 or attempting to ask us if we're all right, I hear my son wailing in the back seat. He's scared, so I crane my neck, and, despite the agony spreading through my ribcage, I turn to comfort him. But he's, suddenly, gone very quiet . . . He's not moving at all, half His face coated in a thick, red liquid that ebbs from His scalp and drips down the curve of His pale neck and onto His tux. And my only thought before my vision begins to fade is that He won't be able to wear it to the restaurant.//

And now I realize that something is most definitely wrong. Because He's not the one here comforting me and our son isn't here telling me not to cry because everything will be okay. Because my best friend is now kneeling beside me, telling me there was nothing that could be done for either of them. Because our son had died of suffocation from being pinned against his car seat by a protruding something or other before the ambulance had even arrived, and He had died of blood loss or heart failure or a combination of both. I don't retain any of the information that I'm being told. My face is blank now, my entire body nearly numb, and I can't imagine feeling any other way for the rest of my life. They're trying to get my attention, trying to get me to stand, but I just can't seem to find the energy.

And there's a prickling sensation in my back that wasn't there before, starting near the bottom and working its way up towards the shoulder blades. I shiver and reach behind me to scratch at the tickling, and my hand comes back red, startling both people beside me. But I stare at my crimson-coated fingers without interest, looking past them to my shoes and frowning. They were shiny this morning, but they're scuffed now, covered in dirt and dry blood. My dress is ripped from my arms, and there are gentle, prodding fingers at my back, causing me to hiss as it stings. Someone curses -- maybe me, maybe one of the two now shouting for a gurney, maybe all three of us.

“Julie, you hang in there, all right?" The words are desperate as I'm pressed back against the floor, my jacket currently acting as a make-shift pillow. I stare at the doctor with confusion and drowsiness, wanting to say something along the lines of "What the fuck are you talking about?" But the words are stuck in my throat, and a bitter liquid is rising up, coasting along the curve of my tongue and spilling past my lips.

"Damn it!" The Doctor is looking around frantically for that gurney. It sure is taking a long time to get here ... Then again, it is the graveyard shift. Have we really been here that long? "Julie, look at me." I can't focus. "Look at me!" I want to tell him that shouting isn't going to make my vision any less blurry, but things are, suddenly, getting very . . . far away. Things are fading. But I'm not afraid. Because He has my hand in His and our son is giggling and squirming, reaching for me with those arms still plump with baby fat. Because He's whispering assurances in my ear, telling me that everything is better now and that it's going to be all right.

Because nothing is wrong anymore.