Chapter 10 Then

It's never good news when the phone rings at two in the morning.

I fumbled for my cell in the dark. "Hello?"

"Is this Mrs. Fitzgerald?"

My heart skipped a beat. "Yes?"

"This is Dr. Bruner at NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital."

I twisted to look at the other side of the bed. Connor's side. It was still empty. He hadn't come home after our fight last night. I somehow already knew that, yet I stared at the empty spot where he should be. "What's happened?"

"Mrs. Fitzgerald, I'm very sorry to tell you this, but there's been an accident. Your husband, Connor, was in a car accident."

I swallowed. "Is he okay?"

The doctor stayed quiet for a few heartbeats too long. "It's very serious. You should come to the hospital immediately."

I don't remember hanging up. Or getting dressed. Or hailing a cab. Did I even say goodbye to the doctor? I must've lifted my arm to get the attention of the taxi driver. But I couldn't for the life of me recall the simple motion. It's like there was a gap in time after speaking to the doctor and now suddenly we were pulling up under an overhang at the hospital.

EMERGENCY

Big, red block letters. All caps.

An ambulance waited off to one side; two men in uniforms leaned against it drinking coffee. One laughed at something the other said. Business as usual. For them.

We pulled up at the wide sliding doors, and I rushed to get out of the cab.

"Hey, lady!" I already had the door open and one foot out on the pavement when the driver yelled. "You gotta pay for the damn ride."

I shook my head. "Oh. Sorry. Of course." I dug into my purse and grabbed two twenties without looking at the meter, handing them to the driver. "Thank you."

Inside, I rushed to the reception window. A woman sat behind Plexiglas, talking on her cell phone. I was certain she saw me, yet she kept her eyes trained down as she smiled and laughed, continuing her conversation.

I bent down to the small opening made for passing papers back and forth and spoke through it. "Excuse me?"

She frowned and spoke into her cell. "I'll call you back, Bebe."

I couldn't even wait for her to hang up. "Someone called me. A doctor. My husband was in an accident. He was brought here."

"Name?"

"Connor Fitzgerald."

She gestured to the chairs behind me. "Have a seat, and I'll check in with the doctors."

But I couldn't sit. So I paced. Counting the number of times I went back and forth to keep my mind focused on something other than "It's very serious. You should come to the hospital immediately."

Thirty-two.

Thirty-three.

Thirty-four.

Finally, someone opened the door a few feet from the reception window. The woman looked right at me. "Mrs. Fitzgerald?"

I rushed over. "Yes."

"Come with me, please."

I took a deep breath and followed. The treatment area was a wide square, with glass, podlike examination rooms lining all four walls. Patients lay in beds, and doctors and nurses sat around chatting at the center nurses' station. This was supposed to be an emergency room, but no one was moving like anything was urgent. When we got to the last room on the left, the woman held her hand out.

I expected to see my husband lying in a bed. But instead there were three men standing, a doctor in a white coat and two men in gray suits. The gurney next to them caught my attention. The entire top half was a deep red, stained with so much blood.

The doctor followed my line of sight and pulled a blanket up to cover it. Though I could still see the red through the threadbare linens. He extended a hand. "Mrs. Fitzgerald?"

"Yes."

"I'm Dr. Bruner. We spoke a little while ago on the phone."

I nodded. At least I think I did. "Where's Connor?"

He exchanged a quick glance with the two men and pointed to a chair. "Why don't you have a seat?"

"I don't want to sit. Where's my husband?"

One of the two men in suits extended his hand. "Mrs. Fitzgerald, I'm Detective Green. Your husband was in a very serious accident. I arrived at the scene when Mr. Fitzgerald was being extricated from the vehicle."

Extricated? My nerves couldn't take it anymore. "Can someone please tell me where Connor is?"

The doctor stepped forward. He reached out and took my hand. "Mr. Fitzgerald sustained very serious head injuries in the accident. He was unresponsive when brought in by ambulance. I'm very sorry to tell you that we were unable to revive him. Your husband died, Mrs. Fitzgerald."

The room started to spin. "What?"

The doctor put his hand on my back. "Is there anyone we can call for you?"

"Call?"

He nodded. "To be with you. You shouldn't be alone right now."

Nausea rose from my gut. My hand went to my stomach. "I need to sit down."

The shorter of the two detectives grabbed the chair next to him. Metal legs skidded across linoleum as he pulled it over to me.

"Can I get you some water?" The doctor guided me to sit. "I'll grab you some." He nodded at the men in suits before stepping out and sliding the glass door closed behind him.

I looked down at my hands, rubbing my thumb over the tip of each finger.

I couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel the tips of my fingers.

I watched my thumb touch each one, but there was no sensation at all.

Was this even real?

Maybe I'm dreaming.

Why aren't I crying?

A doctor just told me my husband is dead. I should be crying. Hysterical. Gasping for air.

I looked up at the two men who watched me in silence.

"Am I dreaming?" I held up my right hand and showed them how my thumb touched all of my other fingertips. "I don't feel this."

Detective Green crouched down in front of me. "You're likely in shock, Mrs. Fitzgerald. It happens."

But I was a psychiatrist. Wouldn't I know if I was in shock?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

The detective cleared his throat. "Do you feel well enough to answer a few questions, Mrs. Fitzgerald?"

I shook my head. "What happened?"

"The accident, you mean?"

I nodded.

"We're still trying to piece that together. But it appears Mr. Fitzgerald was speeding and ran a red light. He struck two pedestrians, lost control of the car, and crashed head-on into a nearby building."

My eyes widened, my stomach dropping. "He struck two pedestrians?"

The detective's face was somber as he nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"Are they okay?"

Detective Green looked up at the other man before shaking his head. "No, unfortunately they're not. Can you tell us anything about this evening? Where Mr. Fitzgerald was coming from at the time of the accident?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. We had a fight earlier. He left."

"What time was that?"

"I'm not sure. It was just getting dark. I looked out the window of our apartment to see which way he was walking. The sun was going down. I remember the sky was orange."

"So probably about five thirty or six, then?"

I shrugged. "Maybe."

"Did Mr. Fitzgerald have a history of drinking?"

"He was drunk?"

"We're not sure. It will take a bit of time before toxicology reports come back. But an eyewitness reported his car was swerving before the accident. What about drugs? Did Mr. Fitzgerald have a history of drug use?"

"Drugs? No. He's a professional athlete." I immediately thought of illegal drugs—heroin, cocaine, the type of stuff addicts used. But then it hit me that not all drugs that impaired a person's ability to drive needed to be bought on the street. Some people went to a pharmacist to feed their addiction.

I covered my mouth and stood. "I need a bathroom. I'm going to be sick."

The detective yelled for a nurse, and the next thing I knew, I was standing in front of a sink and someone shoved a pink, kidney-shaped plastic bowl into my hands. The woman was kind enough to hold my hair back while I emptied the contents of my stomach. After, I splashed water on my face, and she walked me back to the glass enclosure. The police were no longer there. Instead, they were on the other side of the nurses' station, along with Dr. Bruner. The three of them ushered a bearded man into an identical glass pod, and the doctor slid the door closed. He looked up and our eyes caught for a moment from across the room, before he turned to face the man.

The nurse who had helped me in the bathroom stood in the doorway of the treatment room. "I have to go check on a patient," she said. "Are you going to be okay?"

I motioned to where Dr. Bruner stood. "Is that the family of the other people who were in the accident?"

The nurse's face fell. "The little girl was only five."

Tears streamed down my face for the first time. It was awful to watch, yet I couldn't tear my gaze away.

The doctor motioned to a seat.

The man shook his head.

A now-familiar scene that had probably happened a thousand times here.

A regular occurrence.

Normal, even.

But not to us. Not to the families destroyed.

Detective Green shook the man's hand.

Dr. Bruner rested a hand on the man's shoulder and bowed his head while he spoke.

The man's eyes widened in horror.

He collapsed, falling to his knees.

Sobbing.

Shaking.

A loud wail echoed through the glass.

Shattering the man.

And shattering me.