No Words

297 words

    I was parked in the driveway, slumped forward, head on the steering wheel, waiting for tears to dry.  It was an hour drive from the hospital; it had taken two I’d pulled over, not able to see through my grief.  This wasn’t in our plan.  I had to tell our nine-teen year old daughter.

    How was I supposed to tell our children, twenty-three and nineteen, that they didn’t have a mom anymore?  She’ll, get better, that’s what I ‘d thought, that’s what I’d told everyone.  Last night at the hospital her room had been blocked with yellow quarantine tape.  Stepping through the tape I found her delirious, blond hair plastered to her flushed skin by a feverish sweat.  There were more monitors in the room than previously, and a nurse. 

    “Would you like to be alone with her?”

    I was confused, “What,” she’s going to be okay right?”  Suddenly I understood, I was terrified, alone.

    “Let me get the doctor,” the nurse replied and quickly left.

    They found me hunched over my wife; lips resting on her hot forehead my tears falling, trying to cool her.  There was a soft compassion in the nurse’s eyes, and fear in the doctor’s.

    “Paul,” as the nurse gently led me to the doctor, “you’ll be okay.”  Her hand rested on my arm.

    The doctor was resigned, “I’m sorry, at noon her temperature rose dramatically, we’ve tried everything, we can think of, the infection isn’t responding to anything, it just spreads, I don’t know why, I’m sorry, it doesn’t look good.”

    I shuffled to the front door, opened it and stepped into our home.  The nineteen year old little girl was standing there, waiting for me, eyes questioning.

    I opened my mouth nothing came out.

    My eyes said it, she knew.

297 words