A high-pitched whine sounded in my ears as she detailed the event. Some man high on drugs had robbed the pizza store. The policewoman stressed that it’s never happened before in Willow Harbor. It was a safe town, and the shooter was from the city, blah blah. James tried to help calm the situation and got shot. He was pronounced dead on the scene. They apprehended the shooter and will press full charges. Yes, she was sure.
“Yes, ma’am, he’s dead.”
Time stopped. My heart stopped. Breathing became painful. This wasn’t real. My soul felt like it had been ripped from my body and then my skin had been filled with heavy cement. Why was I so heavy?
How? Why? Where is God?
“We were able to identify him on scene based on his license, so we won’t need you to come do that.”
A sob built in my chest, shaking me out of my shock as I thought of my husbanddead.
Why did she keep using that word? James couldn’t have been dead. He’d just kissed me and told me he loved pizza.
“He was just installing a swing on the tree this morning. And then he put together our new dining table,” I said stupidly, gesturing to the willow for proof. “We want to start a family, and James put up a tire swing for our future children to play on,” I told them, as if talking about the future would bring my husband back from the dead.
The male cop hadn’t said a word, but he frowned at my statement and stared at his boots.
“Is there someone we can call to be with you? Social services can come by later,” The female said as I stood there frozen.
I didn’t want some stranger here to make sure I wasn’t going to hurt myself. I wanted to be alone to process this. I’d had a rough childhood. My father was an abusive alcoholic, so I’d dealt with stress and trauma my entire young life. I was good at compartmentalizing, so I did that now. I turned the knob off on my emotions and cleared my throat. I went into survival mode then, straightening my back and putting a mask of calm over my face.
My mother lived in Paris as a food writer. James’s parents were in New York, and my best friend, Anna, was in Seattle. I had no one local. I was heartbreakingly alone in this moment.
“I’ll be fine.” My voice was hollow. A shell. I was a shell.
‘God, help me.’
“Okay, well, here is the number of a trauma counselor. The Willow Harbor morgue should be contacting you about your wishes for the remains.”
The remains.
The remains of my husband.
No.
James was dead. He was really dead.
Oh, God.
The male cop, who had been silent nearly the entire time, now chose to speak. He looked me right in the eyes and frowned slightly. “I’msosorry for your loss.” He handed me a white plastic bag, and I took it, having no idea what could be inside.
I nodded, blinking back tears, and then somehow got myself inside and shut the door. The second I heard them drive away, I burst into hysterical sobs.
My body shook as pain swept out from my heart and infiltrated every cell of my being, and my sobs turned into violent screams.
James. My life. My family. My everything.
Denial hit me hard then. This wasn’t happening. This had to be a mistake. She’d mentioned that he was ID’d at the scene, but surely they were wrong. Surely, James was alive.
After fumbling for my phone, I dialedHandsome Hubby.
When a ringing sound came from the plastic bag I was holding, I screamed and dropped it. The contents spilled out, and my gaze went to the few drops of blood on his wallet.
I hung up, barely clinging to consciousness. I wanted topass out at that moment. I wanted blackness to swallow me whole.
No.
Dead on the scene.
