I clasped my hands in my lap and waited.
Minutes passed. Then more.
Every time someone walked by in scrubs or a white coat, my pulse jumped. No one stopped.
I replayed the accident in my mind, though I had only fragments to work with. A call in the middle of the night. My mother’s shaking voice. Words like collision, severe injuries, efforts made.
Efforts made.
What did that mean? Had Rose been conscious? Afraid? Had she asked for anyone?
My throat tightened.
I waited for a long time. It felt like hours.
Finally, a man appeared at the doorway behind the desk. He was middle-aged, hair thinning at the temples, glasses perched low on his nose. The receptionist spoke to him in rapid French, gesturing toward me without looking in my direction.
He frowned slightly, then nodded.
She waved me forward.
“Come,” the man said curtly.
I followed him down a narrow hallway that smelled even more strongly of disinfectant. Doors lined the walls, each marked with small, impersonal placards. We stopped outside an office barely larger than a closet.
He gestured for me to sit.
“What do you want to know?” he asked, folding his arms.
Straight to the point.
“I want to understand what happened to my sister,” I said. “The accident. And … I was told her personal belongings were collected. I need to know where they are.”
He glanced at a file on his desk, flipping it open with practiced ease. “Rose Rousseau. Yes.”
The sound of her name in this place—flattened into ink and paper—made my chest ache.
“She was brought in after a vehicular collision,” he continued. “Severe trauma. She did not die immediately.”
My breath caught. “She was conscious?”
“For a brief period,” he said. “Yes.”
The word landed like a blow.
“She spoke?” I asked. “Did she say anything?”
He hesitated just long enough for hope to flare—and then extinguish.
“I am not authorized to discuss details of her final moments,” he said. “That information is documented, but it is not for family release without proper request.”
“I am her family,” I said, my voice rising despite myself. “I’m her sister.”
“And you are late,” he replied coolly. “These requests require appointments. Forms. Translation, in some cases.”
Frustration surged through me, hot and sudden. “I didn’t know how this worked,” I said. “No one told me. I’m trying to do this the right way.”
“You should have consulted the consulate,” he said. “Or come earlier. Or brought someone who understands the system.”
