I take a sip of my coffee and rub the back of my neck.
Beads of sweat are already forming from the heating in the store.
I take a deep breath when I see the woman. Mascara runs down her cheeks, and her face is all puffy. Her hair is disheveled from running her fingers through it.
“Hi, I’m so sorry to hear about your loss.” I clasp my hands in front of me.
“Thank you,” she responds, sniffling. She wipes her nose with a tissue.
I stop short, trying to find any other words that will comfort her. What do you say to someone who has lost both of their parents unexpectedly to a tornado?
“I can’t believe everything’s gone. My parents. My home. Our dog Rosie. All gone.”
There’s shock on her face, the same type I recall seeing on thefaces of people walking the streets of Manhattan in the aftermath of 9/11 in the various documentaries that have so engrossed me.
“Come on, let’s grab a seat,” I say, taking her hand and sitting down on a table next to the counter. Connie and Caryn join us uninvited.
“Is there anything I can do to help. Anything at all?”
I wipe away the tears from her cheek with my thumb before holding both of her hands in mine.
“I… I don’t know,” she says, stuttering.
The despair on her face is gut-wrenching.
Her pain is almost too uncomfortable to sit with.
“Do you have somewhere to stay?” I soften my tone, getting drawn into her green eyes, which are the same color as her nail varnish.
“Yeah, my boyfriend’s,” she says, looking down into her hands. “That’s where I was last night when they were killed.” The guilt in her voice lingers in the air.
I look to Caryn to get a sense check of the woman’s work situation.
“We can take care of work, right Caryn?”
“Yes, of course.” She reaches across to put her hand on the woman’s arm. “Take as much time as you need. We’ll ensure your wages are covered.”
Her attention goes to Connie, and a calculated look appears in both of their eyes.
This poor young woman. She must be about the same age as me, and she has had everything taken from her in one clean sweep. I can’t even begin to imagine what that must feel like.
“Do you know if your parents had insurance on the house?”
Her head lifts slowly until her eyes meet mine.
“They, they….” she starts, but begins to cry again, unable to form the words.
“Don’t worry,” I say, scooting my chair round and holding her tightly in my arms as she sobs uncontrollably.
There’s got to be something we can do.
Friday
The pile of CD and vinyl sleeves I’ve been signing for the past two hours refuses to get smaller. Rows and rows of them are laid out across the long table in my hotel suite, which overlooks the Bellagio Fountains, although they’re turned off for the Las Vegas Grand Prix this weekend.
“How many more of these are there left to sign?” I say to Paul, massaging my aching wrist.
“Just a couple more boxes.” Paul doesn’t even look up from his iPad.
