Page 30 of Grant’s Heat

“Hi.” I smiled brightly. “Can you point me in the direction of the Emergency Department, please?”

“Your friend has a good head on his shoulders. It’s that way. Just follow the red signs overhead. Through that set of double doors and across the courtyard. You can’t miss the ambulances lined up out front.” The man actually winked in Grant’s direction before meeting my fuming gape.

“Thanks,” I said, much less cordially.

We checked in at the desk in the Emergency Department and were promptly ushered into an all-purpose waiting room. About a dozen inconsistent chairs lined the perimeter, leaving the center of the room wide open. Two mystery stains claimed portions of the carpet at the opposite end of the room, repeatedly drawing my eye in that direction. I became preoccupied with solving their origin and wondering if the rug would ever be restored to its low pile/no pile glory.

When the stains lost my interest, I got to my feet. Nervous energy propelled me around the room to examine the low-budget mismatched artwork that adorned the walls. Undersized and sun-damaged, two of the motivational prints had come loose from their mass-produced nondescript mattings and hung precariously beneath the plexiglass.

This wasn’t a waiting room. It was an office decor graveyard. A lonely place where neglected, discarded furniture and wall hangings went to die. All that was missing was a dead ficus tree dropping leaves in the corner. An empty water cooler would really set the mood.

The door opened. I jumped, shaken from my dark humor, and instantly felt guilty about it. People were lying in beds all around me. Some were very sick and probably lonely. Some were even dying, right in this very building.

Wait. Why am I even here?

“Let’s have a seat, shall we?” the shorter man said, pushing the surgical cap back, revealing a balding head.

A goofy grin spread across my face. The thought of mentally describing the man as “shorter” amused me. Next to Grant, wouldn’t everyone be described as shorter?

Speak of the devil.

My friend took my hand and squeezed it a little harder than he usually did. He kept his eyes pinned on the doctor. I followed Grant’s lead and gave the man my undivided attention. We could discuss this new hand-holding habit when we were in private and wouldn’t cause a scene.

“Hello, Doctor. I’m Grant Twombley, and this is Rio Gibson.” Grant let go of my hand to shake the doctor’s after offering his name with complete authority. He even introduced himself like he belonged in the room, as though he were totally in control of the situation. “Rio is Sean Gibson’s wife.”

I offered a limp handshake when my turn came, feeling like a shell of my usual self. I still couldn’t piece together why we were even here.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Swift. Mrs. Gibson, my deepest sympathy. The trauma team and I did everything we could for your husband when he arrived this afternoon. I’m not sure what you’ve been told so far?”

The man volleyed his gaze back and forth between Grant and me. When both of us just stared blankly, he continued with what seemed like a well-rehearsed speech.

“Unfortunately, after the injuries he sustained at the construction site where the incident occurred, there were no signs of life when he arrived here.” He flipped to the second page in the file on his lap, then looked up to us again. “We attempted advanced life support for several minutes, but there were no positive results. The paramedics held off on the pronunciation en route, but shortly after arrival in the Emergency Department, your husband’s life was determined to have ended.” He scanned the chart in his hand a second time. “At three seventeen this afternoon.” Dr. Swift looked up from the chart and added, “Again, my deepest condolences.”

I stared at the man.

Deepest condolences? Three seventeen?

I shot a look at Grant, but his expression hadn’t changed. “What is he saying?” I asked and then shot to my feet. “What are you saying?” The volume of my voice rose, along with a whooshing sound in my ears. “Three seventeen? What happened at three seventeen?”

I swiveled my hips to look back to Grant again but kept my feet planted firmly in place. The odd movement nearly caused me to topple over, so I twisted my body back toward the doctor. No one moved except me, and I had to look like I was doing some odd version of the Hokey Pokey.

And still no one else moved…did not dare breathe. They looked…concerned.

“Mrs. Gibson,” the doctor said gently, “please, calm down. Why don’t you sit down? I can have one of our grief counselors come in and speak to you. We have excellent resources here at the hosp—”

I ripped the chart from his hands. Slammed the thing down to the table and frantically flipped through the pages, one after the other, not able to focus on words. Was he making it all up? Full-scale panic clutched my throat, making it impossible to breathe.

“Three seventeen. Three seventeen. Three seventeen. Three seven—”

Strong hands seized me by the shoulders and shook me slightly.

“Rio! Look at me. Look at me now!” Grant nearly shouted.

I could hear him, but I couldn’t make my body comply. I had to find the time. There was no way my husband was—

No. Possible. Way.

“Does she have underlying psychological issues? Do you know?” I thought I heard the doctor asking Grant.