“Oh shit, they’ve got to be out of their mind,” David mumbles, standing to address something behind me.
I turn to see a small cluster of reporters gathered where I was just sitting. David leaves Bo on the floor in a heap and yells obscenities into the crowd behind me, rubbing the tears from his anguished face. A nurse leads Bo to a private room off the end of the hallway, and a second nurse helps Regan. I’m left face-to-face with the surgeon. I wonder, briefly, how many times he’s had a front-row seat to this scene, how many people have been brought to their knees by his words.
“Ma’am, are you family?” His gentle voice seems out of place. I look around and realize he’s addressing me. I shake my head, unable to speak. “I’m Doctor Mashburn. I won’t be able to speak to Mr. Cavanaugh until the initial shock wears off...I need to speak to a family member to discuss the next steps.”
“There’s no one left.” With those words, a cascade of reality streams down my face, and I’m knocked off-balance by dizziness. Dr. Mashburn steadies me; suddenly I’m weeping onto his scrubs.
There’s no one left.
Looking back, I see David talking with security guards. He catches my eye, nods to the security guard, and walks toward us.
“Dr. Mashburn...he, um...needs to talk to family.” That’s all I can manage before sobs take over.
*
An hour later, I’m sitting next to Regan in the tiny grief room off the hallway—that’s my name for it. If it has another title, it’s wrong. David and Bo went behind the double doors to say goodbye to Rachel before facing the world. And, the world is waiting.
News of Rachel Cavanaugh’s death has spread like wildfire through the streets of Concord. Reporters are snaking around, and the phones have been ringing off the hook at the nurses’ desk. No one is allowed on the floor we’re on, thanks to David’s stern words with the security guards. Monica and Josh are on their way. David asked the security guards to meet them at the doctors’ entrance and escort them to the grief room when they arrive.
“Regan,” I whisper. He rubs his face with his hands and looks at the wall.
“There was nothing I could do. The bees came out of nowhere ...” His eyes clench tight, as though he’s trying to wring the memory from his brain.
“I know,” my voice breaks as fresh tears spill, “I’m so sorry.” My shoulders shake as I bow into my hands.
“Ember!” Monica runs into the room and kneels in front of me. I cry harder, meeting her on the floor. Her arms anchor around my neck. Josh squats next to us and hugs us both before walking to Regan.
Regan tells us that despite wearing a helmet, Rae suffered extensive internal injuries when she hit the ground. She lacerated her liver and succumbed to internal bleeding. She never regained consciousness after her fall.
“I’m going to go back to Bo’s house with him today if he’ll let me. I can’t let him go home alone—will you guys come?” I tie my hair back and rub the remainder of smudged mascara from under my eyes.
“Of course.” Monica eyes Josh, who nods in response.
“Regan, come with us,” I encourage, “you can’t be alone either.”
“I’ll come.” He leans back and rests his head against the wall.
“Ms. Harris?” A nurse quietly enters the room.
“Yes?” I sniff as I stand, wiping my eyes.
“Mr. Cavanaugh wants to see you, will you come with me?” I stare into the hallway, not wanting to go into whatever room Bo was just in with Rae. With her body. “It’s OK, honey.” Her face tells me they’ve already moved her body to the morgue.
I walk out of the grief room, and hear Josh confidently lead Regan and Monica in a prayer. Suddenly, his religious upbringing isn’t so funny anymore. The nurse takes my hand as we head through the large double doors.
“Is David Bryson down here as well?” We walk slowly down an impossibly long hallway.
“No, he went down to address the media.”
“Oh.” I still can’t wrap my mind around the fact that my surrogate sister, and Bo’s only living family, is now gone. Forever.
Bo is sitting in an empty room that holds an end table and a couple of chairs. It’s like the grief room, only smaller. His bloodshot eyes look up as the door closes behind me; the nurse has left. His skin is ashen, lifeless. I stand in front of him and take his hands. For some reason I don’t want him to see me cry, so I look down, trying to blink away tears. They drop on his jeans one by one, and I collapse into his lap, failing to silence my whimpering.
“Oh my God, Bo ...” I pull his forehead to my shoulder and stroke my fingers through the back of his hair.
“What am I going to do?” he wails into my collarbone.
I slide my hands to his face and pull it away from me, staring into his eyes.
“I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” Tugging him toward me, I kiss him with what little energy I have left. He kisses me back and we sit for a long time with our lips locked and noses touching. I learn in an instant that sorrow isn’t the absence of passion. Sorrow is the darkest, most intense form of passion hidden in the recesses of the human spirit.
*