Cutler 01 - Dawn

other time," I promised and squeezed his arm. "Please. Take me home."
    "Damn," he repeated. He started the car and backed away before his friends could bother us. They beeped their horn, but we didn't pay any attention. Philip drove me home quickly, barely looking at me.
    "I should have come right up here instead of taking you for the pizza," he said, almost in a growl.
    We made the turn on our street, but as we were approaching the house, I thought I saw Daddy and Jimmy rushing down the sidewalk toward our car. Drawing closer, I was sure of it and sat up quickly.
    "It's Daddy! And Jimmy! Where are they going so late?" I cried. Philip sped up until he pulled alongside, just as Daddy got behind the steering wheel.
    "What is it, Daddy? Where are you going this time of night?"
    "It's Momma," he said. "The hospital called Mrs. Jackson just now. Momma ain't doin' so good."
    "Oh, no!" I felt my throat close up and the tears come rushing over my eyes. I got out of Philip's car quickly and into Daddy's.
    "I hope everything will be all right," Philip called out. Daddy just nodded and started away.
    As soon as we reached the hospital, we rushed to the entrance, where the security guard came forward to stop us. I recognized him as the same one who had been at the emergency room when we had brought Momma in.
    "Where you all heading?" he asked. He spoke gruffly, demanding an answer, and just like the first time, looked closely at Daddy.
    "The hospital just phoned about my wife, Sally Jean Longchamp. They told us to come right over."
    "Just a minute," the security guard said, holding his hand up. He went to the central desk and spoke to the receptionist. "All right," he said, returning. "Go on up. The doctor's waiting for you." He followed us to the elevator and watched us go in, still staring hard at Daddy.
    When we arrived at the door to the intensive care unit, Daddy paused. The young-looking, red-haired doctor who had examined Momma in the emergency room was off to the side talking softly with a nurse. They both turned when we approached. I felt the lump crawl up in my throat, and I bit down on my lower lip. There were shadows deep and dark in the young doctor's eyes. Suddenly they looked more like the eyes of an old man, a more experienced doctor who had seen a great many more very sick patients. He stepped up to Daddy and shook his head as he came forward.
    "Wha . . . what?" Daddy asked.
    "I'm sorry," the young doctor said. The nurse he had been speaking to joined him.
    "Momma!" My voice cracked. My tears were stinging.
    "Her heart just gave out. We did the best we could, but she was so far gone with this lung congestion . . . the strain . . . it was all just too much for her," he added. "I'm sorry, Mr. Longchamp."
    "My wife's . . . dead?" Daddy asked, shaking his head to deny whatever the young doctor would say. "She ain't . . ."
    "I'm afraid Mrs. Longchamp passed away a little over ten minutes ago, sir," he replied.
    "NOOO!" Jimmy screamed. "You're a liar, a dirty liar!"
    "Jimmy," Daddy said. He tried to embrace him, but Jimmy pulled away quickly. "She ain't dead. She can't be dead. You'll see; you'll see." He started for the intensive care door again.
    "Wait, son," the young doctor said. "You can't . . ."
    Jimmy thrust open the door, but he didn't have to go in to see where Momma had been lying and see her bed was now empty, the mattress stripped. He stood there staring incredulously.
    "Where is she?" Daddy asked softly. I embraced him around the waist and held on tightly. He had his arm around my shoulder.
    "We have her down here," the doctor said, pointing to a door about halfway down the hall.
    Daddy turned slowly. Jimmy came up beside him, and he reached for him. This time Jimmy didn't pull away. He drew closer to Daddy, and the three of us moved down the hallway slowly. The nurse led the way and stopped at the door.
    I couldn't feel myself moving; I couldn't feel myself breathing. It was as if we had all slipped into a nightmare and were being carried away by it. We're not here, I hoped. We're not about to go into this room. It's a terrible dream. I'm home in bed; Daddy and Jimmy are home in bed.
    But the nurse opened the door, and in the dimly lit room I saw Momma lying on her back, her black hair resting around her face, her arm at her sides, the palms up. Her fingers were curled inward.
    "She's at peace," Daddy muttered. "Poor Sally Jean," he said and moved to the side of the gurney.
    Everything in me broke loose.