8.

She did her telephone punch-in when she got to Rellingford Hospital, and then proceeded down the long rose-colored hallway to the ER. She pa.s.sed some medics and other nurses, said the obligatory morning h.e.l.los and listened to the lukewarm jokes, but her mind was elsewhere and she was craving coffee. The staff in the ER was small, like everything else in Rellingford. There was simply the doc-Dr. Davison-and a unit clerk, and a few nurses on the day shift. Night shift was even more bare bones. Not a lot happened out in Rellingford on a continuing basis for the ER, and some days, nothing happened beyond a twisted ankle or a kid who need a few st.i.tches and a hug. There were always lab techs around, the respiratory therapists, but it was bare bones in the ER most days, with an on-call staff in case anything major came down.

She picked up the report from Nancy Maier, the outgoing staff nurse, and then grabbed a cup of coffee from the vending machine room, and thank G.o.d it was Starbucks thank G.o.d it was Starbucks or she would've been in a bad mood over the usual mud-in-a-cup, and then she went off to triage to get the long shift going. or she would've been in a bad mood over the usual mud-in-a-cup, and then she went off to triage to get the long shift going.

By the late afternoon, two new patients had come in, one of them from a car wreck out on the main highway, which made her think about Hut, and hope that he was okay. Surely, he'd page her or call, and, she had to remember, if something happened to him, she'd have been contacted.

The patient who arrived had been lucky-a broken leg, perhaps, and a dislocated shoulder. With her coworkers and the doc on his way, Julie got to work in triage.

Just before five, her shift supervisor called her over to an empty office, and said, "Julie. Something's happened."

The supervisor had that tone of voice that meant something horrible. Something tragic. She'd heard the tone when the news came about any major public tragedy-from the World Trade Center horror of a few years' previous to the sudden death of one of the visiting physicians. Immediately, Julie thought of the children. Of Matt and his troubles. Of Matt and the time she'd seen him with a knife, and even though he hadn't done anything to himself with it, she had known-he had communicated with his eyes-that he was thinking about his real mother, about where she was, the inst.i.tution outside Philadelphia, about all the things that Matt had whirling in his mind at all times...

"Not Matty," Julie said, tears already forming in her eyes. Images of Matt, memories of him, his violent outbursts, his tantrums, his moods.

"No," her supervisor said, softly.

Chapter Four.

1.

The morgue wasn't located in the hospital, but at the sheriff's station one township over. It was an area of what New Jerseyans called the Lake District that was less wooded and natural than paved over and set up right off the major highway. The sheriff's station looked like an industrial park, and the morgue was toward the back. Julie had insisted that she could drive, that it was a mistake, that none of this made sense, and she was fine, until she saw the staircase down to the morgue.

It looked like she had to walk down into limbo. It grew cold with each step, and she had to steady herself on the railing. She felt as if, at any moment, she might trip on the stairs.

A policewoman accompanied her, and Julie could tell that the woman watched her to make sure she wouldn't collapse or stumble.

She sat down on the seventh step, and covered her face with her hands.

"We can sit here for as long as you want," the cop said.

Julie wasn't sure how much time had pa.s.sed. "I've seen dead people before," she said, steeling herself, wiping her eyes. "It's all right. It is. I'm a nurse." She wasn't sure if she said any of this aloud or not, as she got up and went down to the chilly floor below, where the lights were a flickering blue and the smells were talc.u.m, alcohol, and something that reminded her too much of the Emergency Room.

And then, the room itself: shiny and silver and garish in the overhead lighting, which was flat and made the coroner and the sheriff look as if they, too, were dead, as they stood there over the body. In the far corner of the room, three large blue plastic barrels that seemed out of place. It wasn't as big a room as she had expected, and she felt crowded by the others there, and self-conscious because she was sure they were just watching her as if she might do something irrational.

She hadn't looked at the face of the dead man until then.

2.

"Mrs. Hutchinson?"

"It's not him," she said. "Thank G.o.d. Oh my G.o.d. It's not him."

The sheriff was a man named Cottrell, who she knew only from the time he'd brought Matt in when Matt had stolen a car at twelve, and the sheriff told her that the car was undamaged, the owners were willing to drop charges, and Matt had been bawling like a baby. Rellingford was that kind of town. Cottrell had told her, then, that he understood Matt's situation from "Dr. Hutchinson," and so he hoped it would just be an isolated incident. Dr. Hutchinson was known in Rellingford. They knew of his first wife, and her "troubles." They knew of Matt and his "situation."

She thought back then that she probably would never see the sheriff again. How many times in life do you have to see the local authorities?

She took the facial tissue he offered, and wiped her eyes. Her vision came back into focus. She felt a boundless happiness for that moment, and a distant sorrow for this murder victim. She looked at the face. She didn't recognize him at all. She could see why the mistake had been made. Hut had floppy auburn hair, too, and he had that kind of squarish jaw that reminded her of the Midwest and cornfields for some reason. But that was really it. This corpse in front of her was pale, and the lips and nose were all wrong. "It's a mistake," she said. "It's not him."

"This is Homicide Detective McGuane, from Manhattan," the sheriff said too formally.

Julie didn't glance up at any of them. People make mistakes all the time. Errors in judgment. This is why they need someone to identify bodies. Human error is the norm in life. Of course that's true. Of course. People make mistakes all the time. Errors in judgment. This is why they need someone to identify bodies. Human error is the norm in life. Of course that's true. Of course.

"Mrs. Hutchinson, I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes. Perhaps not right now. Not today. But soon. The sooner the better," the stranger said.

She couldn't look up at his face.

She kept watching the dead man. She was aware of the wounds and knew that whoever had killed the man on the table had a knowledge of where to strike-there were knife entry wounds at the arm, the lungs, the neck, and the heart. Lacerations on the shoulders and hands, where there might've been a struggle. She had worked in the city, and had seen murder victims before, years ago, when she had been a newly minted RN, and had often worked the graveyard shift in the ER. She'd seen the victims of gang killings then, of domestic homicide, of any number of ways that a human being could be killed.

She had been able, quickly, to separate herself from the dead, even in her mid-twenties, by viewing them as having gone on-as being empty sh.e.l.ls. It was as she'd been taught in church, and although she only believed sporadically, it helped to think of death that way, particularly a violent death: their suffering is over. They're in heaven now. They're in some afterlife that was somehow better than the raw deal they'd gotten in this world. their suffering is over. They're in heaven now. They're in some afterlife that was somehow better than the raw deal they'd gotten in this world.

"It can't be him."

"He's your husband," McGuane said. "We have his personal effects. Wallet, keys, and so on. Mrs. Hutchinson. This is Dr. Jeffrey 'Hut' Hutchinson. I know this is a tremendous shock."

She had thought of him so much as Hut that she had nearly forgotten his real first name: Jeff. It's not him. Why do they keep insisting it's Hut? It's not Hut. It's not him. Why do they keep insisting it's Hut? It's not Hut.

She looked at the wounds, at the arms, the belly, and it wasn't until she saw the small circular tattoo on the dead man's left shoulder that it hit her too hard. She felt nausea in her stomach, and a distant, shrill ringing in her ears.

Someone wrapped his arms around her, holding her up. Had she been falling? She tugged away from the arms and stumbled toward the wall, pressing her forehead into the coolness of the wall itself, as if she could press herself through it.

And then, she knew that she was going to fall. She was going to fall, and it seemed in slow motion that she would hit the edge of a small metal cabinet on her way down, and then her head would hit the floor.

3.

She awoke in a darkened room, the only light coming from beneath a door. The smell of fresh coffee somewhere, beyond the darkness. Gradually, as her eyes focused, she saw more: it was simply an office, probably at the sheriff's station. She felt achy and nauseated, but gradually, perhaps a half-hour after opening her eyes, she pushed herself up from the cot. Her head ached, and she reached to touch the back of her skull. Someone had already taped some gauze just under her hairline at the nape of her neck. She remembered the fall, and winced with pain when she moved her jaw a little. She heard voices beyond the small room. She stepped out into a too-bright light, and went to sit in a large chair in a corner of the sheriff's office. He had glanced up from his desk, and laid the phone back in its cradle.

"Mrs. Hutchinson? How are...how are you doing?"

"I'm a little thirsty, if I could..."

"Certainly," the sheriff said, who then went out into the bustling main office to get a cup of water for her. Before the door shut behind him, she saw the man named McGuane again. He was gaunt and had lightly graying dark hair that seemed too long for a detective. He looked to be about fifty, and something in his demeanor and his wrinkled jacket made her think of a scarecrow. He stared at her, as the door closed behind the sheriff.

"We had you checked out," the sheriff said. "Your head. Are you sure you're okay?"

"I don't think it's a problem," she said, but the headache was pretty strong.

Then, she was alone again in the office, blinds drawn around the windows.

After the sheriff returned with a large plastic cup of water, McGuane followed.

She watched as he went and took a chair opposite her, pulling it in closer.

She couldn't look at him again. Not for a while.

"I wish I could be gentler about this," McGuane said.

4.

Mel came to take her home, and hugged her when she saw her. "What's that?" she asked, pointing to the padded yellow envelope in Julie's hands.

"Personal effects they said. Wallet, keys, watch,"

Julie said, feeling dead on the inside.

"Did you hurt yourself?" Mel gasped when Julie turned away from her.

Julie felt the bandaging on her neck. "Oh. That. It's nothing. Really."

5.

In the car, Mel said, "I don't even know what to say, sweetie. I just don't. We'll go home. Somehow, we'll sort this out."

You hated him, Julie wanted to say. Julie wanted to say. You told me on my wedding day that he was a poor bet for a husband. You told me he had too much baggage. Don't sit here and pretend everything will ever be all right again. You told me on my wedding day that he was a poor bet for a husband. You told me he had too much baggage. Don't sit here and pretend everything will ever be all right again.

Julie said, "Hut bought a gun two years ago. He said he didn't like the way there was too much crime, even in the suburbs. He bought it and I hated it and I tried to throw it away twice. He had it locked up at the top of the linen closet. I made him take the bullets out of it and put those elsewhere. I wish I hadn't insisted on it. I wish he had his gun with him. I wish he had it. He might still be alive."

She felt her sister's touch on her scalp, combing through her hair, just as her older sister had done when they'd been kids, when Julie had come home from a bad day in kindergarten or first grade, a day of fears and a day of friendships lost. Mel would comb her fingers through Julie's then-blond hair and whisper, "I'm going to brush all the bad things from your head, Jules. Don't worry."

6.

At home, she lay down on top of her bedspread and stared up at the ceiling until her eyes lost their focus and she had to shut them.

In her dream, she saw the face again.

His face. Not dead, but alive.

Not on a shiny metal table, pasty-white skin, covered with blotches of brown-red and bright blue bruises.

But as he had been the last moment she had seen him. Alive.

It was morning, and she had just made coffee.

She turned to him, feeling the sorrow that came with the knowledge of the loss.

His warm brown eyes brightened when he finished telling a truly bad joke to her, and she chastised him for spilling coffee on the edge of his sleeve. He had given her that look that meant he was tired of the small, petty comments. In the dream, she tried to erase even making a comment about the coffee stain. She looked at him and said, "Try to be home early at least one night this week."

"You know how demanding things are right now." His voice-had she even remembered it correctly in her dream? "It's not as if I'm making people get sick so I can work late and never be home with my wife and kids. You think I'm that kind of man?"

Even in the dream, the thought of another woman whom he might or might not be seeing came up for her, a cloud that was both distant and close.

"Well, you don't even know your son at this point," she said-and something inside her said, don't keep doing this to him, he's going to want to leave you if you do, don't become the b.i.t.c.h of the world don't keep doing this to him, he's going to want to leave you if you do, don't become the b.i.t.c.h of the world-and yet, she kept saying, "I got up in the middle of the night and he was cycling again." Cycling was their word for Matt's phases that seemed nearly manic when he would stay up all night, playing games of solitaire for too many hours, or doodling ridiculous images in his art notebook, or playing computer chess by himself.

"Don't worry about him. All you do is worry sometimes. I'd like to be home once and not have to be surrounded by this...this drama," Hut said.

And then, the dream evaporated, and when she awoke, in her bed, she thought for just a minute that nothing bad had happened to him, that he would be home later that night, that all of it had just been a dream.

But the yellow padded envelope lay next to her pillow.

7.