Two Weeks After We Said Goodbye to My Daughter, Our Dog Brought Home Her Yellow Cardigan.
The Paint on the Sleeves Was Still Wet.
The jar of marinara hit the floor of aisle six.
It burst like a firecracker.
Red sauce splattered my sneakers.
Glass skidded under the cereal shelf.
I didn’t look down.
I was staring at my phone.
MERCY RIDGE HOSPITAL.
A Saturday.
9:52 a.m.
“Is this Hannah Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“Ma’am, there’s been an accident on Calloway Road.”
“Your husband and daughter were brought in by ambulance.”
“You need to come now.”
I don’t remember leaving the cart.
I don’t remember the parking lot.
I remember my hands on the steering wheel.
White knuckles.
And one thought, over and over.
Ruby was wearing her yellow cardigan.
She’d put it on that morning over her paint shirt.
The one with the daisy buttons.
She twirled in the kitchen doorway.
“Do I look like an artist?”
“You look like a sunflower,” I said.
She rolled her eyes.
Nine years old and already rolling her eyes.
Jason laughed and grabbed his keys.
“First class, kiddo.”
“Wrenfield Arts Center, here we come.”
She kissed me on the cheek.
She smelled like strawberry shampoo.
At the door she stopped.
“Can I sit up front?”
“Not till you’re thirteen,” Jason and I said at the same time.
She groaned.
“You guys are the worst.”
“Tell Mom she’s in my painting today,” she yelled from the driveway.
“What painting?”
“It’s a secret!”
The car door slammed.
Jason waved.
I waved back with a dish towel.
That was forty minutes ago.
Mercy Ridge is a small hospital.
Two stories.
One ER.
Six beds.
I ran through the sliding doors so fast I hit the frame.
A nurse caught my arm.
“Mrs. Mercer?”
“Where are they?”
“Where’s my daughter?”
“Please sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down.”
Then Meredith came through the double doors.
Jason’s big sister.
Dr. Meredith Mercer.
Emergency medicine.
She’d been on shift when the ambulance came in.
Her scrubs were wrinkled.
Her face was gray.
She took both of my hands.
“Hannah.”
