Nightmare Night

"Think occasionally of the suffering of which you spare yourself the sight." ~Albert Schweitzer

It was never going to happen to me. I knew where my family was practicly every moment of the day. I would never have to view them through a glass, covered from head to foot with that white coverlet. I would never have to identify my child in the morgue. I was more than sure, I was positive.

I was typing another story on my laptop when I heard the knock on the door, three sharp, loud thumps.  I looked at the clock: it was 11:25pm. My daughter, 17 year old Rosie, was out on a date with her long boyfriend and was not expected home for another 35 minutes. My husband Brad was in bed, as were our 14 year old twin sons, Theodore and Franklin.

I rose from my chair.  I had a stiff back and neck.  I took the first of many painful steps to the door. I opened it.

“Hello? Can I help you?” I said, peeping through a small gap.

“Good evening; do you recognize this person?” The policeman lifted a picture of Rosie. It was from her driver’s license.

“That’s my daughter; what’s wrong?” Tears welled up in my eyes.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you, but there was an accident. Is anyone at home with you, or do you have someone that can come with you? We need you to come to the hospital.”

I was in shock. I knew it had to be bad for the police to come to the door. I nodded my head and wrapped my arms around my shoulders. I went to the bedroom to wake my husband.

“Brad, Brad, wake up. The police are here. Rosie has been hurt. We need to go to the hospital; please, Brad, wake up!” I felt a tear roll down my cheek.

We followed the officers to the hospital. I was expecting to be rushed into a sterile room with some copy of a cheerful painting hanging on the wall above the Naugahide chairs; instead, we were escorted to the elevators. The officer pushed the button for “basement;” the one marked as the morgue.

I grabbed my husband’s arm and held on tight.  I didn’t think of the worse case, my cheerful, beautiful blonde daughter, my girl, my only girl, dead. I looked at Brad; he put his hand on mine, took a deep breath, and pursed his lips. He was prepared for the worst.

The elevator came to a stop. We stepped out; the officer let the desk clerk know we had come to view and I.D. the Wayze girl. The clerk picked up the phone and poked three buttons, spoke softly, and put down the phone. He stood up. He told us to follow him and wait by a shiny glass pane. A table was wheeled to the window. The officer nodded his head, and the sheet was pulled back.  I turned my head away and braced for my husband’s reaction. I felt the tenseness leave my husband. He sighed. I looked through the glass, Oh My God, it was not my baby! It was not Rosie. Thank God. My child must be safe!

“It’s not her,” I whispered.

The officer shook his head and they covered up the girl. They wheeled the table back where they got it and brought us some papers. We signed them, indicating it was not our daughter, and we were told we could go home.

On the way home we started wondering who the girl was and why they had our daughter’s driver’s license. We entered our home.  Standing in the middle of the living room at my laptop was our daughter.

“Hey mom, this story is great!” I ran to her and hugged her. “What is going on?”

We told her of the night’s events. She ran to her purse and noticed her wallet was gone, someone had stolen it. Unfortunately, we had seen in the morgue the one who had done it.


Word Count 676