myself
rooting for the angry one.”
“You’ll work through it,” Heather assured her.
“Could you work through knowing your husband had been murdered?” With those final
cold words, Meg turned and strolled resolutely up the hall. Within seconds the wondering
as to who she was had been forgotten. The all-consuming image in her head was that
of seeing Jim Thomas going over the cliff.
“Your lunch break’s not over for another fifteen minutes,” noted Jan as Meg arrived
at the station.
Her trance now broken, Meg offered, “Why don’t you go early and catch a little extra
time?”
Evidently not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, Jan quickly shot out from
behind the desk, saying only, “I didn’t know Christmas came on Thursdays in March.”
Initially, Meg didn’t take note of what the other nurse had said. The words had no
meaning and made no impact. Then one of those words rang out and began to bounce around
all the corners of her mind. Thursday! Why did that day seem so significant? What
did she have to do today? What was it about Thursday?
Sitting in a chair behind the counter, she tried to refocus on her work, but Thursday
wouldn’t leave her alone. Why couldn’t she think? Why couldn’t she remember what made
this day important? Her mind had been numb since watching Jim Thomas outside his house
on Monday night. The desire for revenge, coupled with a feeling of overall helplessness,
had made her even more depressed. Still, seeing him, knowing who his parents were,
hearing him talk, and finding nothing of redeeming value in what he said had given
her something on which to focus her thoughts. And those thoughts had crowded out everything
that wasn’t written on charts or appeared on iPad screens. And there was nothing on
either that suggested Thursday was important for any reason at all. It was just another
long day.
With the frustration of not being able to remember what she felt was so important,
Meg realized how much each day seemed like the one before it. Even though this was
only her fourth day back at work, the routine, filled with the same questions, the
same requests, the same duties, began to run together. In the near past—a time that
seemed years ago, a time before Steve had been killed—she had enjoyed her job. Each
day had seemed fresh and alive with new faces and new challenges. And when the day
ended, she knew that each evening with Steve would also be filled with new discoveries
and newfound passions. Now, each day seemed to last forty-eight hours and each night,
an eternity. As she glanced at her watch for the fifteenth time in half an hour, she
wished she could turn back the clock. But that wasn’t possible. Death had changed
everything.
In this new life, the daydreams had become the reality and life was nothing more than
a place to stumble through. She felt no real emotional attachment to her job, her
mother, or her friends, and talking with them, answering their questions, even taking
care of the patients was accomplished through little more than memorized mechanical
reactions. Even things like cooking, cleaning, and putting on makeup were just time
killers. They seemed to serve no purpose. Life had no purpose.
Yet, when she allowed herself to dream, her feelings and senses were brought back
and the world again had color. From the time she had found out about Steve’s murder—she
refused to call it an accident—until the day after the funeral, she had dreamed about
him. In those dreams, he brought her surprises, said funny things, and made love to
her. He was alive. But now, since the moment she saw Jim Thomas, her dreams were filled
with passionate plans for revenge. For now, Meg’s world was one where reality and
fantasy had somehow changed places, and this was the way she wanted it until life
offered her somekind of personal satisfaction. That satisfaction could only be fully
rooting for the angry one.”
“You’ll work through it,” Heather assured her.
“Could you work through knowing your husband had been murdered?” With those final
cold words, Meg turned and strolled resolutely up the hall. Within seconds the wondering
as to who she was had been forgotten. The all-consuming image in her head was that
of seeing Jim Thomas going over the cliff.
“Your lunch break’s not over for another fifteen minutes,” noted Jan as Meg arrived
at the station.
Her trance now broken, Meg offered, “Why don’t you go early and catch a little extra
time?”
Evidently not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, Jan quickly shot out from
behind the desk, saying only, “I didn’t know Christmas came on Thursdays in March.”
Initially, Meg didn’t take note of what the other nurse had said. The words had no
meaning and made no impact. Then one of those words rang out and began to bounce around
all the corners of her mind. Thursday! Why did that day seem so significant? What
did she have to do today? What was it about Thursday?
Sitting in a chair behind the counter, she tried to refocus on her work, but Thursday
wouldn’t leave her alone. Why couldn’t she think? Why couldn’t she remember what made
this day important? Her mind had been numb since watching Jim Thomas outside his house
on Monday night. The desire for revenge, coupled with a feeling of overall helplessness,
had made her even more depressed. Still, seeing him, knowing who his parents were,
hearing him talk, and finding nothing of redeeming value in what he said had given
her something on which to focus her thoughts. And those thoughts had crowded out everything
that wasn’t written on charts or appeared on iPad screens. And there was nothing on
either that suggested Thursday was important for any reason at all. It was just another
long day.
With the frustration of not being able to remember what she felt was so important,
Meg realized how much each day seemed like the one before it. Even though this was
only her fourth day back at work, the routine, filled with the same questions, the
same requests, the same duties, began to run together. In the near past—a time that
seemed years ago, a time before Steve had been killed—she had enjoyed her job. Each
day had seemed fresh and alive with new faces and new challenges. And when the day
ended, she knew that each evening with Steve would also be filled with new discoveries
and newfound passions. Now, each day seemed to last forty-eight hours and each night,
an eternity. As she glanced at her watch for the fifteenth time in half an hour, she
wished she could turn back the clock. But that wasn’t possible. Death had changed
everything.
In this new life, the daydreams had become the reality and life was nothing more than
a place to stumble through. She felt no real emotional attachment to her job, her
mother, or her friends, and talking with them, answering their questions, even taking
care of the patients was accomplished through little more than memorized mechanical
reactions. Even things like cooking, cleaning, and putting on makeup were just time
killers. They seemed to serve no purpose. Life had no purpose.
Yet, when she allowed herself to dream, her feelings and senses were brought back
and the world again had color. From the time she had found out about Steve’s murder—she
refused to call it an accident—until the day after the funeral, she had dreamed about
him. In those dreams, he brought her surprises, said funny things, and made love to
her. He was alive. But now, since the moment she saw Jim Thomas, her dreams were filled
with passionate plans for revenge. For now, Meg’s world was one where reality and
fantasy had somehow changed places, and this was the way she wanted it until life
offered her somekind of personal satisfaction. That satisfaction could only be fully
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