the first of a stream of friends and fellow officers from the
Department who would participate in the vigil because Jack was well
liked but also because, in an increasingly violent society where
respect for the law wasn't cool in some circles, cops found it more
necessary than ever to take care of their own.
In spite of the well-meaning and welcome company, the wait was
excruciating.
Heather seemed no less alone than if she had been by herself.
Bathed in an abundance of harsh fluorescent light, the yellow walls and
the shiny orange chairs seemed to grow brighter minute by minute.
Rather than diluting her anxiety, the decor made her twitchy, and
periodically she had to close her eyes.
By 11:15, she had been in the hospital for an hour, and Jack had been
in surgery an hour and a half. Those in the support group--which now
numbered six--were unanimous in their judgment that so much time under
the knife was a good sign. If Jack had been mortally wounded, they
said, he would have been in the operating room only a short while, and
bad news would have come quickly.
Heather wasn't so sure about that. She wouldn't allow her hopes to
rise because that would just leave her farther to fall if the news was
bad after all.
Torrents of hard-driven rain clattered against the windows and streamed
down the glass. Through the distorting lens of water, the city outside
appeared to be utterly without straight lines and sharp edges, a
surreal metropolis of molten forms.
Strangers arrived, some red-eyed from crying, all quietly tense,
waiting for news about other patients, their friends and relatives.
Some of them were damp from the storm, and they brought with them the
odors of wet wool and cotton.
She paced. She looked out the window. She drank bitter coffee from a
vending machine. She sat with a month-old copy of Newsweek, trying to
read a story about the hottest new actress in Hollywood, but every time
she reached the end of a paragraph, she couldn't recall a word of it.
By 12:15, when Jack had been under the knife for two and a half hours,
everyone in the support group continued to pretend no news was good
news and that Jack's prognosis improved with every minute the doctors
spent on him. Some, including Louie, found it more difficult to meet
Heather's eyes, however, and they were speaking softly, as if in a
funeral parlor instead of a hospital. The grayness of the storm
outside had seeped into their faces and voices.
Staring at Newsweek without seeing it, she began to wonder what she'd
do if Jack didn't make it. Such thoughts seemed traitorous, and at
first she suppressed them, as if the very act of imagining life without
Jack would contribute to his death.
He couldn't die. She needed him, and Toby needed him.
The thought of conveying the news of Jack's death to Toby made her
nauseous. A thin cold sweat broke out along the nape of her neck. She
felt as if she might throw up, ridding herself of the bad coffee.
At last a man in surgical greens entered the lounge. 'Mrs.
McGarvey?'
