The waiting room is pure chaos. With blood caking her hands, collared shirt and
jeans, she stumbles absentmindedly away from the woman behind the front desk
and lowers herself back into a stiff, green vinyl chair. She stares blankly at the doors
under the "Emergency" sign that never seems to stop swinging, and watches as
doctors and nurses bent over gurneys, pushing wheelchairs and scribbling on
clipboards charge through again and again. Everyone is yelling. A few people are
crying. No one is still. No one but her.

​

She doesn't realize she's wringing her hands, but when she looks down, she sees a
tuft of hair poking out of the prongs that grip her diamond anniversary ring. She can't
remember grabbing her daughter by the hair, but then again, she was just reaching
for whatever she could dig her fingers into. She was shocked to come back over the
railing empty handed, and equally shocked by the silence that followed. No scream.
No thud. Just quiet. When she looked over again, she could make out the vague
outline of a once-familiar figure, now twisted; a pool of darkness slowly spreading
around the head and torso.

​

She doesn't remember how she got downstairs, but suddenly she was cradling her
daughter in her arms. Cradling and fumbling for her phone. Dialing 9-1-1. Murmuring
and waiting for the sirens and the lights. It seemed like an eternity, but when the
paramedics finally arrived, they were efficient. They attempted CPR and then
scooped up the figure. Strapped her in. They asked questions while they worked –
too many questions – and then led her into the back of the ambulance, bewildered.

​

Had she been drinking? Did she take anything? Is she on any medication? Why was
she on the balcony? Was she out there alone? Do you have anyone you can call? It
was all too much. She barely remembers how she responded, but she must have said
something because now she's here and she's waiting.

​

A man, frantic, bursts through the entrance. Spots her. Bends over her and shakes
her shoulders. More questions.

​

 

"Where is she? Is she OK? What have they told you?"

​

She meets his eyes slowly, shakes her head and shrugs. She doesn't know anything
except that she's been sitting here for an hour...or maybe 10 hours? Ten minutes?
She's unsure. But she doesn't have the answers he needs and now he's looking
around for someone of use.

​

The Emergency doors swing open again and a middle-aged woman in a long, white
coat comes through.

​

"Mrs. Murphy? Mrs. Caroline Murphy?" she asks the room.

​

 

The man bolts up. "That's her," he says pointing. "That's my wife. I'm Michael." His
eyes are pleading. "Where is Billie?"

​

 

She finds her legs and stands. "Elizabeth. He means Elizabeth. We call her Billie."

 

"Billie," repeats the doctor. "Of course. Would you come with me, Mr. and Mrs.
Murphy? Just through here where it's a little quieter." Quieter, she thinks. That
would be nice. It's much too loud in here to think, let alone talk.

​

 

And so they follow the doctor in the long, white coat into the quiet room. They
close the door behind them and perch on the edge of two different vinyl chairs.
Black this time. From the outside nothing has changed. The chaos remains steady;
people still yell and cry and move about urgently. It isn't until a high-pitched
scream pierces the air that, for a brief moment, everyone stops.