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Still Water

By Betty Thomason Owens

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April 12, 1971
Asheville, North Carolina

My father was dead?
The antiseptic smell of the consultation room threatened to expunge the crackers I had recently eaten.
Doctor Rutledge laid a gentle hand on my arm. “I’m sorry, Miss Oliver. Your father died at the scene of the accident.”
The air left my lungs. Tears burned my eyes. This couldn’t be happening.
A nurse rubbed my back but said nothing.
I managed to croak out, “Mom?”
Dr. Rutledge shook his head. “She survived the accident and the trip to the hospital. We did everything we could, but her injuries were too severe.”
I shook my head. “No.”
Surely, I had misunderstood. God would not let this happen to me. Would He?
I stared at my trembling hands. Maybe they should check my pulse. One moment, my heart was racing. The next, it ceased beating. I looked from the doctor to the silent nurse and back again. “What happened? My dad was a great driver.”
Neither answered for a moment, but then the nurse sitting beside me spoke up. “As far as we know, it was just an accident. Treacherous mountain road on a rainy night.”
I pressed my palms to the base of my throat and rocked forward and back, but it brought me no comfort. “Dad drove semis for a living.” The nurse’s gaze held mine as I pressed my point. “He was used to inclement weather and bad road conditions. He sought out less-traveled ways and always preferred to drive at night.”
Dr. Rutledge shook his head again. “Sometimes there’s no reasonable explanation for why things happen, Miss Oliver.”
“This can’t be happening.” The pain poured out of me with a sob. I couldn’t even put into words the rest of my questions.
“Perhaps you’d like to be alone for a few moments?” The doctor stood and stepped to the door. After giving my arm a final pat, the nurse followed him from the room.
Once I was alone, the tears overwhelmed me. I jumped up, paced to the window and back in repetitive motion.
Tired of pacing, I sat in the chair. I had emptied a full box of tissues before the door opened again. I expected to see Dr. Rutledge or the nurse, but it was neither.
“Lisa Oliver?” A tall, willowy man entered. He had dark hair, graying at the temples. He was dressed in a suit, though it was well past midnight.
I nodded and breathed in and out, trying to gain control. Then I noticed the Bible in his hand. A preacher?
“Miss Oliver, I’m James Tobey, the hospital’s chaplain. Dr. Rutledge asked me to check on you.” He sat beside me in one of the blue chairs. “I’m so, so sorry for your loss. Can I get you anything?”
I shook my head. “No, thank you.” Tears pooled. Surely, I’d cried enough by now.
The lines of his forehead deepened as his eyes held mine. “In a few minutes, we’ll go to another room. I’m afraid it’s necessary for you, as next of kin, to identify your parents.”
I bit my lip to stop the trembling. Of course, I’d have to do that. Part of me wanted to see them. And part of me wanted to run away. My heart raced again, and my breath came in short spurts.
The door opened. This time, an orderly beckoned.
Mr. Tobey stood and waited for me to rise.
I dabbed my nose with an overused tissue, picked up my purse and tucked it under my arm. Maybe they would have more tissues where we were going.
The long, dimly lit corridor echoed with our footsteps as we followed the orderly. Near the end, he opened a door.
With a hand at my mid-back, Mr. Tobey ushered me inside.
I had no idea what to expect. Would they be battered, bruised, bloody? My head swam, so I welcomed Mr. Tobey’s supporting arm.
Surreal. That’s the only word I could summon. Maybe I was in shock, but my parents’ faces didn’t affect me as I expected. I nodded, but couldn’t speak.
“Do you need a moment?” Mr. Tobey asked.
I shook my head. “No.” They’re not here, I wanted to say. Those were their bodies, but they were empty shells.
They’d gone again, moved on to another place. But this time, I couldn’t follow.
I stumbled as Mr. Tobey led me back to the private waiting area. He opened the door. “Sit in here. I’ll be right back.”
Maybe I had a choice, but at that moment, I couldn’t come up with anything else to do. I couldn’t leave, not while Mom and Dad’s remains lay down the hall. Maybe I should have stayed with them.
I sat in the same chair and waited for someone to tell me what to do next.
Mr. Tobey returned with two paper cups that hopefully held coffee, a small bag, and a couple napkins. He set one of the cups on the table beside me and then sat in an adjacent chair. “I got us Danishes. They’re fresh.” He held the bag for me.
I wasn’t sure I could eat, though I probably should’ve been hungry. It had been almost twenty-four hours since I’d had anything. I took the pastry and a napkin and leaned back in the chair.
Mr. Tobey pulled packets of sugar and powdered cream from his jacket pocket and placed them on the table. “I didn’t know how you liked your coffee.” He emptied a couple packets of cream into his and stirred with a plastic stir-stick.
Creamy. That’s how I liked my coffee. I emptied the remaining four packets of creamer into the cup. After a bite of the delicious Danish and a few sips of hot coffee, my brain began to function again. An odd sort of peace settled over me. I looked at Mr. Tobey. “What happens next?” I tore another piece off the diminishing Danish.
“There’s paperwork coming. Probably a lot of it. They’ll need to know what to do with …” he nodded toward the hall door. “Your parents’ bodies.”
Panic crept back in. How should I know what to do? “Is there someone who can help me make that decision?”
He nodded. “I can refer you to someone. He’s a funeral director. He can help you decide what’s best, whether you want to transport them back home, or—” he stopped speaking when I shook my head.
“There’s no need for that. We have no family. My parents were, um, they didn’t have a lot of friends. We moved a lot.” I put the final piece of the pastry into my mouth, wishing for a few more bites.
He nodded, as though he understood. “Was your dad in the service?”
“No, he just couldn’t be still.” I attempted a smile.
A knock at the door preceded another nurse. She looked fresh, as though she’d just come on shift. “We’re ready, Jim.”
He stood, coffee in hand. “You can bring your coffee.”
I hung my purse over my shoulder and picked up my cup before joining the nurse at the door.
She smiled. “I’m Beverly, Miss Oliver. I’m so sorry for your tragic loss. We’re going to my office where you’ll sign some forms, and then we’ll let you go get some rest.”
I nodded as a new thought came to mind. “Will I have to pay?” Because really, I had no money. “Dad didn’t carry medical insurance. He didn’t like it.”
She nodded. “It’s kind of a necessary evil these days. But no, you won’t need to pay. Your father did have car insurance. They found the card in his glove compartment. We’ve already called the company. I don’t think you’ll have to worry about anything.”
Almost an hour later, Beverly escorted me to the main waiting room where Mr. Tobey stood in conversation with a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman.
“God bless you, Lisa.” Beverly gave my hand a firm squeeze. “Jim will take good care of you now.”
Jim Tobey smiled. “Thank you, Beverly. Miss Oliver, this is my wife, Thea. I asked her to join us. We’d like you to come to our home where you can get some rest.”
I looked from one to the other, not really liking the idea, but what choice did I have? At least they seemed nice.
On the way out the door, we were met by the orderly who’d taken me to view my parents. He handed me a small, plastic bag containing Mom’s purse and Dad’s wallet, along with a few other personal items. I hugged the bag to my chest, staring straight ahead.
This had to be a nightmare.

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