Part 2: The Death Sentence
The St. Jude’s Hospital waiting room was a purgatory of fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptic. Margaret paced the floor, her boots leaving muddy prints on the linoleum. She hadn’t washed her hands. She wanted to keep the blood there. She needed to remember.
Three hours later, Dr. Evans emerged. He looked exhausted. He was a good man, a doctor Margaret had known for years, and the look in his eyes told her everything she didn’t want to know.
“Margaret,” he said softly.
“Tell me,” she said. Her voice was flat, devoid of the panic from earlier.
“She’s in a coma,” Dr. Evans said, leading her to a chair. “The trauma to the skull is severe. There is significant swelling in the brain. We’ve had to drill to relieve pressure, but…” He hesitated. “There’s internal bleeding. Her spleen is ruptured. Four ribs are broken. Her tibia is shattered.”
“Will she wake up?” Margaret asked.
Dr. Evans looked at the floor, then back at Margaret. “I need to be honest with you. The Glasgow Coma Scale score is three. That is the lowest possible score. The brain damage… it’s catastrophic. Even if her body heals, the Emily you knew…” He took a deep breath. “You should prepare for the worst. You should say your goodbyes.”
The words hit Margaret like physical blows. Say your goodbyes.
“Can I see her?”
“Briefly. She’s in the ICU.”
Margaret walked into the room. The machinery was deafening—a symphony of beeps and hisses keeping a corpse alive. Emily was unrecognizable beneath the tubes and bandages. She looked small. So incredibly small.
Margaret pulled a chair up to the bedside. She took Emily’s hand—the only part of her that wasn’t bandaged. It was cold.
“I remember when you were five,” Margaret whispered, stroking the pale skin. “You fell off the swing set and scraped your knee. You cried so hard. I put a band-aid on it and kissed it, and you asked for ice cream. And it was all better.”
She leaned her forehead against the metal rail of the bed.
“I can’t kiss this better, baby.”
She sat there for an hour, watching the heart rate monitor. Every beep was a second stolen from the reaper.
Then, her mind drifted. She thought of the Gable estate. It was a massive Georgian mansion on a hill, surrounded by iron gates. It was probably warm inside. They probably had the fireplace going.
Brad was likely sleeping in his king-sized bed, perhaps nursing a sore shoulder from swinging the golf club too hard. Mrs. Gable was likely sipping tea from the very silver set that Emily had failed to polish, feeling righteous, feeling clean.
They weren’t at the police station. The police hadn’t found them yet; the officers were still taking statements, still “investigating.” The Gables had lawyers. They had connections. They would spin a story about a fall, or a carjacking, or a mental breakdown.
They were sleeping. While Emily was dying.
A snap echoed in the room. Margaret looked down. She had gripped the plastic arm of the hospital chair so hard she had broken it.
“I won’t let them live while you die,” she whispered to the rhythmic hissing of the ventilator.
She stood up. She didn’t kiss Emily’s forehead; she was done with tenderness. She needed to be something else now.
She walked out of the ICU, past the nurses’ station, past the weeping families. She walked out the automatic doors into the morning rain.
She got into her truck. She didn’t turn toward the police station. She didn’t turn toward her home. She drove to the construction site where she worked as a foreman. She unlocked the supply shed.
She took a heavy, five-gallon red canister of gasoline. She took a box of windproof matches. She grabbed a crowbar.
She threw them into the passenger seat.
The prognosis was death. Margaret decided she would simply change the recipient.
