A Cleft in the World by Elizabeth Sumner Wafler

Author:Elizabeth Sumner Wafler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press

Knowing what must be done does away with fear.

—Rosa Parks

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Though blessedly empty and private, the family lounge down the hall retains a miasma of chewing gum, bad coffee, and stinky sandwiches. With a fresh onslaught of nausea, I dry heave over a trash can filled with the detritus of others who have waited and worried. Dr. Chu says anxiety can afflict your body in myriad ways, but this nausea is new, “And un-ac-ceptable,” I say aloud between deep breaths.

I center myself—breathing as Dr. Chu instructed—preparing for the three calls I have to make. The first to Truman. I climb into one of the recliners in a bank of them provided for those who wait overnight. At the thought of someone’s greasy hair on the headrest, his Cheetos fingers on the arms, a new queasiness coils in my throat.

Breathing, breathing. I one-punch Truman’s number from my short list of favorites. True. If he hasn’t talked to Trask and doesn’t know the truth about Eleanor, I will be the bearer of pain.

He picks up on the second ring. “Georgie. Finally. I’m so glad you called.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” I say quietly.

“I’m at the house. Where are you? Can you come over?”

“I’m at the hospital. I’m okay,” I rush to add, “I mean, it’s not me.”

His sweet voice grows urgent. “Who?”

“It’s Laurel . . . my favorite student. She . . . they thought she tried to commit suicide.”

“Oh, my God.”

“But she didn’t. She was . . . terribly upset about the school closing, and something . . . else. She drank more than a fifth of liquor. To silence terrible words someone said about her.”

Truman’s voice climbs. “Georgie. What’s Laurel’s last name?”

“It’s Cross, True. Laurel Cross. Do you know who that is?” I add softly.

Truman draws a shuddery breath. “Oh, no. I mean yes. Trask’s girlfriend? They’re still seeing each other?”

I want to weep that this man and his son know each other so little, when they could love each other so well. “Yes, True. He asked her to marry him. They plan to marry next summer.”

Truman takes a wet sniff and then another. “And she’s okay?”

I choose my words carefully. “She’s okay physically, Truman.”

“I have to see Trask, talk with him.” He chokes back a sob. “I haven’t talked to them in weeks. Why the hell haven’t I been the one to reach out?” Footfalls, the snick of cabinets and slide of drawers, lets me know he’s rummaging around, putting things up or taking things out, making ready to leave the house.

Loath to add to his regret, I turn my face into the fake leather of the recliner and ride another wave of nausea before speaking. “Truman, it was your mother . . . whose words hurt Laurel.”

“What . . . do you mean?”

He should be here. We should be together for a conversation like this. But he doesn’t know Laurel; he doesn’t belong here. I look out the fishbowl windows of the waiting room, at the deserted halls. I have to tell him now.

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