Wasn’t Supposed to Happen

Prompt courtesy of Be Kind Rewrite, as part of her awesome Inspiration Mondays. Click through to see all the prompt choices and read what other great writers have put together.

Erik Hemmske rushed into the lobby pulling his daughter along behind him. His eyes; sore, raw, scanned the white writing on the blue signs.  He could make out arrows pointing down one hall or another but the letters and words blurred together. One hand patted his chest pockets, hoping he hadn’t forgotten his glasses.

Pockets bare, he hefted his daughter, stuffed into her purple snowsuit, in his arms and walked across the soggy blue carpet to what he hoped was a reception desk.

“You have my wife,” he panted, at the vague outline of a woman behind the glass. “The hospital just called. Where is she? Is she alright? They wouldn’t say on the phone.”

The outline was a man, and the man asked him for the name. “Hemmske,” he said, his voice cracking, surprised at the baritone. “Erik.” The shape behind the glass sighed and said, “no, your wife’s name.”

Erik shifted his daughter to his other arm and gave the man his wife’s name. He spelled it out when the man asked if Hemmske was with a “y.”  All Erik could hear was the click-click-click of the mouse. He waited, wanting to pound on the glass, hopefully break through and throttle the receptionist, as the man-shaped entity scrolled through his computer.

A door opened somewhere and he could hear beeps of machines, frantic yelling, and rubber wheels rolling quickly down corridors. The smell of ammonia and pain wafted under his nose. His daughter started to cry, he tucked her in against his shoulder, and rocked while he kept waiting.

“She’s in room 205,” the vague shape said. “But you can’t see her yet. A doctor will be coming down to see you. Please just have a seat.”

Hundreds of scenarios projected in his mind, none of them good, most pretty awful. He found a seat and worried and wondered. Instinct had him unzip his daughter’s one piece, and sit her in the crook of his arm, on the worn, hard, waiting room couch.

Years went by.

Blurry, paper-robed figures moved past at the speed of icebergs. The automatic doors opened and closed. Voices whirled around until it was one droning hum, seeming to originate down the block.

“Mr. Hemmske?”

A thin hand touched his arm. “Mr Hemmske?”

He said yes to the smallish figure in front of him. The figure introduced herself as a something he didn’t catch, and asked him to follow her.

“How’s my wife?” he said, still sitting. The doctor wouldn’t answer, and asked him to follow her again. He insisted she tell him now. She resisted and then complied.

Erik Hemmske pulled his daughter tight to his chest and sobbed.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen” he whispered. “She just went out to get a quart of milk.”