Waiting a few hours on Monday morning to go back into the police station to talk to someone. Anyone. Some news. Any news. Questions from my end. Why were this and that and those questions phrased that way? Do you have Jim's car? Why were there glimpses of recognition in the detectives eyes when I said the front seat was covered in chewing tobacco? No, I don't buy it's because they chew too. Someone tell me something. Anything. Here's the password to the email account I remembered after leaving Friday because you know I was a little more than stressed during that 90 minute interview after finally ignoring the just stay in Wyoming advice and driving straight through all night long. Should I have left the checkbook? How about the bank statement? He has credit card payments due this week, do I make those? Do I pay the bills until he is brought home? Ordinary course of business around a place like that?
Having driven into all the pullouts and recreation areas we started to check all the campgrounds and surrounding forests. Atop the Royal Gorge area in the parking lot of the Royal Gorge Bridge the cell phone rang. It was my stepdad telling me that someone was trying to reach us. You've never seen a car pull out of that lot so fast. Caught in cell phone hell and trying to call the Captain. Getting to "that" spot on the highway and finally having a decent reception.
"We can be there in 10 minutes." "No, we'll meet you at your room." This can't be good. If it was good they would let us see them at their office.
The hotel staff had this look of sheer terror when we walked like zombies through the door... I'd find out months later that the Department had already been there once thinking we'd be waiting patiently for information. Nothing was said but everyone knew. The foyer was heavy when we walked in the door. It got heavier the closer to our room we got.
The knock at the door sounded so hollow. Brief introductions. And then. The news. Not that we didn't know it. When the call came in the realization that the sirens weren't for an accident on Saturday night hit like a tidal wave. I still wasn't prepared to actually hear it. And even if a part of me was I wasn't ready to hear he'd been shot in the head. No, they were nicer in the deliverance than that. I'm just so used to only asking questions I already know the answers to that I blurted out the foul play question before anyone in the room had time to prepare for how to tell me. The room still spins when I think of it. Everything for the next 30 minutes was surreal. Paperwork. Business cards. Hugs. Tears. Everything in slow motion. Like the replay of a really bad low budget movie. Discussion about what would happen next. Who to call. Who not to call. Who knew. Who didn't.
Sleeping. Lots of sleeping. Not because I was tired (though I was) but because my body didn't know what else to do. What do you do? What could I do? OMG the kids. The kids. In my gut of gut feelings I knew before I got to Colorado what the outcome was and who was already responsible. And now his kids are in their hands. Are they next? Am I next?
Is it a wonder the PSTD triggers are still there?
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