Agnes vomited into the wastebasket. She'd barely eaten anything for breakfast, but she did recognize corn and spinach from Victoria's dinner last night. Tears moistened her face, her red hair fell into her eyes. She blew her nose and a big wad of lettuce came out. It seemed like she was done throwing up, so she began to collect herself. She looked around. The priest in black and a white clerical collar stood above her. Dr. Dixon came back into the room with a wet cloth and wiped her forehead. Both men, silent and somehow knowing they needed to remain silent, helped her up from the hard tile floor. She stood, weak and dizzy, her hands shaking, and stared out the window. A young mother walked her children, two of them, on the opposite side of Arch Street.
Just five minutes ago, that might have been Agnes with Grace and Harold. A wife and mother, enjoying the crisp and clear October morning with her children. Just five minutes ago, she might've been sitting at her desk, starting her work day, planning the tasks she'd do for Dr. Dixon here at the War Department. Just five minutes ago, she might've been talking to Mr. Larney on the telephone, making sure he was all right, enjoying the sound of his voice, eager to sit at the piano with him. Just five minutes ago, she might've been reading a letter from Norman, telling her of shows on the West End he attended, when the U.S. Navy gave him evening leave, at theatres that refused to dim their lights just because HItler was bombing the city. Just five minutes ago, she was a wife. Not a widow.
It all changed when the priest walked in the door, when the priest said those very first words, "I have a very unhappy duty to perform." Just five minutes ago, she had a life. Now she had a question mark.
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