I claimed the stool at the opposite end of the counter near some swinging double doors. The waitress raised the coffee carafe and her eyebrows. I nodded and she brought another bisque-colored mug and a matching pitcher of half-and-half.
She halted, open-mouthed, carafe in mid-tilt. “Oh, are you hurt?”
My bloody hand rested palm up on the counter. I flexed my stiff fingers.
“No, a pedestrian-car accident. I just applied pressure to the wound.”
“A little girl?”
I nodded.
The waitress filled my mug. “They’re looking for you,” she said.
“Who is?”
“Not sure. The police. The hospital. It was on the radio but I didn’t hear it all. Are you sure you’re okay?” Pop music played in the background.
I exhaled as if I’d been holding my breath a long time. The waitress and the other customer were both staring at me. I nodded again.
“Here.” The waitress wrung out a soapy wet towel and handed it to me. It was hot and it felt good on my cold hands. The white terrycloth turned reddish brown as my skin turned beige again.
The bell above the front door clanged and a gray-haired African American couple entered. They went straight to the prescription counter.
The pretty pharmacy assistant eyed their prescription and nodded. “It’ll be about ten minutes,” she said.
The old couple sat down on a green vinyl sofa beside the self-serve blood pressure machine.
A Pakistani woman entered dressed in an aqua blue sari with silvery trim that didn’t look warm enough for the blustery weather. She laid a prescription on the counter and left again. Before the door closed behind her, two grade school-aged boys entered. They dropped their backpacks on the floor and knelt beside the magazine rack.
Another minute passed as I studied my reflection in the stainless steel backsplash behind the sinks. My reflection appeared elongated and blue gray, but my short brown hair looked neat, considering the wind outside.
Other than the accident, I couldn’t remember any details from my walk. I didn’t recall passing anyone, although I must have, and couldn’t remember crossing any streets, but I had to have crossed numerous intersections.
A familiar sounding voice caught my attention. “Thanks for stocking these. This brand is hard to find.” It was Dr. March, the pediatrician on staff at the hospital — the one responsible for my probation. His voice made me angry. His words replayed in my mind: “It’s hard to believe you’re an educated woman with that mouth of yours.”
We made brief eye contact in the polished metal. I looked away but I knew he recognized me and that he was going to say something.
Screw you, I was ready to shout, but when I looked again the front door opened and closed and he was gone. At first I felt relieved, and then insulted. Leave them wondering what you would have said.
The bell above the door rang again. A man wearing jeans and a buff-colored jacket entered. His dark windblown hair covered his forehead and ears. He paused, studying his own feet, as if trying to recall what he had come in for.
The waitress refilled my mug. “Want a menu?”
I shook my head. “No, but maybe I should call the hospital,” I said, and she nodded.
Bang. Her forehead disappeared. Strands of blond hair and pink matter dotted the stainless backsplash. A piece of scalp and hair fell with a plop into the murky dishwater and she collapsed like a marionette with severed strings. The coffee carafe popped like a big light bulb when it hit the floor.
“Huh?” The other customer at the counter slammed his mug down.
Bang.
He jerked as if he’d been kicked from behind. He slumped forward, tipping his mug over and spilling black coffee across the counter. I turned on my stool. The man in the buff-colored jacket pointed a gun at the elderly couple on the vinyl sofa, pulled the trigger twice, and the man and woman slumped together like Siamese twins joined at the cheekbone. Their mouths fell open. The man’s false teeth dropped into his lap, followed by a glistening trail of spittle.
A man wearing a greasy apron shoved the swinging doors open, tripping over the waitress on the floor. He straightened, straddling her body.
“What the...” He wielded a meat cleaver in one hand, and then there was a loud pop and blood spurted from a hole in his throat. His eyes bulged as he dropped straight down beside the waitress. He gurgled for a few seconds and then fell silent.
The gunman aimed the gun at the pretty young pharmacy assistant. I stood up. My stool made a loud wobble-wobble sound as it spun in crooked circles. He jerked his head in my direction as the assistant ran past him and out the door. He turned all the way around, as if considering a shot at her through the window, but the pharmacist came through a doorway behind the prescription counter and bang, he took the bullet instead.
The gunman walked toward me but halted five feet away when the dead man with his face in his coffee spiraled off his stool and toppled to the floor. His head bounced once on the glossy linoleum, his ears full of blood.
The eerie calm was broken only by the sound of Bobby McFerrin singing “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” over the radio. A strong diesel smell emanated from the gunman as he drew closer. He was in his mid thirties and hadn’t shaved in at least a week. Above the stubble his gray eyes looked blank. He cradled the gun in black-stained hands, aiming it at my face.
“What has happened to you?” My voice sounded calm even to me.
He shook his head as if it were an impossible question. Then he raised the gun to his own temple and pulled the trigger, splattering brown hair, white skull, and pink brain confetti over the two boys crouched at the base of the magazine rack. They scrambled to their feet and ran out the door, leaving their backpacks behind. Sirens wailed in the distance.
I lowered myself to the stool on shaking knees.
Emergency Services and the local newspaper labeled me a hero.
“I simply applied pressure to the wound,” I explained.
The police said I had saved three lives at the pharmacy. The survivors’ names were listed below the victims in the newspaper article. The pharmacy assistant said I distracted the gunman so she and the two boys could escape. The boys were interviewed for the evening news with their parents sitting beside them. They didn’t say much. Mostly, they just nodded or said, “uh-huh.’”
I refused to be interviewed, but people kept thanking me in the days that followed even though I tried to explain. “I simply stood up. My stool wobbled.”
Heroes risk their lives to save people. They run into burning buildings, or confront terrorists. All I did was press on an artery and stand up from a lunch counter.
The hospital called. I have a full-time job again in the emergency room, graveyard shift. It’s a foot in the door. A second chance.
A few days later the newspaper ran another article, with Angela’s photo. I still have her coat button in my jewelry box. I forgot to take it with me when I visited her and brought her new crayons and a coloring book.
The town fathers awarded me a thousand dollars, along with a framed document signed by the mayors of the adjoining towns. It’s on top of my refrigerator. I haven’t hung it up. I might not. It reminds me of that day, like old refrigerators will always remind me of Jesse and like girls with light brown, wavy hair and freckles will always remind me of my dead baby and of Derek.
Last week I rounded a corner with a cart full of surgical tools hot from the autoclave and almost collided with Dr. March. I had never noticed before how much he looks like Derek. They could be brothers.