Andrea Chamblee

I pass a new TV mounted on the work wall, where a CNN news crawl says SHOOTING AT ANNAPOLIS CAPITAL. I sit down, perhaps on the floor. I look for John’s bright blue shirt in the footage of evacuees. I call his office phone. I call his cellphone. There is no answer.

I call again.

I fight the urge to call again.

I answer a call from the New York Daily News. The reporter wants to know if I have a statement. “About what? What do you know?” I ask. There is an awkward silence.

I answer a call from the New York Post. “What do you know?” I ask. There is an awkward silence. I answer a call from “GMA.” “What do you know?” I ask again. Again, an awkward silence.

I call the family information crisis hotline number. There is no information available from the information hotline. A woman takes my number and promises to call. She invites me to the “family waiting area” at a deserted Lord and Taylor store nearby. A friend already in Annapolis goes there and tells me there is no information, no water and no bathrooms in the pen-like area where families are corralled. I go to Mom’s.

I call hospital staff at the County, then at the Trauma Center. He is not there.

I call the family information hotline. A man says no information is available. He takes my number and promises to call.

After seven hours of waiting, I answer another call. John’s co-workers can be heard on the line. There is wailing: painful, wounded wailing. One voice chokes out the words: “He’s dead.” The wailing gets louder. It is my wailing.

After 10 p.m., crisis center responders arrive at my door and talk through my video doorbell. I know, I say. John worked with journalists, after all. There are cellphones. The woman on the other side of the doorbell video says they couldn’t find my phone number. I tell them 14 news organizations desperate for a “widow quote” found my number.

I get 90 minutes of sleep that night. I cancel work the next day. I cancel my evening work event. I forget to cancel my lunch meeting.

I turn down a job transfer for next month. They say they understand. I decline an offer to teach a graduate course next semester. They say they understand. I cancel my volunteer work at a local theater. They say they understand.

I cancel my theater tickets. They say they understand and refund my money, even though I had declined the ticket cancellation insurance. I cancel our beach vacation. Wyndham says they understand and refund my money, even though I had declined the booking cancellation insurance. I cancel a later trip to an out-of-town wedding. Southwest says they understand and refund my money, even though I had declined the airline cancellation insurance.

There are more nights of little sleep. My vacation is replaced with meetings: crisis center, grief counselors, life insurance company. I don’t sign papers that arrive in the mail.

I identify John and say goodbye. The refrigeration turned his nose black. I can see his face, but not his body, through the cocoon of the ice pack; I am not able to hold his hand. They don’t tell me where the bullet entered.

The city organizes a march the next day. The paper runs a front-page photo of a marching, weeping widow. It is me. Tonight, two hours of sleep.

I wake up and find flowers, plentiful and fragrant like a funeral home lobby, on the welcome mat. Business cards from reporters are stuck to my front door. Worried neighbors have left thoughtful cards.

I begin planning the memorial: the programs, the music, the pictures, the urn, the speakers, the “shocked” politicians who offer condolences. Guests are flying in from Detroit, from Denver, from Seattle, from L.A., from Atlanta. I order death certificates and sleep for three hours.

Will I queue up this favorite song? Will I include this picture? May the journalists quote me? Can media come? Did I sign this contract? Have I called traffic control? Do mourners get parking passes? Where are the driving directions?

Did I order enough food? Is there enough parking? Did I get some sleep? Tonight, two more hours of sleep.

The fruit goes from the bowl to the refrigerator, to the trash. Without breakfast, my knees buckle. I ask people to let me reach over them to grab the handrail at the Metro; the funeral home; when I’m out for the July 4th.

The refrigerator stinks. So do the dishes in the sink, and the trash with food I couldn’t eat. Aroma wafts from the laundry upstairs, meeting the food odors in the kitchen. Tonight: two hours of sleep.

I bring in more flowers. I assemble a bonsai with the rock garden, and I am annoyed at the assignment until I realize that at least it’s not more flowers.

I forget to water the flowers. I forget to eat my vegetables. I forget to charge my phone. I forget how many days in a row I wore these pants. I forget to check messages. I walk upstairs and forget why, so I walk back downstairs. I do it again.

I use my own ChapStick. I make my own coffee. I get his car. I fall asleep, but the phone rings at 8. I realize my underwear top doesn’t match my underwear bottom. I realize it doesn’t matter. I notice my cheerful, vacation-themed outgoing message. I change it.

I try on my black dress. It is too big. I try on my tight black dress. It is too big. I need a new black dress, and when the cashier asks what it’s for, I cry. She abruptly gives me the employee discount. The hairstylist refuses money for the haircut. The manicurist looks at my chewed nails and peeled polish and says she will fix it so I can get another husband.