cold

I am so cold this morning. The weather in mid-august has turned chilly. Clouds have taken the morning and the thought that sunshine hides out awaiting a glorious return seems like astrology.
The air-conditioning in my building, in my office, is set to "august," so my hands feel thick and slow. I feel these nipples on my chest, contracted and taut beneath my shirt, and I know the cold is real and not just some paranormal concoction of my brain in response to everything I see and sense this morning.
When I arrived I turned the key in my office door and flicked on the lights. Once I had taken a seat and pushed the button on my computer, I glanced at my phone and the red alert button denoting the presence of voice mail, and I remembered the ominous buzzing of my pager from the evening before.
The voice on the first message was one of my employees updating me on her daughter's health. The previous day the daughter had a tumor removed from the surface of her brain. All had gone as planned and on this day, the ides of august, she had endured a heart transplant. My employee informed me the surgery had gone well and her daughter was breathing on her own and she had even opened her eyes briefly though slowly.
She emphasized how slow her daughter's motion had been and I slowly moved the handset from one ear to the other, trying to ignore the budding frost in my office and my own lethargy. I made notes: "Heart Transplant went okay-breathing on own-opened eyes." My employee planned on coming to work the next day.
An icy smile cautiously pursed the corners of my mouth as I reached out and erased the good news. Star-D to delete. I should have savored that message. I should have listened to it twice, maybe even saved it. I was too cool just letting it go as if I can always expect good news and everything always works out for the best in the end.
The next message was marked by uncontrollable sobbing. My employee coughed and wheezed and her breathing was like another language communicating the same message on some foreign wavelength to a felt but unknown audience as she explained the reason for her 4:37am call: "Michael, I won't be in today. . ."
In that moment I begged in my mind to hear something other than what I knew I would hear in seconds. I didn't pray to god nor did I call upon any higher source, I merely begged in my thoughts as if throwing pleas against the inside of my chest, the lining of my stomach, as if hurling these wishes so forcefully within myself could create a hole in my being, could create a vacuum in the universe and suck all the numbing news and tragedy out to a place far away from me. I wished she wouldn't say it. I wished it weren't so.
"My daughter passed away two hours ago." Aww fuck. My employee cried and wheezed and clamped down on words before releasing them like a rolled-up, damp towel was strapped between her teeth.
"MMM-mm-michael, I just wah-wwwh-wanted you to know. I won't be innnnn, this week." Near the end of her message her words were like silence. Gradually I could hear no more sobs, no more panting, no more clenching phlanges.
". . .need to reach me my cell phn nmbr zz eenh-oonh-hee, ay-hoo-o, hay-ainh-hree-hainh." It was clear mumbling. I scratched out the numbers below my previous note. Star-D. I had grown used to listening to messages from this employee. For about four weeks she had been leaving them at all hours almost every day. I would listen regularly around 6:30am and one of the days she made it in to work I joked with her about the loneliness of my morning not having heard from her.
She will be lonely now. Her daughter is gone. The time she had her will never be long enough. All the happiness she brought will be remembered and when it is, it will be followed by bitterness and anger and frustration and despair. (No other response would be sane.)
My employee joked back that morning, exhibiting the strength only women know. When things were bad, she had the strength to cry. When they were good, she went to work and laughed when it was appropriate to laugh.
Today is my brother's birthday. He lives in a cell in a prison in another state. It is winter in my office. Yesterday I received a letter from him. He wants me to send him a care package I can purchase online. Hygiene products and microwaveable stews and chicken breasts, these are the commodities of prison life.
I wish I could go to a bar with my brother today and down a pitcher of beer and talk about how good it is to be together for our birthdays, (mine was four days ago,) but we are not together. One month ago I became engaged to be married. I wish my brother could be there on the day faith and I wed. problem is, wishes do not cause holes in the chest nor the universe. I will wish anyway.
My office is like an igloo now and I sink down into my chair in order to increase the surface contact with my skin. What I wouldn't do for some warmth.
There is one more message on my machine from another employee. Seems he has diarhea and won't be able to make it in today. He actually said that word. Star-D.