Free The Empty Room by Lauren B. Davis Page A

matter? Colleen was largely invisible to the students now anyway. She was a middle-aged secretary, totally ignorable. Or, more correctly, she used to be a middle-aged secretary.
    They exited the elevator at the ground floor. At the steel and glass exit Derek said, “Let me get that for you,” and held a door open.
    This small gesture of kindness created an unexpected prickling behind her eyelids and she was afraid to thank him for fear her voice would break.
    She stepped out onto the open concrete plaza in front of the building. Students and professors hustled by, arms full of books and papers. Other sat on benches drinking coffee and chatting. The hot-dog cart from which Colleen had occasionally bought her lunch was already set up by the curb. The trees, encircled by metal benches, had lost their leaves and looked frail and brittle under the cloud-heavy sky.
    “Do you want me to get you a cab?” Derek asked.
    Did she want a cab? She supposed so, since even the idea of getting back on the subway caused a cramping panic in her chest so strong she was afraid she might scream. But where would she go? What did one do in a case like this? She saw herself standing on the Leaside Bridge, her red coat flapping in the wind. Not long ago, two University of Toronto students jumped to their deaths. It would be quick and final, and she’d still be part of the university community.
    “I don’t,” she said, and kept walking.
    Goodbye, job .
    The question now became, where should she go? What was the post-firing protocol? She didn’t want to be seen just standing on the sidewalk, hopeless, lost and, she suspected, alarmingly red of face. Everyone she looked at walked with purpose; they all had somewhere to go, something to do, lives to lead. Even that crazy person across the street, wearing shorts, a T-shirt with holes in it, flip-flops and what looked like a helmet made of tinfoil, even he strode alongwith such speed—arms pumping, chin thrust forward—that he gave the impression of intent.
    For want of a better idea, Colleen began walking up St. George toward Harbord and the Robarts Library. As she crossed the intersection, a gust of cold wind caught her and she realized her coat was unbuttoned. She stopped in front of the library building, put the bag down and did up her coat. Bag lady . Is that what she was? Is that where she was going to end up? She picked up the bag and walked faster.
    All around her people went about their business and chatted with each other, jostled and joked, and not a single one knew her world had just imploded. She looked at her watch. 10:00. How was that possible? Had everything really just happened in a mere half-hour? The unfairness of it, the injustice, rushed up from her stomach and filled her mouth with an acid burn. She was going to vomit. She stopped. Leaned against a utility pole and dropped her head. She breathed through her mouth. The sidewalk dipped and swayed under her feet.
    “Are you okay?”
    Colleen looked into the eyes of a woman about her age, wearing what appeared to be construction-worker clothes: plaid lumber jacket, stained down vest, droopy jeans and Timberland boots. The woman’s hair was cut like a man’s and her face was heavily lined.
    “I don’t think so.”
    The woman put her hand under Colleen’s elbow. “You gonna puke? Pass out? You need an ambulance?”
    “No, no.” Colleen pulled herself up and took a deep breath. “Just a bit of the flu, I think. Bit of a shock. I’ve had a shock.” She was babbling. The woman might just call 9-1-1 if she kept this up. “I think I need a taxi. I should go home.”
    “You sure? Yeah, you look a bit the worse for wear, you know?” The woman grinned. “Been there myself a morning or two.”
    “I’m fine.” Colleen pulled her elbow away.
    “Right,” the woman said. She stepped to the curb and whistled loudly through her teeth. “Got one.” A cab slowed in front of them. The woman turned back to Colleen. “There you