Free Masquerade by Eileen Rife

She pounded on the glass.
    The   receptionist   looked   up   and  slid  the panel
    aside. “May I help you?”
    “My husband, Joe Tatem, please.” She raked a hand through her hair. “The ambulance brought him in a few minutes ago.”
    “Take a seat, ma’am. The doctor will be with you shortly.”
    “You don’t understand. He was in a bad fire. I’ve got to see him.” Her voice rose with every sentence.
    “Calm down, ma’am, and take a seat.” The woman arched her bushy eyebrows, accenting each word. “Everything’s under control. In the meantime, you can fill out this brief form for your husband.” Through the window, she passed a clipboard with a pen attached by a string.
    With slumped shoulders, Celeste received the board, turned, and walked toward the waiting area. The officer sat in a chair eyeing her. A few seats down, a toddler whimpered in his mother’s lap. An older gentleman in a wheelchair stroked his wife’s hand.
    Celeste sank into the chair beside the policeman. She sighed. “Look, I’m sorry I went through the stop light, but my husband—”
    “I know. How can I help?” He jiggled his foot on the linoleum.
    “Go tell that shrew over there,” she pointed to the receptionist window, “I need to see my husband. I have no idea what’s happened to him.” Tears stung her eyes.
    He licked his lips. “What’s his name?”
    “Joe Tatem.”
    Rising, he reached for a walkie-talkie hooked to his
    belt and pressed a button. “Officer Little here. Do you read me?” He released the button.
    Static clipped the air as a voice responded on the other end. “I read you, Officer Little.”
    Little rambled off some kind of police code.
    The voice responded.
    “Over and out.” The officer snapped the walkie-talkie back on his belt. 
    The glass slid open when he approached the window. “Officer Little, ma’am.” He rested his hands on the counter ledge. Anything but small, the man probably stood over six feet tall. Solid, but trim. “I’m investigating the status of a Joe Tatem, brought in here a while ago after the explosion at Schreiber Metal Works.”
    The receptionist’s gaze fluttered to Celeste. She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, I’ll see what I can find out.” She slipped away from her desk and disappeared through a door.
    Two strides and the officer sat beside her again. “Now, let’s see about filling out this form.” He reached for the clipboard, but Celeste hesitated. He produced a warm smile. “I’ve had lots of practice pushing paper, ma’am.”
    “Okay.” Releasing the board, her hands fell to her lap. “I don’t understand why they have you fill out paperwork when you can’t even think straight. I just want Joe.” She craned her neck to check the double doors leading to the triage area. If only she could tear through those motionless doors. Oh God, what’s happening in there?
    She  jumped  out of her seat.  At the  same time, the
    emergency doors swung open and a doctor charged through. He slowed as he approached the waiting area. His gaze sifted through the eager faces.
    Just then, the entrance door swooshed open, and in walked Cecil Donnelly.
    “The family of Joe Tatem?” The doctor stepped forward.
    Adrenaline pumping, Celeste flew to his side. “I’m his wife.”
    The doctor pressed his lips together. “I’m sorry. There was nothing we could do. Your husband’s injuries were too severe.”
    Her hand shot out, and she blinked. “No, wait a minute.” She staggered. “Everybody got out. I saw them running.” Pain . . . go away . . .
    The doctor touched her arm. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
    She jerked back. “No! Go away.” Her hands flailed. The room began to spin. She couldn’t breathe. Pain . . .
    Arms lowered her to the floor as a blanket of blackness settled over her.
     
    ###
    Her eyes fluttered open. She felt groggy as if she’d been sedated. She lay on a bed with Mother and Father standing over her. She glanced