The long ride

I remember driving. I don't remember what clothes I had thrown on. The streets in our town were deserted. The stillness in the air was almost unbearable. Katy kept whispering over and over, "I'm so sorry, Mom". I couldn't look at her. I remember saying in a monotone, "I just can't talk to you right now. Please don't make me talk to you." The only sounds for the remainder of the drive were Katy's soft sobs. I was on auto-pilot: park the car, get out of the car, walk into the emergency room, tell the nurse, "My daughter is pregnant and I think she is miscarrying",sit down, remain silent, fill out paperwork. Then I remembered, "My God, I left the house at 2am and didn't even tell my husband."