VERACITY

Gwen’s hands could feel the square, stiff object tucked harshly into the front pocket of her jacket burning her like a hot iron. Though only made of paper, The Hartwell Watchtower’s audacity within the contents of its pages ignited like tongues of fire licking at her chest. Friends and family had tried to explain away her flaming indignation as a stage of grief reserved for those whose loss would have to be broadcast to the world.
After all, she should be only so lucky, so comforted to have her words on her thirteen-year-old daughter’s sudden, tragic death be given a public forum. To have pundits and anchors alike comment on Haley’s death and the death of the 28 other children on that bus, that she could stand. She could stand politicians and celebrities adding this to their arsenal of case studies, and using it to tear down or build up agendas or laws on both sides of the spectrum. To respect this was practically a civic duty. To allow strangers online, men and women faceless and nameless, speculate and analyze her words, and Haley’s death, and it’s circumstances, and its implications, and hear them blame a state, a school count, a city ,a mother, or question if she was ever alive at all and not some conspiracy for bigger government, all this she would have to allow. It’s their 1st amendment right.
But she would not have this. She would not give them this.
And as Gwen braced herself for a second interview with journalist Stacy Delamonte, she became prepared to give them a true piece of her mind if, for nothing else, peace of just that.

                                                                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ms. Gwen Ooarman heard the “ding” of the diner’s door open and it unsettled her nerves. It was a starting sound in a week that already was full of disruptions. A good number of patrons were present, but crowded would have been a bad word to describe its occupancy, since it was still early in the morning and everyone was silently, begrudgingly awake. She glanced with disdain at the newsstand placed at the head of the store, near the cashier, piled high with fresh clones of the same issue still folded hatefully in her jacket. Gwen loathed herself for having given the patronage of $3 for her own issue, not knowing there would be ones here.


In the back she could see the booth that held Ms. Delamonte. Her make-up and hair were finely done, finely, but she looked in no way a superficial woman. Well-intentioned at best, ignorant at worst. Her article was incredibly sensationalist, describing Hayley as “a gifted angel whose light from this world was snatched too soon,” after listing her numbered accolades from school. How quaint, thought Ms. Ooarman. But that wasn’t her beef, not specifically. Now Ms. Delamonte was fussing with her hair, and her clothes, like a nervous hen preening itself. Gwen willed herself forward enough to attract her attention so as not to enjoy her squirming any longer.
“Ms. Ooarman, it’s so good to see you. I already placed my order. Do you want something?” The intonation in that question felt too pleading for Gwen’s liking, but she remembered that she was a grieving mother.
“I already ate,” she replied curtly. “I’ll get a cup of coffee when he comes around”, indicating to the waiter a few tables down.
Ms. Delamonte reached out a manicured, ebony hand to Gwen’s, resting curled and uninviting on the table top. Its stiffness and her mock-serious glare betrayed this act of kindness as the ritual formality it really was, but Gwen reminded herself, again, that she is a thing to be consoled, that it wasn’t Delamonte’s fault, not really, and that she was probably only doing what protocol would oblige her to.
“Ms. Ooarman, on behalf of the rest of the staff, I want to reiterate how deeply sorry we all are for your loss. Your interview was so heartfelt, and so brave, especially since you were the first to step forward. I only Pray I could be as courageous as you in such a time as that. A few people even cried while editing, I know I did, and this has been a hard news week for all of us, truly. But we are better journalists for it.”
Her feelings seemed genuine enough, and Gwen allowed them into her heart to be processed. She turned them over slowly in her mind, inspecting them.
“Ms. Ooarman, when you called me to set up this meeting, I cancelled my other appointments right away. Anything I could add, or do for you within my power, I will, just say the word.”
It was her call to action and, suddenly, the fire in her heart was gone. The courage had vanished. The Hartwell Watchtower felt like a cold stone weighing on her chest, pressing her down, and in that moment she did not have the will to speak up. Gwen wished she had turned the corner and never showed up, or visited her mothers or gone to a friend’s house instead. Sitting here like this, again, was



as heavy and hard as standing in front of Haley’s room, knowing she wouldn’t be waiting for her inside. But she managed to speak anyway.
“You lied.”That was what she managed.
Ms. Delamonte, who was stirring her coffee, stopped.
“Excuse me?” she whispered, teaspoon in hand.
“You— you must have misheard, or misinterpreted.  Here.”
A shaking hand belonging to the shaking Ms. Ooarman undid her jacket and pulled the paper from within. A newspaper was laid on the table, creased but still crisp, with that fresh-print feel and smell. Ms. Delamonte quickly reversed the issue to face her and scanned the side column on the cover.
“What seems to be the problem?”  Delamonte asks.
“In the last paragraph”, Gwen clarifies, “I highlighted it.”
“ ‘— And, like so many of the other parents’”, Delamonte’s monotone read, “’Ms. Ooarman finds comfort in the fact that while she will never be able to see Hayley again, she was able to kiss her goodbye one last time before sending her off to the bus stop. We can only hope to be so lucky when our time comes.’”
Ms. Delamonte removed her glasses now, visibly annoyed. Her professionalism was started to become strained.
“I’m sorry, but what appears to be wrong here?” she says.
“What’s wrong here?!” asks Gwen incredulously.
Gwen’s finger, still shaking, came down like the right hand of God upon the cover’s side column accusingly.
“What’s wrong is that I’ve never said this. Ever.  I never said these words.”
“You never said goodbye to her before she left for school every day?” Ms. Delamonte’s time had been wasted and the professionalism had melted away.
“I didn’t that morning, that day, no, I didn’t kiss her goodbye. I didn’t see her. I didn’t get that comfort.” Gwen thought the ache in her heart would cause her to start gasping for air like it did at Hayley’s funeral, or at the school’s candle wake, but she kept going and going, and her voice rose steady and clear. “I was late to work, and she was late for the bus stop. She normally was at that bus stop at 7:20. It was 7:15 when I woke up. I pounded on her door to wake up, to remember to put on her damn


alarm clock, then I ran to get myself ready. I thought of driving her for an instance, but I remembered that I had a meeting in the morning. I heard her grab her bag, swing the front door open, slam it shut, and lock it all the way from my bedroom. I left shortly after.”
Gwen rose out of the booth. She grabbed the paper.
“And then she got on that bus. And that’s when the bomb when off. And I didn’t know for hours. I was in a meeting for two hours that morning, worrying about crunched numbers and profit margins or whatever while my daughter was—” maybe one day she could face the autopsy out loud, how she was still alive when the bus capsized into the ravine, but that day wasn’t today.
Less bystanders noticed the conversation then you would think, just a few from the table beside them, but it was enough to make Ms. Delamonte cringe in her seat, it’s leather squeaking.
“Do you want to know when I saw my daughter for the first that day? When I got out of that meeting, and a coworker pulled me into her office, and we watched the news on her TV, and we saw them pull out bus 3041 out of the ravine with a tow truck, and I saw her picture, with 28 others, on the screen. Someone was supposed to have called me to ask my permission to show that, but they called some other poor Gwen Oarman, with one “O” and no children, instead. And that’s when I saw her that morning, and I never said goodbye.”
“We’ll write a formal apology,” Delamonte interjected, almost desperately. “We’ll publish it. We can— ”
“I don’t want that. I don’t. I just…I wanted someone to know that. Or I wanted no one to know any of it at all. I…I hate that article. I can’t stand what this has become. But I couldn’t stand that line, because it’s made all the difference. It’s not glamorous, and it doesn’t make for good writing, but…”she trailed out.
“When your time comes,” she breathed tiredly,” you can hope to be so lucky that they can spell your name.”
She turned her back to Delamonte. She did not look back as she left. She didn’t say goodbye.