by C. M. Albert
I ran my hand over my protruding baby bump, reminding me that I wanted to get pregnancy pictures at a park or by the lake before the baby came. It would be a nice way to freeze this special period in time when it was still just the three of us—and we didn’t have much time left.
“We’re almost there, Baby T. I just need you to hang on at least two more weeks, okay? But I’d prefer four. Then we’ll finally get to meet!”
It was as if the baby heard me and answered with a swift kick from within. Laughter bubbled over. I could see my belly move now every time she moved. That was something that never got old. Movement. This baby was active, and that brought relief to my worried heart—even if the little booger did keep me up at night.
I looked at the bed covered in clothes. Crap. I wouldn’t be able to move everything off until Ryan or Brighton got home. I checked my watch. Ryan was doing a ten-mile run, so I wasn’t expecting him home for at least another thirty minutes or so. Especially since he liked to stop and do warm-up and cool-down stretches. He was always better at that than I was.
I padded downstairs, knowing I needed to eat again. Hours had passed since breakfast, and I’d burned plenty of calories with Ryan. Our early afternoon hadn’t been as lazy as it normally was. I giggled again.
As I made lunch, I couldn’t help but notice how quiet and lonely the house felt without the guys home. It’s funny how not that long ago, all I wanted was to stay inside by myself. I never liked the quiet though. When it was too still, I had time to sink down long, dark rabbit holes of despair. Then one little thing would trigger me, setting off a chain reaction that was hard to recover from. I never even signed back up for the baby newsletters I’d subscribed to the first time around, even though the information would probably be helpful. After seeing And Baby Makes Three: A Newsletter for First-Time Parents in my inbox when I returned home from the hospital with no baby, well, that had sent me right over the edge.
As I was adding diced celery to my tuna salad, my phone rang. I glanced down, hoping it was Brighton. I frowned. Why on earth would Kimber Shanahan be calling?
I declined the incoming call, sending it straight to voice mail. Stitch was following me around the kitchen on my heels, so I put him in his crate. I didn’t need to be tripping over him and falling on my ass. I could hear my phone ring again while I was in the other room, but I had to go to the bathroom for the fiftieth time that day and nature wouldn’t wait. I padded to the guest bathroom and went, straightening the items on the countertop before heading back to the kitchen for my sandwich. I’d been craving tuna on pumpernickel lately. It had to have a slice of baby swiss and some romaine lettuce to be good though. Sometimes, I even added a squirt of spicy mustard on top.
Before I made it to the kitchen table with my lunch, my phone rang again. I looked down. Kimber had called twelve times in the time it took me to put Stitch away and go to the bathroom. I rolled my eyes. Maybe it was time for a restraining order.
I started to text Brighton about what was going on when the phone rang again. This time, I picked up, ready to give Kimber a piece of my mind.
“This better be important,” I said. “And Ryan’s not here, FYI, in case you’re looking for him.”
There was so much noise in the background I could hardly hear Kimber’s normally loud and obnoxious voice. “Olivia! Where are you? Are you sitting down? There’s been an emergency. The ambulance just left for the hospital. We were talking and—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said, stopping her. “Slow down. I can hardly hear a word you said. Where are you?”
“I’m at the Byrne Dairy. I was stopping in for some—oh, Jesus. Never mind. I ran into Ryan while I was here. We were having a delightful conversation when he suddenly looked peaked. I asked him if he was okay, or if he needed to sit down, but he shook his head no. I couldn’t tell if he was sweaty from his run or if something was wrong. The next thing I know, he was clutching his chest, stumbling. I think he had a heart attack, Olivia. He fell to the floor, and I screamed for help. A nice lady ran over and said she was a nurse. Someone else called 911. But the lady couldn’t get Ryan to respond, and he looked too pale, Olivia. One minute we were talking, and the next minute he’s on the floor getting chest compressions. It was awful—”
The blood drained from my face as Kimber droned on, and my lunch fell from my hands. Ceramic splintered as the plate hit the floor. Stitch barked from the other room. I started to hyperventilate.
“Where did they take him?”
“To the hospital, Olivia. That’s what I just said. Aren’t you listening!?”
I hung up, even as she continued to talk. Then I slowly slid down the kitchen island and sat on the floor, trying to get my breathing under control. She had to be wrong. I would know if something happened to Ryan. He was my ride or die, for god’s sake. I would know. I called his phone and heard it ring from the sunroom. Shit! He didn’t take it since he had his new watch. I immediately called Brighton.
He picked up on the first ring. “Hey, beautiful. What a nice surprise. Guess what? Becca—”
“Brighton! Stop. Listen to me. I think Ryan had a heart attack while he was running. I need to get to the hospital, but I don’t know if I can drive myself right now. Where are you?”
“Wait. Olivia. This doesn’t make sense. Why would he have a heart attack? He’s fitter than—”
“I don’t know!!” I yelled. With great effort, I hefted myself up from the floor, trying to think of what I needed in case I was at the hospital for a long time with Ryan tonight. I threw a phone charger and a granola bar in my boho bag. I already had tissues inside. I looked for my phone, remembering I was on it.
“Never mind. I’ll drive myself. I’ve got to get there now. If anything happened to him, I don’t want him to be alone. I need to be there for him.”
“Liv, I’m less than fifteen minutes away. Stay put and wait for me.”
“I can’t,” I whispered. “I have to go. Just meet me there. God, I hope Kimber was lying.”
I hung up, grabbed my keys, and ran outdoors as fast as I could. My hands were shaking, and I had a hard time getting the keys in the ignition. I looked down, realizing I was trying to shove Ryan’s Jeep key in the wrong car. Every minute wasted was a minute he was there without me. If he really had a heart attack, would he be coherent? Could I go in to see him? I just needed to know he was okay, and I didn’t trust anything that came out of Kimber’s mouth.
I reversed too fast, using the camera to guide me. I rolled onto the grass and clipped the curb at the bottom of the driveway, making the minivan lurch when I came down off it and peeled out of the neighborhood. My phone rang again. It was Kimber calling back. I ignored it until the ringing stopped. Not even a minute later, Brighton called back.
I’m sorry, I thought, ignoring the incoming call. I couldn’t answer while driving anyway, and I didn’t trust myself to get it on speaker phone. Not when I could hardly read the street signs through my tears. A car slammed on its brakes next to me and honked its horn, alerting me that I just blew through the stop sign on the way out of our neighborhood. My hands trembled so badly I didn’t know how I was even holding onto the steering wheel.
Please, god, if you never do anything else for me ever again, please just let this all be a mistake. Let Ryan be okay. I promise I will never treat him badly again or go back to the place I was last year. I will never wallow another day about what I don’t have. I just need him to be okay. Please, god. Please, please, please.
Tears slid down my cheeks, but I had no napkins to wipe them with, and my tissues were in my purse. I looked at the empty seat next to me and realized I never actually grabbed my purse once I put the charger in it.
As soon as I got to the hospital, I jumped out of the car and ran into the ER. I was huffing and puffing from the exertion and naturally put one hand on my lower back to support it, while the other cradled my baby bump. A nurse frantically rushed over with a wheelchair.
“Here, sit. Are you
in labor?” She looked me over from head to toe. A strangled noise laced with hysteria gurgled over when I realized I was still in my Team Edward T-shirt. In public. And I still didn’t know where Ryan was or if he was okay.
“Where are your shoes?” she asked.
I looked down at my dirty bare feet, confused. There were still patches of snow outside, even though the sidewalks and parking lot at the hospital had been shoveled and sanded. I’d traipsed through it all, none the wiser.
“I—my husband. It’s not me,” I explained. “It’s my husband, Ryan Wells. I think he came by ambulance. Has it gotten here yet? I need to see him or talk to somebody who knows what’s going on. Someone called me and said he had a heart attack, and—”
The doors whooshed open, letting in a cool burst of air, and making me nauseous as it mixed with the warm air in the triage area. I felt faint.
Arms caught me, helping me to a chair. They were familiar. I could smell Irish Spring and sandalwood. I turned in my seat, looking up. Brighton was there with his sister, looking as wrecked as I felt. Becca was on the phone with Joey, telling him she wouldn’t be home tonight. Why was she here again?
“Liv—look at me.”
There was too much going on. A mother dragged three whining kids through the lobby in front of us—a dirty baby was on her hip, a sullen-looking girl trailed behind her on a Nintendo Switch Lite, and the poor woman was literally dragging a little boy across the floor by his hand. He refused to stand up and help her by walking. Then he cried when she snatched the candy bar from his hand that he just picked up off the floor. The doors whooshed open again, sending another cool gust of air our way. An ambulance screamed in the background. Was Ryan in there?
“I can’t get an answer, she won’t tell me what’s going on!” I wailed. The nurse was gone, and I started to panic. “Where did she go?”
I stood, spinning around to search for her. I felt woozy. I immediately fell onto my ass on the hard chair with the thin plastic cushion. How difficult was it to make better chairs for people who were feeling so bad they had to come to an emergency room?
“The nurse went to find a doctor and track down what room Ryan’s in. She said the ambulance that picked him up was in the bay empty, so he’s here somewhere.”
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I moaned, dropping my head to my hands. “He’s so healthy. How could he have a heart attack? He couldn’t, right? Wouldn’t we have known something was wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Brighton said, cradling me the best he could with one arm while sitting in a different chair. “We’ll find out together.”
Becca hung up the phone. “I know a few people at the hospital. Let me go see if I can hunt anyone down and find out what the hell is going on. This place is crazy right now.”
A nurse came by at one point to give me some disposable surgical booties for my bare feet and confirm what we mostly already knew. He was admitted by ambulance due to cardiac arrest and was rushed into the emergency room. I needed to fill out paperwork for him while we waited. And, of course, she had no update on his condition. Brighton went with me to the admissions desk, where a woman took our information and was understanding when I told her I forgot to grab my purse on my way out of the house. She looked up our insurance information from my most recent visit, so we were set. When she noticed my condition, she handed Brighton an apple juice box and some peanut butter crackers in case I was feeling lightheaded. Then she led us to a separate waiting room that was a little quieter than the triage area. Brighton texted Becca and told her where we were and asked her to meet us there. Minutes ticked by, and I couldn’t stop my legs from bouncing. Brighton sat with me, draping his arm around the back of my chair. I dropped my head to his shoulder and started crying again. I couldn’t lose Ryan. I couldn’t.
After what felt like a long while later, that’s how the doctor found us. I didn’t even realize Becca had rejoined us until she stood up next to Brighton.
I was afraid to greet the doctor walking toward us or look him in the eye because I was too scared that I wouldn’t like what I saw there. Too much time had passed since Ryan was admitted.
“Are you Olivia Wells?” he asked. I finally looked up, meeting the darkest brown eyes I had ever seen. They were impossible to read.
I blinked. “Yes.”
He reached out his hand, and I stared at it. Was he really trying to shake my hand right now? I didn’t care about anything other than Ryan.
“Where’s my husband? Can I go see him?”
“I’m Dr. Patel,” he started.
When I just stared at him, Brighton reached over and shook the doctor’s hand. “I’m Brighton Kerrington, a family member of Olivia’s and a friend of Ryan’s. How is he doing?”
“Why don’t you both come with me,” he said briskly as he scanned the room. Several other families had come and gone, and there was no privacy in the waiting room. Becca said something to Brighton and sat, but I couldn’t focus on anything other than where the doctor’s white coat hit the back of his calves and how one of the heels of his black shoes was scuffed.
I’d been hopeful he was taking us to Ryan’s recovery room, but instead, he turned into a small conference room. The doctor held the door open for us to enter first. He flicked the lights on, and they shimmered for a moment before settling into a dull off-yellow hue.
It was uncomfortably silent as the door clicked into place and I waited for him to say something—anything. I suddenly felt claustrophobic. Dr. Patel sat across the table from Brighton and me and clasped his hands together in front of him. They were strong hands, with graying hair on the backs of his knuckles. Had he been with Ryan? Were those the hands that saved his life after his heart attack?
Dr. Patel cleared his throat, wasting no time. “I’m sorry to tell you both that Ryan died at 4:46 p.m.”
I froze, my leg no longer bouncing.
I couldn’t have heard him right. Brighton clasped my hand under the table. I couldn’t breathe. It was impossible.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Mrs. Wells, I know this may come as a shock because of Ryan’s age and overall physical condition. Have either of you noticed any unusual behavior lately? Fatigue, dizziness, nausea? Did he have any heart arrhythmias that you are aware of? Any complaints of being out of breath or winded with minimal physical exertion?”
Dead.
This stranger just said my husband was dead. He couldn’t be.
At 4:46 p.m. What was I doing then? What time was it now?
I heard Brighton answering the doctor the best he could, but I couldn’t speak. I felt like I was going to throw up. I clutched my stomach. No! No, no, no, no, no!
The doctor and Brighton were looking at me, and that’s when I realized I’d just screamed that out loud. I shook my head. He couldn’t be dead.
“He was perfectly healthy,” I answered. I didn’t even know if we were still on that question.
“Though, he has been tired a lot lately, but he has an aggressive, demanding schedule and they were preparing for the baby’s arrival,” Brighton said. “I’ve been staying with them to help, so I know he’s been burning the wick at both ends. But nothing more than usual.”
The doctor nodded, adjusting his black, wire-framed glasses. He lifted them onto his head where they stood out against all the grays. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“I’m deeply sorry, Mr. Kerrington, Mrs. Wells. We did everything we possibly could. Cases like these with someone so young are rare, but not unheard of. Especially if he’s had a previous unchecked heart attack or blood clotting that you didn’t know about. We think he may have had hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Based on what you’ve told me, if he did, it was undiagnosed—which isn’t uncommon for someone who is otherwise healthy and hasn’t required MRIs or anything of that nature.”
That’s when I started shaking, my entire body going cold. My hands felt as if they were turning blue, and I couldn’t formulate a response. How had I
missed this? Had I been that self-absorbed?
The doctor texted something on his phone, and a few moments later, a nurse entered with a bottle of water and a warm blanket.
Brighton wrapped it around me and opened the bottle for me. I didn’t even know tears were streaming down my face until Brighton handed me some tissues. I looked at his outstretched hand. “Is he really dead?” I rasped. “I was just with him earlier today. We made love twice, for god’s sake. Then he went on his ten-mile run. He couldn’t do that if he were sick, right? He wasn’t sick!” I insisted loudly, slamming my hand on the table and causing some of the water to sloosh over the top of the bottle.
“I understand that this comes as a complete shock. I wish I had better news for you. We did everything we could, Mrs. Wells.”
“What now?” I asked hysterically. “That’s it? You’re just going to walk out of this room and go eat dinner? What do we do? I can’t just leave him here. We’re having a baby in less than a month. I need my husband.”
“I understand your concerns,” the doctor said quietly.
“Can we see him?” Brighton asked.
I gaped openly. Would they let us? “Yes! I need to see him. Please.”
“You may. You can wait in here while I make sure his body is ready. I’ll send a hospital coordinator in while you wait to discuss any logistical questions you might have about what steps come next.”
“Of course I have questions! My husband left our house today in a perfectly good mood. He never once said anything about not feeling well. Now all of a sudden you expect me to believe he’s dead? We just buried our baby the November before last. Now I’m supposed to bury her father too?”
I turned to Brighton, my eyes searching for any truth. He wrapped me in his arms and covered the back of my head with the strong palm of his hand. “I can’t do this again, Brighton. I can’t.”
Dr. Patel stood, offering Brighton his hand once again. “I’m sorry about your unexpected loss, Mrs. Wells. Mr. Kerrington.”
