The Perfect Life

by Anderson, Callie

  I felt the scowl grow on my face as I walked to the door and unlocked it. Agitated, I swung it opened and was met with him standing before me. Don’t lose your anger because you’ve missed him. He ghosted you. You hate the word ghost.

  “Steph . . .” he said in a low, husky tone.

  “What?” I crossed my arms over my chest. I didn’t have an ounce of makeup on. My eyes were puffy with dark circles. I had on flannel pajama pants and an old Arizona State T-shirt. In that moment, my anger tripled. I looked like a bum while he wore my favorite navy polo with his washed-out jeans.

  “Can we talk?”

  “Why?” I bit the inside of my lip.

  “I need to explain—”

  “Oh, really?” I scoffed. “Now you want to explain?” I threw my hands in the air. “Please explain to me why, when I finally opened my heart to you and invited you over, you decided to leave without a word. Please explain why you left like a thief in the night. Please explain so I can tell AJ because after you left he came looking for you. Or better yet, do you want to explain why for the past four days I’ve been trying to call, and you’ve been an immature prick?” Sleep clearly made me cranky.

  “Can you please come outside,” he said, and stepped to the side. “I really need to talk to you. It’s about your husband.”

  “My husband?” All the anger laced in my voice vanished. Why was Luke bringing up Bruce?

  “Please?” Luke begged.

  Unable to deny him this request, I left the door cracked and stepped out into the cool night air. Luke sat on the top step, and I sat next to him.

  “What is it?” I got straight to the point.

  “I’m the one responsible for your husband’s death,” he said in one quick breath.

  I blinked a few times, waiting for the sentence to make sense in my mind. I waited for the words to register in my brain. He was responsible for my husband’s death?

  17

  Past

  Sometimes the things we say in anger are what we truly feel. And other times they’re said in hope that they’ll hurt the other person so badly they feel a fraction of what you feel.

  I needed to run. I needed to get out of my house and clear my mind before I lost it completely. A few miles would do me good. It would give me time to clear my mind, gather my thoughts, and maybe I could talk to Bruce once he returned with AJ. I found the pieces of my cell phone scattered on the floor. I didn’t cry because it was broken. I sobbed because it meant I had to run without music blasting through my ears.

  The air outside was thick and muggy. My body and lungs were used to running at five in the morning when the air was crisp, and the sun had just peeked over the horizon. Running at three in the afternoon caused a bit of a challenge. The sun was at its hottest, and the thick, humid, June air made it difficult to breathe.

  I took my time at first, doing a light, quick jog to warm up my body and give my heart rate a chance to catch up. I only wanted to jog a few miles, just enough to calm me down, but the constant sound of my feet hitting against the asphalt made me not want to turn around. I was in pain, my heart was shattered, and I used that pain to forget my feelings. I was running from my life. I was running away from my problems until I found a solution.

  It wasn’t until I hit eight miles that my mind cleared. I rounded the corner and turned back toward my house. There seemed to be a commotion at the end of the street. Silent red and blue lights spun atop a patrol car, and a few neighbors were outside to see what was going on. Picking up the pace, I realized that the officer was parked in my driveway.

  My heart sank. Of course, this would happen the one time I didn’t have my phone. I came to a halt when I approached my driveway. Two officers dressed in dark blue uniforms stood at my door.

  “Can I help you?” I said, gasping for air, unsure whether the deficit was from my strenuous run or the erratic beat of my heart.

  “Are you Mrs. Johnson?” One officer said. I would never forget his eyes. He was an older man in his mid-fifties, and though his hair was peppered with gray, his eyes were the most perfect shade of green. His voice was low, monotone, and it made me scared for my life.

  My voice chose that second to stop working.

  Fear consumed me, rendered me speechless, and my limbs hung like dead weights at my sides. Uneasily, I nodded. Both officers slowly walked down the three porch steps in my direction.

  “There’s been an accident,” the older one said.

  My legs buckled, and I held on to the railing for support as his words registered in my head. “What?” Hysteria saturated my voice. “What kind of accident?” I looked around outside the house. “Where’s my husband?” I panicked and circled in place. All of my neighbors’ eyes were on me. “AJ?”

  “Mrs. Johnson,” the younger officer said to me. Unlike the older one who had beautiful green eyes, this officer had almond-shaped, chocolate brown eyes with a scar that ran down his left eyebrow. You remembered these things when you replayed them over and over in your head. You remembered every little detail of the person who was about to break your heart with the worst possible news.

  “Your husband was in a car accident. We’ll escort you to St. Michael’s Memorial Hospital.”

  18

  Past

  My vision blurred as my eyes grew wet with tears. His words sounded like mumbled jargon as my brain tried to decipher what he was saying.

  Bruce.

  Car accident.

  Hospital.

  “AJ!” I cried out. The officers stared at each other and then looked at me. “My son, AJ. Is he okay? Was he in the car with him?”

  “No, ma’am. “The older officer paused and swallowed. “We were only told about your husband.”

  I ran past them, unlocked the front door, and rushed to the home phone. The answering machine light flashed with a missed voicemail, but I ignored it as I dialed the daycare.

  “Bright and Sunny Nursery, how can I help you?”

  “Hi, it’s Stephanie, Stephanie Johnson, AJ’s mom. Is AJ still there?” I blurted it all out in one breath.

  “Yes,” she said on the other side of the conversation and my lungs released a trapped breath. “He’s still here. Is everything okay?”

  I choked on a sob. “Bruce was in a car accident.” My throat felt as if it were on fire as I spoke. “I’m on my way there now to pick AJ up.” Before she had the chance to say anything else, I hung up the phone and looked over at the officers who had followed me inside. “I need to pick up my son before I can go to the hospital,” I managed to say as my breaths came out in spurts. Covering my mouth, I cried as the world came crashing down on me.

  “Ma’am?” The officer said as he placed his hand on my shoulder. “Is there anything we can do?”

  My body shook with fear. “Please take me to get my son and then we can go to the hospital,” I said in a painful whisper.

  “Not a problem, ma’am,” the older man said to me.

  I walked in a state of shock. The sweat that had coated my body was now a thin film on my skin. Retrieving my purse and keys, I followed the officers to their car. I silently thanked them when they opened the back door of the patrol car for me. I was in no state to drive myself. My mind kept replaying my argument with Bruce in my head. Had he gotten into an accident because of what I had said to him?

  The patrol cruiser pulled into the parking lot of Bright and Sunny Daycare Center, but the ride there had been a blur. The world around me continued to pass as I kept waiting to wake up. I kept hoping this was all a nightmare and Bruce was fine. The parents’ eyes were on me as I climbed out of the back and headed toward the main entrance.

  “Mrs. Johnson.” Lori, one of the caregivers, greeted me. “Is everything okay?” She placed a kind hand on my shoulder.

  I couldn’t speak. I simply shook my head and felt the tears drip down my face.

  “Mommy!” AJ shouted when he saw me. His little feet ran with all his might in my direction. In one quick swoop, I picked him
up off the floor and cradled him in my arms. “Mommy, you cry.”

  “It’s okay, baby,” I whispered in his ear and grabbed his bag from Lori.

  “Please let us know if you need anything,” she said as I walked out of the room.

  AJ clung to my arms as we climbed back inside the cop car. Both officers sat in silence as I slammed the door shut. “Mommy, I scared.” AJ’s tiny hands tightened around my neck.

  “I know.” I kissed his little cheeks. I couldn’t comfort him and tell him it would be all right because I had no clue what was in store for us. The cops had shown up at our door, for crying out loud.

  It had to be bad.

  * * *

  My stomach turned in knots as I walked through the automatic doors of the hospital with my son hoisted on my hip. The sterile scent lingered in the conditioned air. Both officers guided me until I reached the trauma unit.

  A woman in her late forties approached me with a kind smile. “Mrs. Johnson?” I nodded at her, unable to speak. The fear of tossing everything in my stomach kept my lips sealed shut. “My name is Jennifer Clyde, and I’m with social services.” I nodded again. “I can watch your son for you while you speak with the doctors.”

  “I think my in-laws are on the way,” I whispered.

  “Good. We’ll wait for them right here.” She opened her hands to AJ. Her voice was soothing and comforting, telling me there was something beyond those double doors that no one wanted AJ to see. AJ must have sensed that she was caring, because when I moved him off my hip in her direction, he went without a fight.

  A doctor I had not seen prior spoke as his hand pointed toward the double door. “Right this way.” He was tall with broad shoulders and his hairline looked as though it had faded with each passing year. I followed behind him, my feet heavy as if they were stuck in quicksand. Each step I took was harder than the last. He made no effort to form conversation with me. He didn’t even tell me his name.

  He gave me a kind smile before he swiped his key card and the double doors swung open. My fists balled at my sides as I glanced down the hallway filled with rooms on each side. All I could hear was low whispering and the beeping of machines. The hair on my neck stood on end, my stomach turned, and every fiber in my body suspected this wouldn’t be good news. Fear consumed me.

  Halfway down the hallway, two doctors stood outside a door. Fluorescent light shone down on them as their white lab coats covered their scrubs. Their lips moved at a rapid speed as they exchanged a few short words.

  It took forty-three steps to reach them.

  Forty-three steps.

  With each step, I weighed out the worst-case scenario. Hope for the best and prepare for the worst, my mother would say. Was Bruce paralyzed? Had he lost a limb? Was he at fault for the accident? Was he intoxicated while driving? I imagined every possible outcome in my forty-three steps. Every possible one . . .

  Or so I thought.

  Nothing prepared me for what had actually happened to Bruce. Not the kind police officers who brought me here. Not the sweet social worker who was watching over AJ. And most definitely not the doctors.

  “Mrs. Johnson.” It wasn’t like before when everyone said my name as a question. This was a statement. He knew who I was. Unable to answer for fear of passing out, I nodded. “I’m Dr. Porter, the Chief of Neurosurgery, and this is Dr. Hayder, with Trauma.” He pointed to a shorter, bald man standing next to him.

  “My husband ...” My voice was low and barely a whisper.

  Dr. Hayder cleared his throat. “He arrived with a head laceration and internal bleeding. We rushed him into surgery, but despite our best efforts . . .” He paused, waiting for some reaction from me, but I stood there paralyzed, preparing myself for the worst.

  “I’m sorry to inform you, Mrs. Johnson, but your husband has no brain activity.”

  The world sucked me in as if a black hole had formed beneath the ground I was standing on. I heard what Dr. Hayder said. I understood the words he spoke. But my mind couldn’t register what he meant. No brain activity? Brain dead?

  Warm tears dripped from my cheeks and I looked past the two white coats to where Bruce lay. Tubes and machines were hooked up to him and made it almost impossible to recognize him. A faint beeping noise came from Bruce’s machine.

  His heart is still beating.

  I drifted to his bed and curled my hand around his; he was still warm. “I don’t understand.” I shook my head. “His heart is still beating.”

  Dr. Porter gave me his best sympathetic stare, his frown lines relaxed and his lips pinched together. “Mrs. Johnson—”

  “It’s Stephanie,” I interrupted. “If you’re about to ruin my life, we should be on a first name basis.”

  “Stephanie.” His jaw clenched. “The bleeding in your husband’s brain was more severe than we expected. By the time we got to it, it was too late. Unfortunately, your husband has no brain wave activity,” he said and cupped his hands together.

  In that moment, I could hear the beating of my own heart in my ears. In a split second, every conversation I had with Bruce flashed before my eyes. Every joke. Every smile. The way he chased me around the house with a snail I refused to eat. The way he laughed three seconds later than normal at a joke. The way he tossed AJ in the air just so he could laugh his little heart out.

  And then I remembered the last thing I said to him.

  “I wish I could go back in time and not marry you.”

  My knees buckled again, and I gripped the bed rail for support. Dr. Porter’s lips moved, but all I heard was mumbling. I had wished I had never married my husband. I had wished it all away. The pain that coursed through my body made it impossible to breathe. Made it impossible to live.

  I killed my husband.

  This was all my fault.

  Both Porter and Hayder continued to console me. But their words wouldn’t register. Nothing transcribed in my brain. My active, functioning brain refused to work.

  “My baby!” a familiar voice shouted from the doorway. I turned my head and looked at a frantic Sue. Her hands were at her chest as she ran to Bruce’s bedside. Her body shook as she sobbed.

  How would I tell her this was my fault?

  How could I explain to AJ that his father, who loved him more than anything, was gone?

  How had I been so selfish?

  With each second that passed, pain took over my body. Darkness suffocated me. Guilt ate me alive.

  * * *

  I sat outside Bruce’s room staring at the specks on the marble floor. My mother-in-law had run off to call everyone in a frantic state. She was a functioning hysteric. Though her heart was broken, and she cried uncontrollably, she still managed to call the family and inform them all that Bruce was brain-dead.

  I refused to admit that this was real. That this was my life. I wasn’t meant to be a twenty-eight-year-old widow. I had the perfect life.

  Two hundred forty-six little dots in the granite.

  Two hundred forty-seven.

  Two hundred forty-eight.

  “Can I get you anything?” I didn’t need to look up to know it was a nurse sitting beside me. She wore colorful flower scrubs, nothing like the dark green ones that doctors wore.

  I paused for a second, contemplating my response. “If you have a time machine, I’d like that.” I sniffled, returning to my specks.

  “Dr. Porter has prescribed you a Valium and referred you to a therapist. I can get you the medication while you wait.” Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

  “I’m not a patient. My husband is—was.” I shrugged, not knowing the politically correct term for Bruce’s vegetative state.

  “I know, ma’am.” She placed her hand on my shoulder to comfort me. “We’re a small hospital, which is why we take care of everyone in here. The next few hours will be long, so if there is anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  My lower lip quivered. “Coffee would be nice.” I needed something warm to hold on to.r />
  “I’ll be right back.” She stood and walked down the long hallway. When she returned a few minutes later with a cup of joe, she wasn’t alone. A hospital employee held a binder close to her chest. I looked up at her and exhaustion seeped out of my pores. I couldn’t fathom another second.

  “Mrs. Johnson.” Her smile was kind as she sat beside me. “I’m Julie Cruz. I’d like to discuss your options.”

  “I’m sorry?” I said after I took a sip of the bitter black coffee “Options?”

  “Unfortunately, your husband’s brain isn’t delivering any neurological activity. Therefore, we need to know whether or not you’d like to keep him on a ventilator, or . . .”

  “Pull the plug?” I pulled my eyes away from hers to look at the specks on the floor. This was why she was here. Bruce was taking up a hospital bed and the six hours allotted had passed, not to mention he had two failed brainstem reflex examinations. My eyes filled with tears. They needed a decision from me.

  “I can’t do that to him.” I found the courage to look up at her. Her face blurred as tears took over my vision.

  “You’re his wife.” She paused and handed me a tissue. “By law, this is your decision to make unless he has stated otherwise in his will.”

  I shook my head. There was nothing regarding long-term care or unplugging in our will. Placing the Styrofoam cup between my legs, I covered my face and cried. I wanted to scream until all the hurt on the inside was out of me.

  “I know this is a hard time, but I have some brochures for you to read about facilities where you can move him if that’s something you’d like to consider.”

  The knots in my stomach turned. “You told me he’s brain dead.” My voice grew higher with my annoyance. “That he’s never coming back. Now you want me to move him to a facility?” I ran my hand through my hair. “Mrs. Cruz, do you know my husband and I have a two-year-old son? He’s two!” My voice cracked. “He will never remember his father. Do you think it’d be wise to keep Bruce in a vegetative state, so AJ can visit him on the weekends?”