Dale sighed, like I was thwarting his attempts to make pleasant conversation possible, and pointed to a hallway. “He’s in the Cardiac Care Unit.”
I hurried down the long corridor, my shoes briskly tapping against the linoleum as I followed the signs posted on the walls. Finally I found the heavy gray swinging door leading to the CCU. I lifted my hand to push it open, then froze.
I hadn’t stopped moving, hadn’t even stopped to think, since I’d seen the flurry of messages on my BlackBerry. After begging Patrick the blusher to cover the fund-raiser, I’d leapt into the car Kate had sent over with Michael’s driver. During the ride to the hospital, I’d talked nonstop with Kate, who’d filled me in on all the details. She’d used the office phone to call 911 as soon as he hit the floor, and when Michael was revived, the dispatcher marked the time, so doctors would know how long he was without oxygen. I was still marveling at Kate’s ability to juggle the 911 operator while sending me text messages from Michael’s BlackBerry and using his cell phone—sometimes I was convinced she had more than the usual allotment of fingers and thumbs, not to mention brains. Then again, Michael needed an extraordinary assistant to keep up with him. He’d gone through seven before finding Kate.
Now, the empty hospital corridor felt too quiet, and my stomach clenched up like a fist. The antiseptic smell—Lysol, probably, mixed in with some bleach—filled my nose and mouth and lungs and made it difficult to breathe. The shaky tone in Kate’s voice, Dale’s hesitation … exactly what was waiting for me on the other side of that door?
I heard Dale walk up behind me, and I snapped out of it, pushing through the door a little too quickly. I nearly bumped into a pretty, dark-haired nurse who was frowning down at a clipboard as she headed toward a circular workstation in the middle of the large room.
“I’m Michael Dunhill’s wife,” I began.
“Oh!” the nurse said, nearly dropping her clipboard. She quickly looked me up and down, which I’m used to by now. Lots of women check me out to see what kind of woman a man like Michael, who could presumably have anyone, chose to marry. I automatically sucked in and straightened up, hearing the voice of the image consultant I’d hired in a moment of insecurity reverberate in my brain: A string is pulling the top of your head toward the ceiling! Do you feel it, darling? Stretch, stretch! If anything, the image consultant—bronzed, whippet-thin, and a perfect advertisement for her own services—had sent me scurrying toward my secret stash of Sara Lee in the freezer faster than ever. No, I’m definitely not a trophy wife, even though I’ve shed a size and become two shades blonder since leaving West Virginia. On my best days, I’m more like a bronze medal wife.
“Mr. Dunhill is in that room, but if you want to talk to the chief of cardiology first, I can call him.” The nurse gestured toward one of the small rooms that ringed the unit. Through the glass wall, I could see Michael lying on a narrow cot, covered by a stark white sheet and surrounded by hulking gray machines.
Something is wrong. The panicked thought roared through my mind until I realized what it was: I just wasn’t used to seeing Michael lying down.
I needed to get a grip or I’d probably end up lying on the bed next to Michael, and I wasn’t even wearing nice underwear, like generations of mothers have ordered us to do in case of just such a scenario. I was wearing a girdle. Sure, it had a cute name (Spanx) and came in fun colors and was advertised by skinny, playful women, but I wasn’t fooled. Anything squeezing me this tightly was either a hungry python or an old-fashioned, no-nonsense, kill-the-evidence-of-those-Sara Lee-cakes girdle.
“I’d like to talk to the doctor first,” I said, and the nurse pressed a button on a phone and spoke quietly into it.
“Mrs. Dunhill?” A short, slim man in a white coat came through the swinging door moments later. “I’m Walter Kim, chief of cardiology. I’m overseeing your husband’s care.”
I couldn’t help wondering if he’d have shown up so quickly if Michael had been, say, a garbageman instead of one of the hospital’s big donors. “Did he have a heart attack?” I asked. “They just told me he collapsed …”
Dr. Kim shook his head. “Michael suffered a cardiac arrest. His heart simply stopped beating. We don’t know why. Sometimes it happens out of the blue to healthy, young people. The heart’s electrical circuitry just misfires.”
“But he’s okay now,” I said. “He’s fine, right?”
The doctor hesitated. “We’re monitoring him closely, and we’ll need to keep him here for a while. But yes, it seems he was one of the lucky ones. He was clinically dead for more than four minutes, but I’ve seen cases where people have been in full cardiac arrest for as long as six or seven minutes, and they’ve been fine. Other patients have suffered some brain damage after less than two minutes. Everyone comes out of something like this differently.”
“He just bought that defibrillator a few months ago,” I said, shaking my head.
“Good for him,” Dr. Kim said. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’m sure you’re eager to see him now.”
“Right.” I smiled and slowly walked into the room.
“Hi, honey,” I said, moving to Michael’s side. I’d gone for a cheery, confident tone, like a junior high school soccer coach might use during halftime to rally the troops, but my voice came out too loudly in the sterile white room, and I flinched.
I reached for Michael’s hand, which felt warm. Strange, because the room was cool. An oxygen tube ran into his nose, and a few wires snaked from under his gown to a big heart monitor machine next to his bed.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“At least I wasn’t attacked by a vicious carton of ice cream,” Michael said. Then he winked.
I blinked in surprise. It was our old private joke, the one that had grown dusty from neglect. We used to whisper it whenever we were given a pop quiz in school, or when we ended up sitting next to half-deaf Roy Samuels and his wife—who obligingly stage-whispered the dialogue—at our town’s lone movie theater. But we hadn’t repeated our joke in … how long?
I stared at Michael. He wasn’t demanding his cell phone, or railing at having to stay in bed, or clicking through endless e-mails on his BlackBerry. Even when Michael had a raging case of the flu two years ago, he’d dragged himself into work while the poor interns raced around squirting Purell on everything he touched.
For the first time in my memory, my husband was absolutely still.
“I love you,” Michael said. He stared meaningfully into my eyes while he said it and squeezed my hand.
I glanced at the nurse refilling Michael’s jug of water, and Dale standing vigil in the corner, not even pretending not to eavesdrop. Everyone was staring back at me. Was it because I looked as stunned as I felt, or … oh, my God!
“I—I love you, too,” I responded belatedly. The words felt rusty and awkward in my mouth. Why was Michael looking at me so adoringly? Was he putting on a show for the nurse in case she talked to the press? I felt wooden and self-conscious, like I was on a movie set and the cameras were rolling but no one had given me my lines. How was I supposed to act?
“They need to keep me here for a few days,” Michael said.
“I know,” I said, relief gushing through me as I latched on to something practical to talk about. “Is that okay? Because we can get Dr. Rushman here in a minute, and maybe he can override—”
Michael squeezed my hand again, and I stopped babbling. “It’s fine.” His eyes stayed fixed on mine. Those blue eyes were among the few remaining parts of the skinny teenage boy he’d once been. His thick curls were meticulously shaped now, and his teeth were bonded and whitened. Michael was still thin—still twitchy, too, and he always ate like every meal was Thanksgiving—but protein shakes and daily workouts with his personal trainer had broadened his shoulders and chest with a layer of muscle.
“I’ll bring in a laptop,” Dale said. He glanced around and snorted, not unlike, say, a large farm animal, if one were pressed to come up with an exampl
e off the top of one’s head. “Have you moved to a nicer room, too.”
“It’s not necessary,” Michael said. “But thank you.”
There was another uncomfortable silence; at least, I was uncomfortable. Michael was stretched out like a sunbather on a Caribbean beach. All he needed was to trade in his IV for a fruity drink with a little umbrella.
“I should run home and get your toiletries and a robe,” I said when the silence had stretched out too long. “Is there anything else you need?”
Michael shook his head. He was smiling a dreamy, private smile, like someone had just whispered a delicious secret into his ear.
“It’s amazing how little I need,” he said. “Why didn’t I ever realize that before?”
Dale theatrically cleared his throat.
I get it, Dale, I thought in exasperation. So Michael was acting oddly—there had to be a simple explanation. Maybe he’d been medicated; the faraway look on his face was probably the work of Valium. God knows, every time I swallowed a Valium before an airline flight, I became as loopy as a clown at a kiddie birthday party. That could explain all the moony looks Michael was giving me, too.
Except—why would they give him Valium for cardiac arrest?
“So I’ll just go get your things,” I repeated, then cringed as I heard how eager my voice sounded.
“Hurry back, okay?” Michael said. “We have so much to talk about. So much.”
His eyes hadn’t left my face the entire time I’d been in the room, and by now I felt almost frantic. The man lying in bed looked like my husband, but he was an impostor.
“Be right back,” I promised Michael. My hand slid away from his and I walked to the door, feeling guilty about the relief that flooded through me as I put space between us.
One thing I’ve learned about opera is that it’]s synonymous with passion. It’s in the tremulous power of the violins, the lines of the libretto, the crash of fingers against piano keys, and the impossible arc of the soprano’s aria. Some of my favorites—La Bohème, Fidelio, La Traviata—tell the story of lovers who defy jealous rivals, or scheming interlopers, or layers upon layers of misunderstandings and lies, to end up together against all odds. Even if the ending is sad—and it often is, because death is almost always a main character in operas—it’s bittersweet, because love usually triumphs.
But one opera is different. In Rossini’s Barber of Seville, a beautiful young woman named Rosina is wooed by Count Almaviva. The Count doesn’t want Rosina to love him for his title alone, so he pretends he’s a drunken soldier (because obviously women can’t resist them). Later the Count, who could clearly use a few tips from eHarmony, dons another disguise and tries to pass himself off as a substitute music teacher for Rosina. Finally she discovers who he is and agrees to marry him, defying the creepy older guy who wanted her. She and the Count are blissfully happy. But unlike other opera characters, they aren’t left frozen in time when the curtain drops.
Mozart picked up their story years later in an opera called The Marriage of Figaro. By now, the Count and Rosina have been married for years. The passion they once shared is gone. The magic has evaporated from their marriage, and they barely talk to each other.
I adore Mozart, but I no longer go to see that opera.
* * *
Four
* * *
KATE HAD DONE IT again. Just as the elevator doors opened and I stepped into the hospital’s lobby, I received her text message telling me she’d arranged to have my Jaguar brought to the hospital’s parking lot and the keys left at the admissions desk. Whatever Michael paid her, it wasn’t enough.
For just an instant, I imagined turning the wrong way out of the parking lot and speeding toward the highway. Any highway, it didn’t matter which one. I had a few hundred dollars in my wallet, enough to see me through a week or two’s worth of driving if I wanted to stay anonymous and not leave a credit card trail. I could roll down the windows and blare the radio and keep the ball of my foot pressed hard to the gas pedal. There wouldn’t be room for anything else in the cocoon of my car, not even the icy sensation that something was coming, something I wouldn’t be able to outrun.
I sighed and turned the key in the ignition, feeling my sedan leap to life with a gentle purr. Bad enough that I’d almost forgotten to answer Michael when he told me he loved me. If I went on the lam now, I’d never be named Wife of the Year.
Traffic was light, which was unheard of for D.C., even in the middle of the day, and soon I was heading down our driveway, which was flanked by tall pine trees for privacy. I used my remote control to open our security gate, then left my car parked by our outdoor fountain and hurried to unlock our front door. It took me two tries; my hands were trembling again, even though my sugar buzz from the cupcakes had worn off long ago.
I stepped inside and turned off the alarm as my eyes drank in the bright, abstract artwork on the walls of our entranceway, and I felt the tension in my neck and shoulders ease just a bit. Every time I entered this house, I felt like a guest at the most outrageous hotel imaginable. Maybe that was because I was a sort of guest: Michael had paid for it, and a team of decorators had picked out everything from the colors on the walls to the throw pillows on the couches. The decorators had driven us nuts—I’m still awed by their level of excitement about the merits of ivory versus buff-colored swatches—but in the end, they’d delivered exactly what they’d promised. It wasn’t a house; it was a showplace, filled with air and light and enormous walls of glass. Massive art deco-inspired chandeliers hung from two-story-high ceilings, and our gleaming main dining room table stretched out far enough to seat twenty-four. Both of our kitchens—the large caterers’ one on the main level, and a smaller private one upstairs—were awash in rich granites and copper, and our six bathrooms shone with details like hand-painted tiles and detached glass bowl sinks. “Suitable for embassy-style entertaining,” our real estate agent had murmured, gesturing toward the grand rooms, as if we might suddenly decide to stage a violent coup against the ambassador to Sweden.
Michael had kept his vow to succeed, and then some: The little company he’d started in our cramped old apartment’s galley kitchen—all-natural, low-sugar, flavored bottles of water—had netted him more than $70 million after its stock went public, just before competitors like Vitaminwater and Smartwater burst onto the scene.
Seventy million dollars. It was impossible to wrap my mind around it—kind of like the reaction I had to black holes in space, or the principles of aerodynamics, or tenth-grade geometry.
But success hadn’t slowed Michael down even for a moment. He was branching into new products, like organic energy bars and prepackaged, food-pyramid-friendly kids’ lunches, and now it looked like they might someday become as valuable as his DrinkUp Water.
WILL DUNHILL’S THIRST FOR SUCCESS EVER BE QUENCHED? read the headline on the two-page spread in Fortune, which was framed and prominently hung above Michael’s desk (my unspoken answer: Nope. Even if he swigged down Niagara Falls, he’d still be parched).
I bypassed our elevator and climbed the grand split spiral staircase that led to our master bedroom suite. I hurried into Michael’s bathroom and began searching his medicine cabinets and linen closets before finally finding his toiletries bag in a vanity drawer. Let’s see, he’d need deodorant, a razor, maybe some face lotion … I scooped up a black glass bottle with an indecipherable French name, then noticed two other brands. Which one did he use? I shrugged and decided to put all three into the bag. Now, where was his toothbrush? I searched his medicine cabinet twice before finally spotting an electric one perched by the side of the sink. But Michael hated electric toothbrushes, I thought, feeling strangely off-center. He said the noise made him feel like he was at the dentist’s office. When had that changed?
As I stood there, frowning down at the toothbrush, a memory flashed through my mind. Back in our old apartment, the one Michael and I had rented when we’d first moved to town, we’d shared what had to be the worl
d’s tiniest bathroom. Michael always showered first, since he sprang out of bed like he’d been awakened by the live end of a cattle prod, and by the time the alarm sounded and I stumbled in, rubbing my eyes and yawning hugely, he’d be shaving.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he’d singsong in the voice of a chipper preschool teacher.
“Go to hell,” I’d mumble, elbowing him out of the way so I could reach past the plastic curtain decorated with pictures of palm trees and turn on the shower. I’d come alive as the alternating hot and cold water hit me (our water temperature was inconsistent, but I’d decided to pick my battles with our landlord and focus on the broken freezer), then Michael and I would chat through mouthfuls of minty toothpaste and over the roar of my hair dryer. We’d compare our schedules for the day and bump hips like backup dancers as we jockeyed for position in front of the mirror. Michael would hand me my flat hairbrush without being asked, and I’d towel off the bit of shaving foam he’d missed behind one of his ears.
When Michael and I had first toured this house, I’d swooned when I saw my bathroom with the sun streaming in through the skylights and the balcony overlooking our sprawling green backyard. The steam shower was big enough for a dozen people if you were so inclined (just for the record, I wasn’t), and the fixtures on the double limestone sinks were as delicately crafted as works of art. The nights when I’d sit down on an exposed toilet bowl at 3:00 A.M. and kick Michael awake in retaliation for leaving the seat up were happily behind us.
On our first morning in the house, I’d stepped onto the sea green porcelain tiles, then curled my toes in delight. “They’re heated! Michael, you’ve got to come feel this!” But across the expanse of our bedroom and sitting area, Michael’s bathroom door remained shut; he hadn’t heard me. I’d shrugged, then stepped into my oversize Jacuzzi.
Why was I even thinking about this? I wondered, blinking away the old images. I needed to get back to the hospital. I tossed a travel toothbrush into the kit, then tucked a long cashmere robe into an overnight bag. I added jeans and a casual shirt, too, so Michael wouldn’t have to put back on his suit and torn shirt. Once he got out of the hospital, he probably wouldn’t want any reminders of what had happened today. On the way out, I hesitated, then grabbed Michael’s laptop off his office desk. He’d probably be demanding it within a few hours.
Skipping a Beat Page 3
