Skipping a Beat

by Sarah Pekkanen

  My mother’s sweet, musical voice calling me in to dinner as I jumped rope in front of our house.

  My mother hugging me after I’d graduated from sixth grade, then snapping a photo of me in the white, lacy dress she’d sewn herself.

  My mother sitting on the edge of my bed on my birthdays, retelling the story of the day I was born. “You had such a big cry for so tiny a baby,” she’d always say. “And the minute I heard you wailing, I reached for you. I tried to pull you right out of the doctor’s hands. I didn’t want you to be sad, not even for a moment.”

  “Julia, I wish so much I could explain how it felt.” Just as Michael said those words, the sun broke free from a giant cloud and beamed its warmth onto me, beginning at my feet and moving up my legs, then over my stomach and my arms and neck.

  My mother, pulling a blanket up over me when I was cold at night.

  I looked at Michael, my eyes wide. He was staring back at me, an expression I’d never seen before on his face.

  “That’s it,” he whispered. “Just now, when you were so cold and then the sun came out? Julia, that’s exactly how it felt after I died.”

  * * *

  Thirty-six

  * * *

  TWO DAYS LATER WE were leaving the river, walking along the path toward the parking lot with Noah and Bear. Michael and I held hands as Noah walked about ten yards ahead of us, still throwing a stick for Bear.

  “Do you think Bear ever gets tired?” I asked Michael.

  “He’s equal parts motor and dog,” he said. “That’s how I always used to feel—at least part of me.”

  “Which half did you relate to?” I asked innocently.

  Michael pulled me closer and mock-growled in my ear.

  “What do you want to do tonight?” I asked as the path curved around to run parallel with a busy street and Noah pulled a thin nylon leash from his back pocket and whistled for Bear.

  “I’m actually a little tired,” Michael confessed.

  “You?” I said in surprise. I think it was the first time I’d ever heard him admit to needing rest.

  “Here, boy!” Noah was calling. But something had caught Bear’s attention, and his head was turned in the other direction, away from us. It was a squirrel, frozen in place on the path ahead, I noticed absently.

  “You haven’t heard from Isabelle again, have you?” Michael asked.

  I shook my head. “I’m still writing her every day. I miss her so much. I was thinking maybe I could fly out to meet her for a few days, wherever she is. I could e-mail her and offer, at least.”

  “Good idea.” Michael’s hand tightened around mine.

  “Can we stay in tonight?” he asked a moment later.

  “Sure,” I said. I glanced up at him and frowned. “You don’t have another headache, do you?”

  “No, that’s not it,” he said.

  “So we’ll stay home,” I said. I looked at him again; he did appear kind of pale. “We’ll take a Jacuzzi and go to bed early. Remember, you’re going to start working for me. You’ll need your rest.”

  Michael leaned over and kissed the top of my head, then breathed in deeply. “Coconut with a hint of lime mixed in,” he whispered. “My Julie.”

  Bear suddenly took off after the squirrel, which sprang to life and veered to the right, heading directly toward the doublelane street.

  “Bear!” Noah ran after his dog, and Michael dropped my hand to join the chase. Noah was still fifty feet from the road, and he looked like he’d catch up to Bear in plenty of time; his thin legs were a blur.

  But then Bear’s easy lope changed to a full-on run. His head was down and he was tightly focused on the squirrel. His instincts, honed by generations of ancestors, told him little animals were prey; they didn’t warn him to look out for the relatively newer innovation of cars.

  I looked wildly to the left and right and saw traffic. Too much traffic. People were rushing home from work, probably chatting on cell phones and checking BlackBerrys. It was almost dusk, and scattered trees lined the area between the path and the road. Could the drivers see Bear and Noah running toward them?

  I began sprinting even though I knew I’d never reach them in time.

  “Noah!” I screamed, cupping my hands around my mouth.

  “Stop!”

  I couldn’t see any of them now; they were weaving among the trees, all three of them. I ran faster, seeing our picnic basket ahead of me, where Michael had dropped it. The crackers we’d packed to eat with cheese had fallen out; something about the sight of those white squares scattered on the ground made me stumble and almost fall. The white envelopes tumbling to the ground as Bob the mail-room guy ran to get the defibrillator, the day Michael had died …

  I heard a squeal of tires and I squeezed my eyes shut even as I kept running, my shoes kicking up dirt and my hands clawing the air, as though I could grab clumps of it and propel myself forward faster. When I finally broke free from the trees, all of the cars in both directions had stopped. My head whipped from side to side, but I couldn’t see anyone—not Michael or Noah or Bear. Drivers were getting out, and one woman was shouting into her cell phone and waving her hand in the air.

  I kept running and finally reached the street. I wove between the cars until I spotted Noah, lying against the curb, his arm bent up at an awkward angle.

  I tried to scream, but his name came out as a croak.

  “I’m okay,” Noah said. He straightened his arm, wincing a bit, then flexed it again. His eyes were huge as he slowly stood up and looked at me. “Michael pushed me out of the way. I didn’t get hit.”

  Then I looked back and saw Michael lying on the street between two cars.

  * * *

  My favorite part of any opera is the aria that usually comes toward the end. In Italian, aria means “air,” and it’s an apt description. Everything winds down during those long moments, and the stage is still and hushed. The only thing that matters is the bittersweet sound. I’ve never been able to listen to an aria without crying, because to me, an aria wraps all the emotions of that opera—and all of the feelings in life, really—into one glorious song.

  I told Michael I loved him as I held his head in my hands, and his eyes flickered open for a moment. He heard me; I know he did.

  * * *

  Thirty-seven

  * * *

  WHEN THE DOORBELL RANG the next morning, I slowly opened my eyes, then lifted up my head from the couch. My mind felt dull and foggy, and it took a moment to process the noise and understand what it meant.

  Michael.

  He’d died once before and returned to life, and somehow, some way, he’d done it again. The policeman who’d tried to pull me away from my husband’s body, the young woman who’d bolted from her car and wrapped a crinkly silver emergency blanket around my shoulders while repeating “I’m so sorry,” and the EMT who’d put two fingers on Michael’s neck while looking up at his colleague and silently shaking his head—they were all wrong.

  Michael had come back to me.

  I scrambled to my feet and ran toward the door, but I slipped on the glossy wood floor and fell to my knees.

  “Wait!” I cried out, crawling to the foyer. I grabbed the edge of the table across from the front door and pulled myself upright as my heart leapt furiously in my chest. My fingers fumbled with the locks, and I flung open the door. Bright sunlight hit my face, sending tiny arrows of pain into my eyes and blinding me for a moment. All I could see was a tall, thin silhouette.

  “Michael,” I tried to whisper, but my throat closed up.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” the man said.

  As my eyes adjusted, I saw that he was maybe in his early seventies, with thinning white hair and a polished wooden cane. He was a stranger.

  I felt my whole body collapse inward. I clung to the doorframe as the terrible knowledge crashed down over me, even more swiftly and powerfully than it had yesterday: Michael was dead. Nausea rose in my throat, and I almost gagged.


  “I know this is a terrible time,” the man was saying. “Please accept my condolences. I wouldn’t intrude under any other circumstances, but I’m Michael’s lawyer. My name is Jonathan Boright.”

  I couldn’t breathe. His face swam before my eyes as I grew dizzy.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jonathan said. He reached out and patted my arm. “I can come back another time.”

  He began to turn around but stopped when I blurted, “No!”

  I’d spent the night curled up, trembling, on a couch in our living room. I couldn’t bear to be alone any longer. “Don’t go,” I said. “You can come in. Please.”

  “I won’t keep you long,” Jonathan promised. I let go of the doorframe and slowly led him into our library, feeling as achy and worn as if I’d aged sixty years overnight.

  “May I sit down?” he asked. I blinked and realized we’d been standing silently for several moments.

  “I’m sorry, of course. I—”

  “It’s okay,” he interrupted me, again with a grandfatherly pat on my arm. “I understand.”

  He opened his leather briefcase and slid on a pair of bifocals before rustling through some papers. He was sitting in the exact spot where Michael had been, just days ago. If I closed my eyes, I could see him again, stretching out his arms and inviting me to join him. I sank onto the couch next to Jonathan; my legs couldn’t hold me up any longer.

  “I won’t bother with all the legal mumbo jumbo,” he said in a gentle voice. “Your husband’s life insurance policy was valued at two million dollars. You’re his sole beneficiary.”

  It took a moment for my mind to unscramble his words. “He had … life insurance?”

  “He had that policy in effect for quite a while,” Jonathan said. “He told me many times that he wanted you to be taken care of no matter what happened to him.”

  I shook my head. “I never … but he never … he didn’t say anything.”

  Jonathan patted my hand with his bony, spotted one, and I turned my hand over so I could clutch his.

  “I lost my wife three years ago,” he said softly. “You can hold on to my hand as long as you want.”

  I nodded and felt tears flood my eyes. “Were you married a long time?”

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  Three years; I couldn’t bear to think about this kind man being in pain for so long. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He inclined his head. “Me too, for you.” He cleared his throat. “But I’m here to talk about what Michael left for you. There’s a stipulation in the policy that it doubles if his death was an accident, which it most assuredly was. So the final amount will be four million dollars.”

  Jonathan reached over with his other hand and put a small pile of papers in front of me.

  “How long ago …?” I began to ask, but I couldn’t formulate the rest of my sentence.

  “He bought the policy years ago. I can get you the exact date if you need it?” His voice rose questioningly.

  I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter … I’m sorry, I just—” My voice broke.

  “He came into my office one day right off the street, and he bought the policy then and there,” Jonathan said. “His company was already doing quite well, but he told me he wanted something extra as a cushion for you just in case he ever hit a rough spot financially. He paid the premiums every year. And then after—” Jonathan bowed his head and began again. “After his cardiac arrest, he made an appointment to come by one afternoon. He told me what had happened. He said he wanted to make sure everything was up-to-date, and that the policy was still in effect. I assured him it was paid through the end of the year, but he wanted to see it for himself. He asked me so many questions about it, until he was satisfied there were no loopholes. Such a sharp mind.”

  “He was so smart. He was so good.” My lips trembled, but I forced out the words; it was important to say them.

  “He loved you very much,” Jonathan said. He reached into his pocket and handed me a crisp white handkerchief. I hadn’t realized tears were flowing down my cheeks. Michael would never be an old man with a cane; I’d never see him that way. I wouldn’t wake up tomorrow morning with my head on his chest, listening to his rapid heartbeat echo in my ears.

  I wanted to run out of the room screaming, but my limbs felt so leaden I was pinned to the couch.

  “He told me he wanted to make sure his wife would never have to worry about money. And there won’t be any problems with the insurance company. I’ll take care of everything and notify you as soon as we receive the check. It should be just a few weeks.”

  I nodded and fought to inhale as my lungs constricted.

  “I’ll need your signature,” Jonathan reminded me gently, motioning to the papers. “Unless you’d like to have them reviewed by another lawyer first?”

  I shook my head and blindly scrawled my name.

  “It seemed almost as if he was … expecting this,” Jonathan said. “I hope you don’t mind my saying that. He asked me to call you immediately if anything happened to him. Not to wait a minute. And last night, when I saw the news on television …”

  Then something jolted me out of my daze, and the world around me zoomed into crisp focus: Yesterday was exactly twenty-one days after Michael’s cardiac arrest. Three weeks. The precise amount of time he’d asked me to give him as a final gift.

  Had he known? How could he have known?

  I stared at Jonathan as he put the papers back into his briefcase.

  “This should take care of everything,” he said. “But there was one more thing Michael wanted me to tell you.” He smiled. “Michael said you’d understand what he meant. When you need it, there’s more Breyers chocolate ice cream for you in the freezer.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “Thank you,” I said when I could speak again.

  “I should let you be,” he said.

  Please don’t go, I thought, panic rising within me. Please don’t leave me here all alone.

  “Would you like some water?” I asked. “Or …” I tried to think about what someone might want to drink. “Tea? Maybe some juice?”

  I could see Jonathan start to reflexively say no, then he looked around, as if seeing the big, empty house for the first time. He was the first person who’d ever walked in here who hadn’t seemed to be awed by it.

  His eyes finally settled on me. “I don’t have any other appointments today. Tea sounds just lovely,” he said.

  * * *

  Thirty-eight

  * * *

  “HOW DID YOU GET here so fast?” I asked.

  “Chartered a jet,” Isabelle said, like another woman might’ve said, “I hit all the green traffic lights.” She tossed her coat over the banister and wrapped her arms around me.

  I’d been waiting for this moment, I realized. I’d been desperate for her to come.

  “Sweetie, I know this might sound odd, but Michael called me a few weeks ago—right after his cardiac arrest—and asked if you could come stay with me, just in case anything ever happened to him.”

  “He did?” My voice failed me. Again it struck me, he knew. Somehow, he knew.

  I cleared my throat and asked, “What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘Of course not.’ What am I, running a hotel?”

  I blinked in surprise, then started laughing. I leaned over and clutched my stomach, and then tears streamed down my face, as quickly as if someone had turned on a faucet to release them.

  “Oh, honey,” Isabelle said. She wrapped her arms around me again, holding me upright. “I’m here. Just let it out.”

  “I can’t do this,” I whispered into her shoulder. “Not without him.”

  “You don’t have to do a thing,” she said. “I’m going to take care of you. Come stay with me, Julia. For as long as you want.”

  “I keep thinking he’s going to walk in from another room,” I sobbed. “How can he be gone? How can someone be here one moment and not the next?”

  “I don�
�t know. It isn’t fair.” Isabelle smoothed back my hair, making soothing noises.

  “Will you come home with me?” she finally asked. “I can’t stand to think of you all by yourself, or I could stay here …”

  I took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to think. Would I be able to leave the home Michael and I had shared? But Michael wasn’t here, in these cold, elegant rooms. The places where I’d go to be with him were the banks of both of our rivers, outside under the shelter of a tree when it rained, and in the warmth of the sun.

  “Let me just pack a bag,” I said. I tried to think. “I need a toothbrush.”

  “Julia, what kind of heiress do you think I am?” she asked. “I can spare an extra toothbrush. Let’s just go, honey.”

  I didn’t move from bed during those first few days. I couldn’t eat, or even talk. I just drifted in and out of sleep, my memories and dreams blurring together into one. I saw Michael as a teenager, sliding into the seat next to me in school, and then he was winking as he stirred the batter for my birthday cake. He spun around the merry-go-round in Paris, reaching up for the brass ring, and then lifted a wineglass to toast me, his eyes serious and loving. Sometimes I woke up calling out for him in the darkness. Then the sadness would come, wrapping so tightly around me that I felt suffocated. But something else was always there, too: Isabelle’s voice.

  “It’s okay,” she would whisper, holding a glass of ginger ale up to my lips. She smoothed damp washcloths over my face and hands, and murmured soothingly. “I’m right here.”

  Then, on the fifth day, she opened the curtains, letting sunlight into the room.

  “I’m going to help you sit up,” she said, reaching an arm behind my back.

  “No,” I said. I put my forearm over my eyes. “Not yet.”