We walk to the car after gathering our luggage. Parker’s parents walk together with their arms around one another’s waists. It’s cute. I hope when I’m older I have someone who still wants to walk with their arm around my waist.
The drive to his house isn’t that long, and soon we’re pulling onto a long road. I take in the sight of long, gated driveways, and houses tucked in the back with only their roofs in view.
“You didn’t tell me you lived like the Prince of Bel Air,” I whisper in the back seat so that his parents don’t hear.
“Ha! Hardly.”
“Well, we’re not in Kansas anymore, that’s for sure,” I say, stunned, looking out the windows.
We pull into a driveway lined with small bushes and large flowers in bright pinks, yellows, reds, and oranges. When we make it to the front of the house, my mouth falls open.
You have to be kidding me! “We’re definitely not in Kansas anymore.”
When the car stops, just outside the garage, I’m faced with the biggest, most beautiful house I’ve ever seen.
“Come on. Don’t be intimidated,” Parker says, stepping out of the car. His parents follow as I sit there looking up at the large yellow stucco house. The path leading to the front door is lined with the same plants and flowers as the driveway, with small and large palm trees by the garage and front of the house. The front door is in a large, covered entry, supported by two pillars in the same pearly white as the door.
Don’t be intimidated? I’m intimidated.
Parker opens my door. “Come on. Let’s go. I’ll show you around.”
“Yeah. I might get lost.”
He laughs.
“It’s not that big.”
“Sure. You could only fit four of my houses in this place.”
I stop when we walk into the house. The foyer is huge and open. There is a tall staircase to the right that leads to the second floor. The place is bright, white, and clean.
“Parker, why don’t you two go get settled? Maybe get your suits on and go relax by the pool after your long flight. I’ll make some lunch.”
“That sounds like a great idea.”
Parker’s room is on the second level. I wouldn’t even call it a bedroom. It’s more like a separate wing with a closet the size of my room back home, its own living room, and a bathroom the size of Genna’s kitchen.
“Where’s the kitchen?” I joke.
Parker picks me up and throws me on the bed. “Parker!” I squeal.
“I just wanted to see you in my bed.” He straddles me, pinning my hands above my head. “Don’t let any of this go to your head. This isn’t my money, Aundrea. My dad worked hard to get to this point in his life, and sometimes he can go overboard with how he shows it. I didn’t grow up here. I grew up with money, yes, but it wasn’t until my junior year in high school that we moved here.”
“But you went to a private school?”
“Yes, but not for the education.” Kissing the tip of my nose, he whispers, “I’ve always had a fantasy of sleeping with a naughty schoolgirl.”
“You’re something else. You know that?” I laugh.
“Do I ever.”
Parker and I get our suits on and make our way to the infinity pool out back. It’s huge and overlooks the Atlantic, with a waterfall in the corner that has a slide going right through it. There is a hot tub in the other corner, set in what looks like a stone cave.
“This is beautiful,” I sigh.
“But not as beautiful as you.” He kisses my bare head.
“Smooth, Parker.” I giggle. I love his cheesy one-liners.
His mom makes us sandwiches and margaritas. We spend the afternoon sharing family stories and swimming. His mom reminds me a lot of mine: unselfish, thoughtful, nurturing, and patient.
George has to make a few work calls, but joins us later.
“Is Lee coming?” I ask.
“No, dear. He had a business trip he couldn’t get out of. Next time, for sure,” his mom answers sweetly.
“Oh. That’s okay.” I smile. I was hoping to meet everyone, but I know that this won’t be the only time we come here.
We. I don’t think I’ll get tired of that. I never used to think about making plans for my future, let alone making them with someone, but it feels good thinking of my future with Parker.
That evening, we’re lying in bed, facing one another.
“Name the first thing that comes to mind that you’re afraid of,” Parker says drawing small circles in my palm.
“Heights.”
“Heights? That’s the first thing?”
“Yeah. I’m deathly afraid of heights. And roller coasters.”
I laugh.
“I’m happy you said that. Well, not that you have that fear, but I was expecting you to say something else.”
Like what, death? “What about you?”
“Being in the open ocean—feeling helpless and surrounded by sharks.”
I try to hide the smile that sneaks up. “Is that because you grew up near the ocean, or have you watched one too many Lifetime movies?” I nudge him.
“Not funny. And, no. Neither. Why is anyone afraid of anything? You think about something one time and wish to never think of that happening. That’s how I am with the open ocean.”
“Have you ever thought about confronting your fears? Maybe not that one, but something else that scares you?” I ask.
“Of course. I almost drowned when I was a kid. I refused to get in the water again. Maybe that’s why I don’t like thinking about being alone in the ocean. But, eventually, Lee got me to go back in the pool. He helped me confront my fear of swimming. How about you? Has anyone ever tried to help you with your fears?”
You. “You’ve already helped me overcome so many.”
Pulling me close, he gives me a gentle kiss. “How about we make a promise to start tackling our fears together?”
I nod. Does this also mean I’ll promise to confront my fears about marriage and children?
“I promise, Parker.”
The next afternoon, we’re sitting on the beach just down the few steps from Parker’s backyard. It’s gloomy, with a chance of showers and possible thunderstorms.
“I’m sorry our day was ruined.”
“Ruined?” I say. “This is far from being ruined, Parker. Sitting here, relaxing; what more could anyone ask for?”
He shakes his head and laughs.
Closing my eyes, I lean my head back so I’m looking up at the sky. It’s windy out, and the breeze is refreshing.
“It must be so rough having this as your backyard,” I joke, bringing my attention to the water where there are sailboats passing by.
“It’s rough, I tell you,” Parker mocks.
He’s sitting in a beach chair drinking a beer while I lie on a towel with my Kindle.
Thinking back to our conversation last night, I blurt out, “You want to know what I think I’m scared of the most?”
Parker is quiet, and I hear him take another sip before speaking. “Of course.”
“I’m scared that I’m going to go through life without leaving a trace of myself behind. I want to do things like travel, or be spontaneous, to show that even after I’m gone, I’ve left a small trace of me behind. I’m afraid that one morning I simply won’t wake up and there won’t be anything to show for the life I’ve lived.”
Parker moves from his chair to sit next to me. We sit in silence, staring out into the ocean.
“I’ve never wanted to get married for fear that I’d leave my husband a widower and, even though I want children someday, I’m more scared that I’d leave them parentless. I never thought I could love anyone as much as I love you, Parker. I think back over the time we’ve shared, and …”
I trail off, trying to find the right words. “Even though our time together hasn’t been that long, it’s been the best time of my life. I just want to go on living my life with you, leaving my mark.”
Moving in front of me, he puts a fing
er under my chin, forcing me to look up. I can see his eyes through his sunglasses, and I can see the moisture there.
“Aundrea, you have already left your mark.” Picking up my hand, he places it over his heart. “Right here. You, Aundrea Leigh McCall, are the beat of my heart.”
Parker has shown me that there is life beyond heartache. It’s through him that I’ve learned how to live to tell the story of my journey. I may never understand why I was given this life, or why I was given one obstacle just to have it replaced by another, but I have learned that without these obstacles, I would never have found the left to my right.
Him.
My life changed the night I met Parker. He has shown me that it is possible to carry on with the life I was meant to live, showing the world that even though I was dealt a shitty hand in life, I still took the gamble and came out on top.
I am Aundrea McCall, and I am a survivor.
Epilogue
Parker. Three years later.
I stand up from the edge of the bed, re-folding her letter, tucking it safely away in my coat pocket. The voices from the living room get quieter, and I know it’s only a matter of time before someone comes in here to get me. The wake is in an hour, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it.
I’m not sure I’m ready to see her body.
I’m not sure I can stand the thought of my last memory of her being like that, in the same church where I made her my wife.
I’m not sure of anything.
There’s a knock on the door but I don’t look to see who it is. “Parker, we’re going to head out now. Do you want to ride with us?” Genna’s voice carries through the room as she pushes the door open wider.
I’m standing lifeless in the center of Aundrea’s old room.
I can’t move, so I don’t.
I can’t speak, so I don’t.
I just stand there with my eyes closed, breathing quietly, trying to take in any scent of hers that lingers.
The scent that still reminds me of that day.
The day my life was taken away.
I wake up to the sound of Aundrea’s phone. The vibration of the phone against the nightstand is like a bee buzzing right in my ear. The sound stops for a second, then starts back up again. Finally, I open my eyes. Squinting, I try to read the numbers on the clock. My vision is still blurry as I try to focus my eyes against the sunlight shining between the blinds. 8:09am. Whoever is calling her this early better have a good reason.
I don’t feel Aundrea curled up against me as usual, so I reach behind me, feeling the bed to see if she is still here, or if she’s already awake.
When I make contact with her hip, I smile at the thought of her still in our bed. Moving onto my side, I move my hand to grip her hip, feeling the silk of her nightgown between my fingers. Her head is facing right, and her left arm is out to the side, her palm up. She looks so peaceful.
So beautiful.
Aundrea is truly the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and even more beautiful when she’s sleeping. The way her lips stay slightly parted as she breathes in and out and her chest rises and falls. There have even been times I would just lay my head on her chest and listen to her heartbeat. Just listening to the sound of deep thumps in her chest gives me a sense of completion. A sense of happiness.
When I look up at her chest, I wait. I wait for the moment she takes in a sweet breath and slowly releases it. It’s my favorite part of watching her sleep; listening to the sound of her breathing. I gaze at her chest, holding my own breath as seconds pass. Then, after what feels like a minute.
“Aundrea?” I whisper.
When she doesn’t stir, I reach down to her left hand and interlock our fingers.
My heart stops, and I immediately sit up. “Aundrea?” I ask again.
I get on my knees, leaning over her motionless body and grab her face, turning her head toward me. “Aundrea?”
She doesn’t move.
She doesn’t even react to the sound of my voice.
I bring both hands to her shoulders and lightly shake her. I don’t take my eyes off her face. Her eyes stay closed and her mouth relaxed.
“Aundrea!” I yell.
I look down at her chest, waiting for the breath.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
“Aundrea!” I scream. I shake her more.
She doesn’t flinch.
I bring my shaking fingers to her neck and feel for a pulse.
Learning CPR and doing it are two totally different things. All protocol goes out the window. What you do first ... how many breaths ... how many compressions. It’s as if someone or something else takes over your body. When you’re placed in a situation that requires you to do CPR, the adrenaline that takes over your body is unlike anything you will ever go through. Nothing matters except the person in front of you. And, when that person happens to be the love of your life, you feel as if you’re seeing yourself lying lifeless in front of you.
I don’t have time to think.
I react.
I jump over her body and lean my head down over her face to feel for air. To feel anything. I know I won’t feel anything, but I have to make sure. I have to know.
When I don’t feel her cool breath against my cheek, I tilt her head back. Not thinking twice, I open her mouth and bring mine on top of hers, giving her two short breaths.
Moving my hands to her chest, I place one on top of the other and start pressing into her perfect chest.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 … 20, 21 … 28, 29, 30.
I bring my mouth back to hers, filling my lungs with air as I do.
Breath.
Breath.
My hands move back to her chest. I press deeper counting out loud with each push.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11…
“Come on!”
12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18…
“Breathe!” I scream, looking down at her face. Her body jerks with each movement.
19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26…
“Come on, Aundrea! Breathe!”
27, 28, 29, 30…
Breath.
Breath.
I repeat this pattern over and over again until I lose count on how many cycles I’ve done. I can hear cracks in her chest with each compression I do. I know I’ve already broken a rib or two, and with each additional crack I know more are breaking. I keep saying, “I’m sorry” each time I press deeper into her chest and with each additional crack that fills the room.
“Come on, baby. Come on!”
I know I can’t keep doing this. Not alone. But I’m too scared to stop. I don’t know how long she has been like this, and I know every second counts. Stopping means less air. Less of a chance to bring her back to me.
I realize that sooner or later, I’m going to need help. Pausing, I look down on the nightstand for her phone. I fumble with the phone as I get into the call screen, exiting away from the two missed calls from Genna. I dial a number that has been programmed in my brain since I was four years old: 911.
“911 what is your emergency?”
“My wife … I— I need help! She needs help! She’s not breathing!” I cry into the phone at the top of my lungs. I don’t know why I am screaming. I know the operator can hear me just fine, but a part of me thinks they’ll know it’s an emergency if I scream. That whoever is on the other line will hear my distress and it’ll somehow make things happen faster.
“Sir, I need you to stay calm. Did she fall? Is she hurt? How long has she been unconscious?”
Too many fucking questions! Just send someone to me! To her!
“No … I don’t know … I woke up and she wasn’t breathing. She isn’t breathing! I tri— I tried CPR. Please, you have to—”
I can’t finish. I drop the phone and fall to my knees. I know it’s too late. I know she’s gone, and it fucking hurts. I can feel the knife stabbing into my chest. With each sharp jab I fall forward onto the floor
, clutching at the sheet that hangs off the bed, pulling it into my chest and crying harder.
I don’t listen to the voice coming through the phone. I claw at my chest, trying to take whatever is stabbing me out. No matter how hard I try, nothing comes out. It just keeps coming.
Stabbing.
Piercing.
Cutting.
I force myself to stand and bring myself to the bed where Aundrea is. I grab her body into my arms, pulling her to me as I sob.
She doesn’t feel warm.
She’s motionless as I bring my head to the crook of her neck.
She still smells the same. Like honey and sweet pears.
I cry into her neck rocking us back and forth as I pray. “Please God, please let her wake up. Aundrea! Please, baby, open your beautiful eyes. You can’t leave me. Not like this. Please don’t leave me. I need you. I need you. Please don’t go, Aundrea! I love you so fucking much. I need you with me. Open your eyes!”
I’m crying so damn hard that I don’t even hear the paramedics as they force their way into our apartment and into our bedroom.
One minute I’m holding Aundrea, and the next strong arms are pulling me away from her. I scream her name and start to lash out at whoever has their arms around me, moving me away from her body. The solid grip tries to pull me out of the bedroom, but I lash my arms out, grabbing onto the doorframe and stopping us. I can hear the cracks of the wood holding our weight as I try to force myself from not moving.
“No! Please! Please, she needs me! I need to be with her!”
All I see is Aundrea being moved and men hovering over her, calling out words I don’t understand. I don’t pay attention to how many people are in my room. All I focus on is her and trying to get a glimpse of her body every few seconds.
After a while, I give in and allow my weight to fall back on whoever is holding me up. The tears cloud my vision so that I can no longer see what’s unfolding before my eyes. When I hear a man say, to someone coming through the other end of a radio, “Dead on arrival,” I lose it.
Her scent brings me back to the present and, when I feel as if I’ve absorbed every bit of it that may linger in the room, I nod.
What's Left of Me Page 26
