Heaven Preserve Us by Cricket McRae Page B

symptoms mirrored a little too closely those I had witnessed that morning before
Philip collapsed.
    And then he'd died. What on earth was going on?
    I couldn't seem to concentrate; I got lost downtown, not sure
which street the hospital was on, and once I found it, I couldn't
find the entrance to the parking garage.
    "It's okay, he's going to be fine, just relax, it's okay, it's okay, it's
okay," I whispered under my breath, cursing first at the red light
and then at the blue-haired old lady who wouldn't move her huge
lumbering PLYMOUTH out of my way. Deep breath. Okay, better.
Found the entrance.
    Parked.
    And ran toward the emergency room.
    The sliding door hissed open, too slowly, and I pushed through
with my shoulder. The button on my jacket hooked on something,
I don't know what, and my momentum spun me around in an
awkward circle. I came to rest beside the reception desk, and the
woman sitting behind it put her hand out to steady me.
    "You okay, honey?"
    "Fine. Good. Thanks. Barr Ambrose. Just brought in."
    She nodded. Apparently staccato verbiage was par for the course
in these situations. Which made sense. I couldn't be the only one
who came in all a-dither looking for someone they loved.
     
    Wait a minute. Love?
    Did I just think that?
    Uh oh.
    Okay, maybe I'd thought around the idea a little. But not, you
know, "I Love Barr."
    Too soon. Too big. Too scary. Too ...
    "He's been admitted," the woman said, peering at her computer monitor. "Room 513."
    "Can I go up and see him?"
    "The elevators are right over there."
    "Thanks" I turned and marched to the elevator. Forced myself to
push the button. I hated hospitals. I'd spent too many long hours in
them, helpless as they tried to save my husband from the cancer
gnawing through his body. When the ding sounded and the doors
slid open, I strode onto the elevator like I was going into battle.
    Not that I was, of course. Right? Dizziness, nausea. But still
conscious. Not like Philip. Not like Mike. Surely something minor.
I mean this was Barr. Mr. Tough Guy. Who happened to drink
Earl Grey tea, but still. Upright Town Detective. All Around Good
Guy. Mr. Call-Me-Every-Night-Just-To-Hear-My-Voice.
    And he was sick. Seconds ago I'd been so scared and worried
that I'd used the word "love," for the first time, if only to myself.
    Inside the elevator, I pivoted. The woman behind the desk
watched me with curiosity as the doors slid shut, cutting off her
view and enclosing me in the tiny box. My control wavered then.
The fear I'd so neatly dispatched returned with a roar. I didn't
even know what else I felt, but I sure felt a lot of whatever it was.
Especially around my solar plexis. And my throat. And the muscles along my jaw.
     
    The elevator stopped, and I got off. Signs directed me to Barr's
room. As I walked by the nurses' station the two RNs gave me a
cursory glance, but must have decided I knew what I was doing.
    Boy, I wished I did.
    Room 513. The door was partly open.
    What I saw inside made me want to cry.
    There were two beds in the room. The one by the window was
empty. In the bed by the door, the man I'd come to think of as
strength itself lay stretched out, filling the bed from top to bottom
with his long lanky frame. But that thing, that quiet strong presence, was absent. Even in sleep he had it, but lying there with his
eyes closed, his long slender fingers limp on the hospital sheet, he
looked abandoned and weak.
    I'd watched the vitality fade like a receding light from my husband at the end, sat with him night and day in the hospice for
those last two weeks, every second seeing him withdraw further
and further from life. From me. Leaving me.
    Stop it, Sophie Mae. Just stop it. That was then. That was Mike.
This is Barr. And he's going to be fine.
    I took a deep, whooping breath, and curled the edges of my lips
into a smile. Barr opened his eyes.
    Walking over, I put my hand on his cheek, and kissed him on
the forehead.