I stalk over to where he’s lying, talking the whole time. “How like you to not even listen. I’m telling you how we could save our marriage and avoid a divorce, and you don’t even care enough to pay attention!
“I’m talking to you!” I lean over and poke his arm as hard as I can. His head still hangs to one side. I climb onto the bed to look into his open eyes. They’re glazed and vacant.
“Nate?” I grab his shoulder and shake him. He’s limp and unresisting. “Nate!”
I lean in until my face is only inches from his. This is when I realize that his chest is not moving up and down.
I race to the nightstand and grab my phone. I punch in 911. Praying that they really can trace a call to its location, I yell, “Help! My husband isn’t breathing!” Then I shout our address into the phone and throw it down so that I can drag him onto the floor, kneel beside him, and frantically start performing CPR.
“Oh no, you don’t!” I shout as I begin the compressions on his chest. “You are NOT allowed to die while I’m yelling at you!”
Twelve
Judith
I cower in the bedroom chair while the EMTs attempt to revive Nate. My vision blurs and stretches as if I’m staring into a fun-house mirror. A dull roar fills my ears as they insert a breathing tube and hook up an IV. I try to breathe deeply and calmly, like I learned in yoga, but I can’t seem to catch my breath. Worse, I keep remembering the sound of Nate trying to catch his. Gasps that I assumed were of a sexual nature.
You know it’s been too long since you last had sex when you can’t tell a heart attack from an orgasm.
“Does your husband have a heart condition, ma’am? Does he take medication?” one of them asks while the other begins a much steadier, controlled version of CPR than the frantic version I’d managed.
“No. No medication.” The answer is automatic. We belong to a concierge practice that includes yearly physicals and wellness visits. When asked, Nate brags that he has “great genes” and “the ticker of a much younger man.” Then he grins and adds, “I hope he doesn’t want it back.” I never asked for details.
A policewoman materializes in the doorway. She scans the room, the rumpled bed, Nate on the floor with the EMTs working over him. Me in my robe and bare feet rocking in the bedroom chair. “Mrs. Aimes?”
I nod but can’t take my eyes off Nate. His chest still hasn’t gone up or down on its own. My own breathing is ragged.
“I’m Officer Vetrano. Is that your husband?”
“Yes.” It’s a whisper. My eyes are pinned to the EMTs who are putting pads on his bare chest. Connecting wires. A mechanical voice starts issuing instructions. I hold my breath as Nate’s body jolts.
“Can you tell me what happened?” the officer asks.
“I don’t . . . I don’t know.” I don’t want to look at Nate’s jolting body or the measured compressions that one of the EMTs performs in between. But I can’t tear my eyes away. “I . . . I . . . he . . . he’s only fifty-eight.”
The EMTs talk calmly, their movements practiced and efficient. The machine’s voice tells them to “get clear of the body” before sending another jolt of electricity through Nate’s body.
“Shouldn’t we be going to the hospital?” I cry at them. “Can’t we take him to the hospital now?”
Neither of them answers.
“Can you tell me what happened?” the policewoman asks, trying, I assume, to distract me as another current is sent through my husband’s body.
“Mrs. Aimes?” She leans closer, drawing my gaze back to her face.
“I . . . we . . .”
“Clear!” The EMTs lean away from Nate at the mechanical voice command.
I sneak a peek at Nate, who is still unresponsive. “We . . . were in bed and . . . he . . . he was gasping . . . He couldn’t seem to catch his breath.”
“Were you asleep?” she asks. “Did the gasping sound wake you?”
“N . . . no . . .” I flush at the memory. Riding Nate like a jockey hell-bent for the finish line. The burst of pleasure. My retreat to the bathroom. “No. We . . .
“We were . . . we had . . .” There is no way I can say this. Not to this stranger. Not in front of the EMTs who are now conferring quietly over Nate’s body, their sense of urgency gone.
“Intercourse?” she asks in the same tone she might ask whether we were playing chess.
“Yes.” The word comes out in a rush. “And then I went into the bathroom to . . .”
One EMT puts two fingers to Nate’s neck again, then shakes his head slightly. The other nods, pulls out a cell phone, and steps away to make a call.
A sob escapes my lips as the two men begin to disconnect the wires from the pads attached to Nate’s too-pale chest and stomach. This is my fault. I wanted Nate to love me more and to show it. If I hadn’t been so angry, so focused on myself, I might have understood what was happening in time to save him.
The EMTs look to me. “I’m sorry,” one of them says. “We weren’t able to sustain a pulse or heartbeat.”
I sob harder as they unfold a sheet they’ve brought and pull it over Nathan. This is my fault. I did this. I want to throw myself on his body—his body!—and beg his forgiveness for letting my anger and resentment blind me to what was happening. I am too wracked with guilt to do anything but cry as I watch the EMTs pack up their equipment.
“Do you have family or friends nearby?” the officer asks when we’re alone. “Someone I can call?”
At first, I don’t understand the question. When I do, it takes time to find an answer and even longer to express it.
“The medical examiner’s office will send someone to pick up the . . . your husband. From there, he’ll be released to the funeral home, if you have one.”
She leads me into the living room, where I sob louder and hold tightly to myself. Nate had never been one for grand gestures or the romantic surprises I craved, but he had always been prepared. His twentieth wedding anniversary gift was not platinum jewelry or crystals but joint burial plots. He had made sure our wills were updated periodically and that all of us knew where to find the important paperwork in the event of . . . this.
I rock and cry as memories bombard me. Not the things he didn’t say or do that I’ve held against him, but the care he took with the details of our lives. The servicing of the cars, the life insurance policy, the investment portfolio meant to protect and support us in our old age. An old age that Nate will never see.