Always the Last to Know by Kristan Higgins Page 0,6

tight. I kept swallowing, but it didn’t help.

The doctor was waiting for me in the hallway of Lawrence and Memorial, which I knew wasn’t a good sign. I wondered if Westerly would’ve been a better choice. But maybe not. Maybe this place was better for unresponsive, not-breathing patients.

“Mrs. Frost, I’m Dr. Warren,” she said. “We’re going to have to chopper your husband to UConn, okay? He’s getting a CAT scan now, but I’m pretty sure he’s got a ruptured aneurysm with massive bleeding. His condition is grave, I’m sorry to say, and he’ll need surgery as soon as possible to relieve the pressure. We need you to sign these forms.”

Grave? Massive? Did she have to say massive? My breathing was loud enough that I could hear it.

“Just sign here, and here, and initial here.”

Forms. Yes, God forbid we just treated him. God forbid I got to stand by my husband and hold his hand and reassure him.

An old man was wheeled in on a gurney into a stall. Because the ER was like a barn. There were barns nicer than this, frankly, with all this beeping and noise and chaos and people in different-colored scrubs. Barns were beautiful, peaceful places. Sadie had taken horseback riding lessons, and the barn had been so gosh-darn pretty, but she lost interest after—

“You can see him now,” the doctor said.

Oh. The old man . . . the patient they’d just parked . . . that was John. I could barely see him amid all the people in there, the equipment. He was in a neck brace. Intubated, too. His face was bloody, his eyes shut. There were electrodes and wires and an IV, and he looked so unlike himself that I nearly told the doctor there’d been a mistake.

But those were his hands. Old man hands, but wearing the ring I’d put on it fifty years ago. He’d aged well, but his hands looked old now. Then again, they may have looked old for some time. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d noticed. We weren’t the hand-holding type.

People were talking, but I didn’t listen to what they said. They weren’t talking to me, anyway.

“He’s very healthy,” I said. “He’s been taking real good care of himself. Swimming, running, riding his bike. He wants to do a triathlon in the spring. I told him, ‘John, don’t be crazy, you’re seventy-five years old.’”

No one was listening. I didn’t blame them. He was massively bleeding. They had important things to do.

I suddenly remembered one sunny Sunday morning in the winter, just weeks after our wedding. The sunlight had streamed into the bedroom, turning it buttery and warm, and his hair—he’d had such thick, glorious hair back then, light brown and all crazy if he didn’t comb it down. I’d thought those freckles on his shoulders so endearing. We made love . . . maybe the first time when it wasn’t awkward, because that’s how inexperienced we’d both been. Both of us virgins on our wedding night, hardly typical for the crazy seventies. But I’d been brought up with old-fashioned values, and John had been, too.

Anyway, we were pretty happy with ourselves that morning, since we’d finally figured out this sex thing, and we spent the whole day in bed, eating toast and then leftover spaghetti, reading the Sunday Times until it got dark. Then we showered and dressed and went to the movies. Can’t remember what we saw.

“Go ahead, Mrs. Frost, talk to him,” someone said, putting a hand on my arm. A nurse. Gosh, she seemed so young. Beautiful skin. Her eyes were kind.

“John?” I said, looking down at him. I wanted to call him honey, or darling, but it had been so long since either of us used a term of endearment for the other. “John, don’t worry. I’m here. You’re being taken care of. Darling.” I put my hand over his.

Please don’t die.

The thought came as a shock, a lightning strike right to the heart. We could do better, couldn’t we? It wasn’t too late?

“Here are his things,” someone said, thrusting a plastic bag at me.

“Mom! Oh, my God, Daddy!” Juliet was there, and started to hug her father, but he was too confined. She hugged me instead, her body shaking.

“I know, honey, I know,” I said. “He’s going to UConn, and they’ll do everything they can for him. World-class medicine, don’t you know.”

“Mrs. Frost.” It was the doctor again, with some papers in her hand. “He’s ready to go. The CAT scan