The Sick Wife Page 2

  “No… no,” I say, waving my hand in dismissal. “It’s nothing like that.”

  “Nothing like what?” she asks.

  “Nothing like anything,” I respond. “I just… haven’t heard a person’s voice filled with so much rage in a long time.”

  “Honey, we’re all angry. Some of us just hide it better than others,” Veronica says with a wise nod before diving back into her sandwich.

  Her words seem right, so I just try to shrug it off.

  I am back to staring into the refrigerator when a familiar alarm goes off. Code Blue. The door to the breakroom flies open, and a male doctor steps in.

  "Camilla, we need you. She's in cardiac arrest. We can't wait any longer."

  "Okay, Mike," I say, shutting the fridge door and moving to grab my mask and face shield and put them on carefully and quickly, before following him.

  "Don't forget that your shift was supposed to be over like three hours ago!" Veronica says cheerfully as she continues to eat her sandwich, unfazed by the threat of imminent death. Unbothered by the gravity of the situation.

  That's why you can't help but love Ronnie—she is like an angel floating around this hospital to remind us that things aren't that bad. She never seems to forget that life is good, life always finds a way.

  Until it doesn’t.

  As I jog down the hallway behind Doctor Mike, I am acutely aware of the fact that things are not good for Yvette. And life might not find a way to keep her breathing.

  Sometimes it's all random and out of our control, with no rhyme or reason.

  I want to have hope, but I have just seen too much.

  And how will her husband feel? I don't want to be the one to have to tell him.

  But I will be.

  His voice is still ringing in my ears. Like some sort of infernal echo, stuck in my brain. Stupid woman. Stupid woman.

  Swallowing back a lump of fear as I enter the room, and see doctors and nurses rushing around her hospital bed. She is still flatlining. For perhaps the first time in my career, my feet feel a bit frozen. I know I should do something to help, but my eyes are just drawn to the silver, jeweled cell phone case on her bedside table.

  I don't want to make that phone call. Please.

  "Camilla!" the doctor shouts at me. "Prepare the ventilator."

  What? But she's dead. I stand there feeling like a zombie.

  "As soon as we get her back, she needs to go on that thing," the doctor explains. "Immediately."

  Well, that's optimistic. But I've worked with Michael for years, and if he's optimistic, then maybe I should have some hope. My body moves without my permission to do as he says and assist him. I bring over the breathing machine for a woman who isn't breathing—her heart isn't even beating.

  And then a beep.

  Oh, thank God.

  "She's back," Doctor Mike says with a sigh as he removes the paddles from her chest. "Welcome back, Yvette."

  The woman is lying there dazed and confused, struggling to breathe. "Quoi…? What happened?"

  "You died for a little bit," one of the other nurses says, squeezing her hand. "But you're okay. Good job, girl. Keep fighting it."

  Emotion and anxiety floods my chest like pins and needles. That's usually me, being comforting, being a rock, but right now I somehow feel incapable.

  Yvette looks around the room, dizzy with vacant eyes until she sees me. "Camilla," she says, gasping for air, and lifting her hand. Her eyes fill with tears. "Can you call him?"

  I nod and stop what I'm doing to move over to her phone.

  "There's no time," Doctor Mike says. "Look, Yvette? I'm sorry, but we are going to put you into a medically induced coma right now so that you can go on this ventilator. It's your only chance of survival."

  "No," Yvette says tearfully, "please, no.”

  "I'm sorry, we have no other options."

  "Can we flip her over on her stomach?" I ask the doctor.

  "It's too late," he responds. "We're going to lose her again if we don't act now. Sedate her.”

  "Call my husband!" Yvette begs me, her voice raw and gasping. She uses almost all her oxygen to say his name. "Call Gabriel."

  I press the phone against her thumb to follow this request while the other nurses set up the machine. For a second, my mind is blank. Gabriel? That's the first time I've heard his name. Then I remember.

  He's the Huge Fucking Asshole.

  I press that name on the phone to dial him while they put her to sleep.

  "Gabe," she is crying, sobbing, unable to breathe. "Gabe—I'm sorry. Tell him I'm sorry."

  "She's too excited," the doctor is saying. “Her heart is going to stop again. Put her under now.”

  "Can we just wait one minute so she can hear his voice?" I ask, as the phone is ringing. I stare at the nurse delivering barbiturates into the IV. "Please. It's important to her."

  "Sorry, Milla. There's no time. We need to act now.”

  I watch the fluid being injected into her veins, feeling helpless. I look over to her dark eyes, and I see the desperation. I see a human being filled with love and need, clinging to life. Fighting for a chance to fix her mistakes. To finish her unfinished business.

  And just like that she’s gone. While the phone is still ringing in my hand.

  Chapter 3

  I am leaning against the wall of the hospital hallway, not even remembering how I got here. The glitzy silver cell phone is still in my hand, which is hanging limply against my side. I was supposed to take some bodies to the morgue, but I was just feeling so drained of energy… the doctor saw me struggling and offered to help me with that task.

  That look on Yvette’s face is going to haunt me for a long time. I am sure it will be added to the ever-spinning carousel of virus victims in my head—but right now, I can only think about her. It’s really bothering me more than it should, and I don’t know why.

  I don’t even know her, but I almost wish it me instead. She has a lot more to live for than I do. She has a real relationship with a real man, and it sounds complicated, but they clearly love each other. I have nothing. Just a long string of failed relationships and exes who seemed really interested in me at the start—but quickly moved on to find a more beautiful and exciting girl. Someone more like Y.

  She has only been in the hospital for a few days, but everyone already cares so much. She has that special, magnetic quality about her that makes everyone pay attention. Even unconscious and on life support, she’s more dazzling and vibrant than me after five shots of espresso.

  She’s basically a Disney princess. Sleeping Beauty or Snow White, waiting for the kiss of her prince.

  I’m an ugly dwarf in scrubs. Frumpy. Lonely. Crabby.

  After a long shift like this… Smelly.

  Is it any wonder that she is not only married, but also has a mysterious Sexy Babe?

  I don’t have a pet. If I did, it would surely run away to stay with a neighbor. I don’t even have a houseplant, but I am thinking of getting a cactus. Seriously, no one would miss me if I were lying in that hospital bed instead of her. I wish we could trade places. I’m just so tired… I don’t even think that I would miss me.

  Sighing, I reach up to rip off the plastic face shield.

  If it sounds like my mental health is in the toilet, that’s probably correct. But I challenge you to find any healthcare worker dealing with COVID-19 patients on a daily basis who is in great spirits right now. Other than Veronica, of course.

  I don’t know Ronnie’s secret, but I swear she must sprinkle cocaine on her cornflakes. How else can you explain that much positivity? It defies logic.

  When the phone vibrates in my hand, I stare at it for a moment before answering and lifting it to my ear. It’s Yvette’s foulmouthed French prince, returning the call. But he’s too late. I wish I knew a sorceress who could curse him and turn him into a beast.

  “I’m sorry,” Gabriel says. “I was in a work meeting with my students. What did I miss?”


  I have to bite my tongue to conceal my disappointment and judgment. “Your wife’s heart stopped. But we got it beating again.”

  “Wait—what? Are you serious?” he seems genuinely shocked. “Can I speak to her? Can I see her?”

  “Unfortunately, she’s heavily sedated and on a breathing machine,” I tell him. “So now… we can only pray.”

  “I don’t believe in God,” he responds.

  A deep sigh expands my chest. “Well, that’s just something nice we say to be comforting in these situations. You don’t have to actually pray. But it can’t hurt, can it?”

  “I suppose not,” he responds, “but it also won’t help.”

  He’s so infuriating. “Maybe it means nothing to you, but I will pray for her,” I tell him with determination. “There’s not much else I can do.”

  “Well, you’re her nurse… I hope there’s something else you can do.”

  “I did all I can. We all did. Now it’s up to her body to fight this.”

  “Should I try to get on a plane?” he asks me. “Travel there? Will it help if I can be by her side?”

  “The borders are closed due to the virus. You can’t get into the United States from Europe,” I inform him.

  “Shit,” he curses softly. There is a silence on the line. “You know, I did this to her. I’m responsible.”

  “How?” I ask.

  “She started smoking because of me. When I met her, she was a student in my philosophy class—I was younger then, I had just published my first book. I thought I was such badass—the rebellious, nihilistic professor smoking with his students on the veranda and talking about life. Like I knew anything about life. I didn’t realize that Yvette had never smoked before. She later told me that she only pretended to smoke to try and impress me. But she was a good girl, and I corrupted her.”

  So, he’s a philosophy professor. That’s interesting.

  “She took up that filthy habit just so we could have more conversations together. And then many years later, after we were married… my mother became sick and that motivated me to quit. I also thought it would be a good idea to stop smoking if I was ever going to become a father… but Yvette never had the discipline to stop. I led her down that road, but I couldn’t lead her away.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I tell him gently. “Smoking isn’t the only factor that made her so sick. I mean—it really doesn’t help. But I’ve seen a lot of older people who smoke, even people double her age, recover from this virus quickly with very few complications.”

  “Then what made her so sick?” he asks. “What are the other factors?”

  “I’m sorry, Gabriel. I really don’t know.”

  “I am telling you,” he says a bit fiercely. “I am responsible. I broke her heart. Over and over again. I was a bad husband. I destroyed her health.”

  Somehow, I believe him. I don’t know how to respond. “Do you have any children together?” I ask, as I begin to slowly pace up and down the hospital corridor. It’s the middle of the night and it’s unusually quiet. Creepy. I’m glad I didn’t have to go to the morgue.

  “No,” he responds softly. “I always wanted them… but she wasn’t ready. We never got along well enough, for long enough, without some kind of huge fight. Now… I wish we had just done it. Just gone ahead and started a family together. Maybe it would have given us a reason to grow up and stop fighting. Maybe she would have been safe at home with the kids, and she would be peaceful and happy… instead of taking jobs on the other side of the planet just to escape me. And exposing herself to this virus…”

  Why is he telling me all this? I guess grief comes in many forms. Maybe he’s just using me as his counselor, to get some emotions off his chest and cope with what is happening. I guess it’s my job to listen and try to be soothing. But I also just… sort of like listening to him speak.

  He’s got a thick French accent, and his voice sounds sort of dignified when he’s not cursing up a storm. Actually, if I’m being honest—he still managed to sound rather sophisticated while cursing. He must have developed some oratory skills from giving lectures at his job. Enunciation and emphasis, and all of that good stuff.

  All I know is that I went from feeling tired and half alive to curious and interested. My feet are moving effortlessly, my body almost floating unconsciously back and forth down the hospital hallway. I also feel calmer listening to his life story, like it’s a lullaby.

  “Maybe it’s not too late,” I tell him. “Maybe you’ll still have a chance to fix everything that’s broken.”

  “I doubt that,” he responds. “You know, I haven’t seen Yvette in a year? We’re estranged. I’ve been expecting her to send me divorce papers for months. She hates me.”

  “No… she doesn’t. She asked me to call you over and over again. She kept saying your name and begging for you. Her heart and lungs were failing and she didn’t even seem to care—you were the only thing on her mind. She said to tell you that she’s sorry. She still loves you very much, Gabriel.”

  “Oh…” he responds. He seems to be getting choked up. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I see her? Please?”

  I nod, even though he can’t exactly hear me nodding. Moving through the hospital, I head back to Yvette’s room and put on my face shield before entering. I press the video button on her cell phone and flip the phone around quickly so that he can look at his wife on the selfie cam. There is no way I am showing him my miserable face.

  “Evie,” he says softly, gasping at the sight of his wife hooked up to the machine. “Oh my god, Evie. Ma petite chérie.”

  My heart sinks at the passion and devotion in his voice. He goes on saying soft words, cooing and whispering to her lovingly in French. I hold the phone closer to Y so that maybe his words can reach her through the coma—maybe his love can heal her better than any of our modern medicine can. I wouldn’t be surprised. Personally, I think that the love in his voice could wake the dead.

  Once again, I’m wishing I could trade places with her.

  But not so that she could have my health, this time—so that I could experience her love. I’m not proud of myself, but I can’t help the feelings of jealousy coursing through me. She has so much. She has no idea.

  She’s in a coma and she can’t even breathe on her own, but somehow, her life is still better than mine. Filled with more love and affection, more light.

  Listening to Y’s husband talk is causing my eyes to sting with tears, but I fight to maintain my composure. I’m on the outside, looking in. Having this beautiful relationship shoved in my face just highlights my own feelings of emptiness.

  I wish I had the superpower to stretch my arm out to double or triple its length so that I could step back, farther away, and stop invading their privacy. But I need to hold the phone up so that he can see her face. My hand is trembling, and I try to look away, focusing on something else in the room.

  I try to think about something else. Like how nice it would be to open a bag of Cheetos and collapse on my couch, watching Netflix. That’s all I can really aspire to, in this moment.

  But then I hear Gabriel’s voice speaking to me.

  “Nurse,” he is saying. “Sorry, Nurse—I didn’t get your name. Thank you so much for letting me see her.”

  “It’s no problem,” I respond, pulling my arm back so that the camera faces me. And then I see him. Oh god, it’s even worse than I imagined. He’s gorgeous. His eyes look sincere and full of emotion. He’s so beautiful I can hardly look at him.

  I quickly tap the screen to turn off the video, but my hands are shaking and it takes me a second. I’m sure he’s seen what I look like, too. And I know exactly how dreadful I look right now with the mask and face shield, and zero eye makeup. I feel so humiliated. I feel like nothing.

  I’m not even one of the dwarves in Y’s movie. I’m like one of the animals who helps her clean the house while she sings. That is literally all I am.

  “Can
you keep her phone with you?” Gabriel is asking. “Can I just call or text you to check on her?”

  “I’m about to go home,” I tell him. “My shift was over a while ago. I can only unlock the phone using her fingerprint. I had better leave her phone here for the next nurse.”

  “No, please,” he responds. “I prefer to deal with you. Can I have your personal number, just in case of emergency?”

  “Sure,” I tell him slowly, feeling a bit of an uneasiness in my chest. A little flutter of something dangerous, like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff and about to jump off. Did he just ask for my number? This is getting out of control.

  “And your name?” he asks. “What is your name?”

  “What does it matter?” I ask him, my voice a bit snappier than it should be. Then I abruptly end the call. I shut my eyes, feeling ashamed of myself.

  I know. I can be really super charming sometimes. That probably has nothing to do with why I’m single as sin, and probably going to die alone. A cranky old spinster who wasn’t even warmhearted enough to own cats.

  But wait—it does make sense for me to give him my personal number. He’s in the middle of a crisis, and it’s the least I can do. It’s nothing personal, right? I reach out to press Yvette’s finger against her phone to unlock it, and I quickly type him a text message containing my phone number. There, that’s it. Super professional.

  Now I can go home and eat my Cheetos.

  Except my hand refuses to drop Yvette’s phone. I can’t help but scroll up to see all her other text messages from Gabriel. They are in French, often all caps, and the few words I understand look angry—furious. Sometimes there are weeks and months with no messages between them. It actually seems like a very strained and unhealthy relationship. But there must be something holding them together, because they both seem to adore each other.

  I am not sure why, but I navigate away from the messages with Gabriel, to peek at Y’s conversation with Sexy Babe. Whoa. These texts are in English, and there is no mistaking the nature of their relationship. And the pictures! Oh my god. Damn. Yvette really knows how to take a dirty selfie. How does she make her cleavage look that good? I twist the phone to the side for a better view. I could really learn a thing or two from this woman.