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Why does he have to push himself so hard?
I shouldn’t feel irritated. After all, I am at least partially at fault, but that doesn’t stop me from silently cursing him for putting me in this position. Again. I warned him he needed to slow down. Countless times. I’ve said it until I am blue in the face. I became that wife, the nagging kind. The kind I’d vowed I’d never become. He hasn’t been getting enough sleep. He always goes low in the middle of the night when he doesn’t get enough rest. Even in an average marriage, there are things you know about a person. Ours is anything but average.
“James,” I said, plopping down beside him, attempting to shake him awake. I checked his numbers once again on my watch. Nothing has changed. Not that I’d expected it would.
“James.” He didn’t budge. “Here,” I said, pressing the cold bottle into his arm. “I need you to drink this. You’re low.”
He shifted, mumbling inaudibly.
“Drink,” I ordered, holding the straw to his lips. Thankfully, he obeyed. It doesn’t always go so smoothly. The lows are slightly easier that way, but no less dangerous. The highs, I don’t want to think about. I can’t think about them.
I was patient while he emptied the bottle. Afterward, I went around to my side of the bed, fumbled around in the drawer, grabbing what I needed. I didn’t even bother with an alcohol swab; I pricked his finger, which started the clock. The countdown began. Ten minutes and I could properly exhale. Fingers crossed.
James didn’t blink as I milked his finger, forcing blood to pool to the surface. He had promptly fallen back asleep. Both a testament to his exhaustion and a symptom of the low.
I told myself it was safe to go to the bathroom. This is all just a waiting game anyhow. Yet I couldn’t force myself to leave him. Not until I see the number I need to see. Not until it’s safe. Squeezing my thighs together, I distract myself by studying the stubble on his face and the deep lines etched at the corners of his eyes. On the outside, you’d never know how touch and go this can be. My husband is the picture of health. Always has been. Marathon runner, triathlete, successful businessman.
Behind closed doors, life is another story. Being awakened from the dead of sleep in the middle of the night, because if I don’t get up he could very well die, is so routine that it’s almost normal.
I studied the rise and fall of his chest as he slept. He always looks so peaceful when he sleeps that I can’t help but wonder what he dreams of. Certainly, it can’t be this.
When the time was up, once again, I checked his Dexcom, the monitor that tells me what I need to know. He only sort of grumbled when I told him that he was still low. He had to drink more juice. I cursed myself for not grabbing two bottles in the first place.
Before hitting the stairs, I considered the Glucagon shot in the drawer. I debated for a second whether or not I should just take a stab at it. It seemed like a no-brainer. Give him the shot. Call 9-1-1. Let my husband’s, and thus my own fate, reside in someone else’s hands. Someone more capable.
But knowing James would be pissed about taking an ambulance ride uptown, I decide against taking such measures just yet. I head back downstairs for a second bottle of juice.
When that bottle was half-emptied, I waited another painstaking ten minutes before pricking a finger on his opposite hand. All the while, I prayed hard, even though I’m not sure there’s anyone worth praying to. I like to hope.
Finally, when my watch chimed and I got the reading I’d been waiting for, I exhaled the breath I’d been holding. Most of it, anyway. I’ve learned it’s important to keep a little something in reserve. Life surprises you less that way.
After I made a beeline for the bathroom, I sat, perched on the edge of the bed for a long while, knowing I wouldn’t be able to fall back to sleep. Even though I am bone tired, nerves won’t let me. In my mind, the scenario plays like a record stuck on repeat. What if I hadn’t woken? What if it had been too late? What if he had been on a business trip instead of at home in our bed? So many questions, so few answers. I hear my father’s voice. You can’t ask for the storm and get mad when it rains. Deep sadness washes over me. As I watch my husband sleep, I remind myself I’ve handled it. He’s fine.
For now.
I keep my ears perked for the alarm, and I do the only thing I can do to keep myself halfway sane. I write.
Chapter Five
Dr. Max Hastings
AFTER
“Tell me about the beginning of the affair,” Dr. Jones had asked during her first visit. “I need something to go on.” From the beginning, I was impressed by her candor. No need for formal introductions. Pleasantries? Out of the question. Right out of the gate, she went for it. She made it clear that in her mind, I was on borrowed time. “The affair, Dr. Hastings. It’s imperative that you tell me everything.”
First the police, then a detective, followed by my attorney…even before the angry, bitter psychiatrist, they’ve all grilled me about it. I haven’t spoken to the media, but they have their opinions. I am well aware of that.
The same questions have been repeated for weeks, by other voices, in other places, as summer slowly morphs into autumn.
But something about the way she spoke the words made them feel different than the others.
“The real start?” I had replied to Dr. Jones. “Her father knew mine.”
Carefully, slowly, she folded her hands and placed them on the table. She was like the rest of them: impatient, eager for me to get to the point, eager for me to tell her what I wanted her to hear. Like the others, she wasn’t trying terribly hard to hide it.
She bowed her head slightly, and her intertwined, extended hands made it appear she was praying. In other words, she was reaching for something she couldn’t quite grasp. I couldn’t help but smile. Laurel sometimes did that with her hands as I pushed her head into the pillow. I found it interesting how once-welcome thoughts could be tainted by a new kind of unpleasantness here, dissected under the keen eye of the woman in front of me. “No, Max,” she said, using my first name, making it personal. “I’m referring to your sexual relations with Mrs. Dunaway. Did they begin before?”
“Before what?”
