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Authors: Sarah Pekkanen
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bitterly resented the four or five hours it stole from him every night. If he could’ve taken sleep to court for theft, or challenged it to a street fight, he would have.
“You just can’t—can’t decide something like this without talking to me,” I sputtered.
“Julia, honey, I don’t have a choice. I feel like I have to do it.”
“So you’re going to quit? Fine. Then what happens in six months, when you get bored and want to go back to work? I know you, Michael. I promise you you’re going to go stir-crazy. It won’t even take six months. It’ll take six days . And then what? If you hire someone else to run the company, things are going to get tricky. There’ll be buyouts and maybe a lawsuit—”
“I’m not going to change my mind.”
A doctor in a white coat walked in just then, and I turned to her in relief.
“Doctor? I’m sorry, could I ask a question? I’m his wife, and I need to know what medications he’s on. He’s not acting like himself.”
She shook her head, and her long blond ponytail swished from side to side in a way I considered very undoctorly. “Nothing that would affect him mentally.”
“No Xanax?” I asked. “Are you sure? Can you double-check? Because I’ve been on Xanax before and I’m pretty sure he’s taking it. Maybe he got mixed up with another patient.”
“The chief of cardiology is personally overseeing his care,” she said, wrinkling her pert little nose. “I promise you there’s no mix-up.”
“Honey,” Michael said. “I know it’s a lot to take in. But will you just trust me? I promise it’s the right thing.”
“Sure,” I said, tossing a fake smile at Michael. “What about a head injury?” I whispered urgently to the doctor. “He probably whacked his head when he fell.”
“I can hear you perfectly well, and I didn’t whack my head,” Michael protested.
“Don’t listen to him,” I said to the doctor. “Check his pupils.”
Or maybe it was the doctor who’d screwed up, I thought, narrowing my eyes as I appraised her. She appeared far too young and perky to be a real doctor. Maybe she was a resident—but weren’t they supposed to be all exhausted and hollow-eyed? I peered at the name sewn onto her coat in blue stitching, vowing to Google her later and maybe, I thought wildly, submit her as a candidate for a Dateline exposé.
“Julia,” Michael said in a pleading tone. I turned to him, this stranger in a hospital bed who was masquerading as my husband. Not work? Michael never stopped working.
“Could you give us a minute?” Michael said to the doctor, who left the room—a bit too slowly, it seemed to me. She was probably about to call her cheerleader friends to gather around a bowl of Jiffy Pop and enjoy the show.
Michael took a deep breath. “I haven’t been a good husband,” he began, his voice gentle. “I want us to start over. I’m going to make you so happy, if you’ll just let me.”
I stared at him, so stunned I couldn’t speak. Earlier in our marriage, the sincerity in his words might’ve stripped away the hard protective layers around my heart. Maybe it would’ve even sent me leaping into Michael’s arms, like we were in the closing scene of some Hollywood romantic comedy—the couple that fell in love, lost each other, and then reconciled as the heart monitors beeped wildly in celebration and concerned nurses rushed into the room, then broke into applause.
Michael wanted to start over? His timing would’ve been funny, if it wasn’t so sad. In my wallet was a business card for a divorce lawyer. I’d had it for a while, but I hadn’t made the call. The card was a security blanket of sorts; it meant I could walk away—if I was willing to risk leaving behind our lifestyle. But things weren’t that bad, at least not yet.
“Let’s say you stop working,” I finally said, ignoring his question. “What are you going to do?”
Michael smiled broadly, like he was a game-show contestant and this was
“You just can’t—can’t decide something like this without talking to me,” I sputtered.
“Julia, honey, I don’t have a choice. I feel like I have to do it.”
“So you’re going to quit? Fine. Then what happens in six months, when you get bored and want to go back to work? I know you, Michael. I promise you you’re going to go stir-crazy. It won’t even take six months. It’ll take six days . And then what? If you hire someone else to run the company, things are going to get tricky. There’ll be buyouts and maybe a lawsuit—”
“I’m not going to change my mind.”
A doctor in a white coat walked in just then, and I turned to her in relief.
“Doctor? I’m sorry, could I ask a question? I’m his wife, and I need to know what medications he’s on. He’s not acting like himself.”
She shook her head, and her long blond ponytail swished from side to side in a way I considered very undoctorly. “Nothing that would affect him mentally.”
“No Xanax?” I asked. “Are you sure? Can you double-check? Because I’ve been on Xanax before and I’m pretty sure he’s taking it. Maybe he got mixed up with another patient.”
“The chief of cardiology is personally overseeing his care,” she said, wrinkling her pert little nose. “I promise you there’s no mix-up.”
“Honey,” Michael said. “I know it’s a lot to take in. But will you just trust me? I promise it’s the right thing.”
“Sure,” I said, tossing a fake smile at Michael. “What about a head injury?” I whispered urgently to the doctor. “He probably whacked his head when he fell.”
“I can hear you perfectly well, and I didn’t whack my head,” Michael protested.
“Don’t listen to him,” I said to the doctor. “Check his pupils.”
Or maybe it was the doctor who’d screwed up, I thought, narrowing my eyes as I appraised her. She appeared far too young and perky to be a real doctor. Maybe she was a resident—but weren’t they supposed to be all exhausted and hollow-eyed? I peered at the name sewn onto her coat in blue stitching, vowing to Google her later and maybe, I thought wildly, submit her as a candidate for a Dateline exposé.
“Julia,” Michael said in a pleading tone. I turned to him, this stranger in a hospital bed who was masquerading as my husband. Not work? Michael never stopped working.
“Could you give us a minute?” Michael said to the doctor, who left the room—a bit too slowly, it seemed to me. She was probably about to call her cheerleader friends to gather around a bowl of Jiffy Pop and enjoy the show.
Michael took a deep breath. “I haven’t been a good husband,” he began, his voice gentle. “I want us to start over. I’m going to make you so happy, if you’ll just let me.”
I stared at him, so stunned I couldn’t speak. Earlier in our marriage, the sincerity in his words might’ve stripped away the hard protective layers around my heart. Maybe it would’ve even sent me leaping into Michael’s arms, like we were in the closing scene of some Hollywood romantic comedy—the couple that fell in love, lost each other, and then reconciled as the heart monitors beeped wildly in celebration and concerned nurses rushed into the room, then broke into applause.
Michael wanted to start over? His timing would’ve been funny, if it wasn’t so sad. In my wallet was a business card for a divorce lawyer. I’d had it for a while, but I hadn’t made the call. The card was a security blanket of sorts; it meant I could walk away—if I was willing to risk leaving behind our lifestyle. But things weren’t that bad, at least not yet.
“Let’s say you stop working,” I finally said, ignoring his question. “What are you going to do?”
Michael smiled broadly, like he was a game-show contestant and this was
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