Me for You - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Born and raised in Hartford, Connecticut, Lolly Winston holds an MFA in creative writing from Sarah Lawrence College, where she wrote a collection of short stories as her thesis. She is the author of New York Times bestselling novels Good Grief and Happiness Sold Separately, the latter of which is being developed as a film. Her short stories have appeared in The Sun, The Southeast Review, The Third Berkshire Anthology, Girls’ Night Out, and others. She’s contributed essays to the anthologies Kiss Tomorrow Hello and Bad Girls.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Me for You

1

Like a fool, Rudy spoke to his wife Bethany for probably ten minutes before he realized she was dead. It was a Saturday morning and they lay in bed, neither of them having to work that day. He awoke with the idea that they should go to the beach for a long, relaxing walk.

“We can wait until this afternoon,” he mused, when Bee hadn’t stirred at his first suggestion of the idea. He didn’t want her to feel rushed. “By then the traffic will have thinned. I’ll pack us a picnic and we can watch the sun set. When it gets dark I’ll take you to that little wine bar on South Main, with all the great cheeses?” He rubbed a bit of the soft cotton fabric of her nightgown between his thumb and forefinger.

Bethany slept on her back, which was unusual for her. Rudy rolled away from her onto his side, facing the wall. He backed into her, nuzzling her hip with his bum.

“I’ll do everything. All you have to do is grab your sunscreen, a book, hat, and jacket for later.”

They joked about it, but Rudy felt ashamed of the fact that—since he’d been downsized—Bee had maintained her higher-paying, full-time job as a hospital pharmacist, while he’d gone from CTO to a part-time department store pianist. He’d played all his life, given lessons while in graduate school. Now he wore a silly rented tuxedo and rolled out cocktail and Broadway tunes—Plant a radish, get a radish!—while shoppers considered the scratchiness of one pashmina over another. The only pleasant part was playing Chopin for his Hungarian friend Sasha, who worked in Fine Watches. (She made him blush. Blush! How mortifying. A married crush?) The department store was only a temporary arrangement, however, until Bethany’s hospital pension kicked in.

Bee was the one who put a positive spin on everything—even his being downsized, when his tech company was acquired by a bigger company. It had been good news for all—stock, cash, T-shirts (there were always T-shirts)—and most employees stayed on. The bigger company in the merger/acquisition had wanted the “brainpower” of the little company. But not Rudy’s brainpower. Bethany considered it the first step toward their mutual early retirement. “It’s going to be a great chapter, you’ll see!” They were both fifty-four, and soon she’d be eligible for her pension. Their IRAs were plump, unlike many less fortunate workers in America, she reminded Rudy.

And at least Rudy worked only with a baby grand. Bethany was strapped with training employees—some were lovely but one was downright creepy. Meanwhile, Rudy did all he could to make Bee’s life easy, luxurious even, he hoped. He loved that she bragged to her friends about the lunches he packed or the extra housework he completed.

Rudy had been made redundant—in the words of Bee’s British brother-in-law. Rudy wished his brother-in-law would stop using this phrase. It made it sound as though there were a back-up, newer model of husband in the garage. This made Bethany giggle, but Rudy was serious—he couldn’t wait for her to retire and her pension to kick in. They were almost there: long trips, short trips, staycations, the opera, entertaining—all of which they both enjoyed.

Now he took a long, deep breath and reached around to give his wife a shoulder rub. Maybe Rudy should just shut up about the beach already. Clearly Bee was exhausted from her double shift the day before.

He turned and sat up. “I’ll fix you breakfast,” he said softly, in case she was just now beginning to wake. Funny, because no matter how tired she might be, she was usually the first one up. She liked to rise early and drink her first cup of coffee alone at the kitchen table with the crossword. But now she lay on her back, the eyelets of her pink nightgown perfect little crescents. Rudy thought of how beautiful she would always be, even as she aged.

“Well, now aren’t you the lazybones today,” he teased, shaking her gently. A jostling caress.

Then he realized Bethany wasn’t breathing.

His legs sliced through the covers as he leapt up and made his way around to her side of the bed. Her lips were dry and unresponsive as he pressed his mouth against hers. His CPR training came to him in a hysterical jumble as he blew into her lungs and pumped her chest three times below her breasts. He was gentle at first, not wanting to hurt her ribs. “Oh, Jesus!” Someone screamed. It was his voice, an animalistic howl. He stumbled and fell backwards, tripping over his pleas and pajama legs.

“Bethany, honey, come on, now.” He peeled back the covers. For some reason the stupid acronym PASS ran through his mind PASS, PASS: pull, aim, squeeze, sweep. Idiot: That was for using a fire extinguisher. He punched out 911 on the cordless phone. Gave the dispatcher their address. Yes, UNRESPONSIVE! JUST HURRY!

He plugged her nose, blew another three puffs of air, and pounded at her chest. Nothing. Repeat. Nothing. Her lips felt warmer. Didn’t they? The room buzzed with adrenaline. The walk on the beach—the sound of the entire ocean—was in the room now. He knelt beside the bed, his eyes even with hers, waiting for the ambulance. This wasn’t happening. It was one of those stupid TV dramas. Bee was as pale as the chalk-gray duvet. Still and chilly skin. He pulled the covers back up over her arms and legs and tucked them under her chin.

Right. All police cars in their town were equipped with those paddles now. There had been a fund-raiser for them. He should have called 911 sooner. His dumb outdated CPR! He raised Bee’s feet and put a pillow under them beneath the covers. He spoke to her, “You’re going to be all right, just—” Then the doorbell.

He did not want to leave her to let the paramedics into the house. He tugged on his khakis under his bathrobe. As quicky as Rudy charged down the stairs to the door, the ambulance workers sprinted back up. He made a U-turn to follow them.

The paramedics tried so hard for so long to revive Bethany. They were young and good-looking. Men and women with smooth, perfect muscles like Greek gods. They deftly steered her on a gurney down the hall, through the front door, and into the ambulance. Her knitting! Rudy stupidly thought he’d grab it from the hall chair; she might want to keep herself occupied while they waited for the doctors. The hospital always entailed waiting. That vest or scarf or whatever the heck it was she’d been making. She whipped through her woolly creations, plowed through novels with amazing comprehension, pruned the wisteria on a ladder all the way to the top of the trellis, and mowed the lawn herself, despite Rudy’s protests. If there were words to sum up Bethany, you really just needed one: capable. But kind, and funny, and smart, too. Certainly never one to correct people or show off her many abilities.

Here’s the kicker: Late the previous afternoon, Rudy had taken Bee to their family doctor, who had squeezed her in at the end of the day. She’d come home from work feeling off—minor chest pains, palpitations. Just not feeling herself. That dolt of a doctor sent her home, with Gas-X. And stress. Bee had pointed out that Rudy took wonderful care of her. Rudy would’ve been pleased if he weren’t so worried. She’d had an EKG in the office that...