Covet (23 page)

He sighs, blowing out a breath as he looks around the living room. “There are more important things than work,” he says softly. He loosens his tie and sits down on the couch next to Jordan, stroking her hair. He looks at me. “Go lie down.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I go upstairs and slip under the covers, but thirty seconds later I hurry to the bathroom because I have to throw up again. After I rinse my mouth I fill a cup at the bathroom sink and drink it down, trying desperately to quench my thirst. My lips are cracked and the inside of my mouth is so dry I can barely swallow. I just want to drink, drink, drink until I can’t hold any more. My digestive system rejects the water almost immediately and I throw up in the sink. After I wipe my mouth with a towel I sink to the floor, resting my head against the bathroom wall, breathing rapidly. I pull out my pump and check my blood glucose. I blink because there’s no way that number is right. It’s way too high.

I tell myself that I have to stand up, to find the strength to walk downstairs and let Chris know that something is really wrong.

claire

I open my eyes and squint because the lights above my head are blinding. My throat feels scratchy and sore and at first when I try to speak no words will come out. Lifting my head from the pillow takes a herculean effort and halfway through it my mom says, “Claire!”

I hear her, but I can’t see her. She’s somewhere off to the right, just out of reach of my peripheral vision, and my movement has apparently startled her. I let my head drop back down onto the pillow as she takes my hand in hers.

“Claire.” Chris’s voice sounds just as worried and frantic as my mom’s. He leans over the bed and tries to draw me into his embrace, which is difficult because I’m still flat on my back.

I’ve never been so confused in my life.

There are IV needles taped to the back of both hands and the strong antiseptic smell alone is enough to confirm that I’m in the hospital. But that’s really all I know for sure.

“Do you want some water?” Chris asks.

I nod and he helps me sit up. He holds the glass and puts the bendy straw in my mouth. It’s heavenly. He lays me back down when I’m done.

“DKA?” I ask.

Chris nods, his expression grim. “Yes. You’re in the ICU.”

Diabetic ketoacidosis is a potentially life-threatening condition that can develop in people who have type 1 diabetes. I didn’t realize that the vomiting—one of the main symptoms of DKA—was no longer due to my stomach flu but rather because my blood sugar had reached a critically high level. It had happened to me once before, when I was twelve years old and first diagnosed. If Chris hadn’t found me in time, I could have fallen into a coma, or worse.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I went upstairs to check on you. You were lying on your side, not moving. You’d thrown up on the floor and Tucker was barking, like he knew something was wrong. I tried to rouse you but you were so out of it I called 911.”

“How long have I been here?” I ask.

“Two days,” Chris says. He’s still standing over my bed, looking down at me. Finally he sits, scooting his chair close to me.

“What’s the last thing you remember, honey?” my mom asks.

The question frustrates me because no matter how hard I try, I can’t answer it. “I don’t know, Mom.” I look around the room. “Where are the kids?”

“They’re with your dad,” my mom says. “He took them to the cafeteria.”

This five-minute conversation has exhausted me. “I’m so tired,” I say.

“Just get some rest,” Chris says. “Don’t worry about anything else.”

My eyes are heavy and I fight the sleep, but the voices sound farther and farther away and I drift off.

I don’t know what time it is when I wake up again, but the inky black darkness I see outside the small window on the other side of the room tells me that it’s nighttime.

Chris is asleep, slumped in a chair that’s pushed as close to my bed as the railing will allow. He stirs when I say his name and then leans over me, brushing the hair back from my face. “I’m here,” he says.

I reach for his hand and squeeze, my grip so weak he probably can’t feel it. But he must because he squeezes back and doesn’t let go of my hand.

“I’m so wiped out,” I say.

“The doctor said you will be, for a while.”

“What day is it?” Maybe he told me already, but I can’t remember.

“Saturday.” He glances at his watch. “Well, technically it’s now Sunday.”

I have no memory of anything that happened after Chris got home on Thursday. It doesn’t help that no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to hold back the tears. They spill from my eyes and run down my cheeks. I’m so tired of being out of control emotionally. Physically now, too.

“What is it?” he asks.

“My sugars were high. I should have known what was happening. I just thought it was taking me longer to shake the flu. I should have called my mom or said something to you when you came home. I should have been more aware. It’s my responsibility to manage my disease.”

“You walk a tightrope, Claire. You told me that a long time ago. You just need someone there to catch you when you fall.”

A nurse comes in to take my vital signs. “Your condition is definitely improving. Are you feeling a little better?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Just tired.”

“Everything looks good. The doctor will probably talk to you about being discharged when he does his rounds in the morning.”

“Okay.”

After she leaves Chris tucks the covers around me. “Are you warm enough? Do you need anything?”

I try to answer him, but I fall back asleep before the words can come out.

 • • • 

In the morning, the doctor says I can go home tomorrow. He wants to keep me one more day, to make sure that my blood sugar remains stable. “We’ll transition you back to your pump today,” he says. “You can try some solid food and we’ll see how you do.”

Later that day, they let my parents bring the kids in for a short visit. “Go get something to eat,” I tell Chris. He’s been by my side since I was admitted, and he definitely needs a break.

I’m grateful that the IVs have been removed and that there is nothing particularly frightening for Josh and Jordan to see. They rush toward my bed and I embrace them. I can’t hold back the tears when I think about how scared they must have been when the ambulance took me away.

“Why are you crying, Mommy?” Jordan asks.

“Because I’ve missed you guys. I can’t wait to come home.”

“When are you getting out of here?”

I wipe my eyes and smile at her. “Daddy’s going to bring me home tomorrow.”

“Yay,” she says. She tucks her gray kitty in next to me, then glances at it longingly, as if she might change her mind. Deciding I can keep it, she takes a few steps back so Josh can move in closer.

“Hey, buddy.”

“Hi, Mom.” He leans down and gives me a kiss. “There was a policeman at the house. When the ambulance came. It wasn’t Officer Rush, though. I don’t know who it was. He stayed until Elisa came to get us.”

Daniel. Oh, God. He must be absolutely frantic. I calm myself with the knowledge that he would do whatever it took to figure out what happened to me. I know he would.

“Good. I’m glad he was there to help. Everyone did exactly what they were supposed to do to make sure I got the care I needed. Be good for Grandma and Grandpa, okay? I’ll be home before you know it.”

“We will,” they say.

“I brought you some things from home,” my mom says. She sets down a large tote bag near the bed. “There are clean clothes and your toiletries. I put your slippers and a few other things in there, too.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

My parents leave with the kids and Chris comes back from the cafeteria. “You just missed everyone,” I say.

“I saw them in the hallway.”

“Did you eat?” I ask.

“Yeah. I had a sandwich. It was actually pretty good.”

“You were probably just really hungry.”

The nurse comes in and I ask her if I can take a shower, now that I’m not attached to the various drips.

“Sure, honey,” she says. “That will feel good.”

Chris helps me out of bed and catches me around the waist when my knees buckle. I lean on him and take deep breaths until I’m steady. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth while Chris shuts the door and turns on the shower, waiting for the water to run warm. When I’m done brushing he strips off my hospital gown as if I’m a child. I shiver but the steam that has filled the room warms my bare skin. The walk to the bathroom and the exhausting prospect of standing long enough to wash my hair and body overwhelms me before I’ve even begun, and when I step into the shower I stand motionless under the spray, my limbs as useless as spaghetti. There’s a built-in bench, so I sit down. Just for a minute.

“Claire?” Chris pulls back the curtain to check on me. “Are you okay?”

I’m pathetically incapable of attending to this most basic task. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to stand back up. “Yes. I’m just resting for a minute.”

I watch as Chris takes off his clothes and steps into the shower. He squirts the shampoo into his hand and when he massages my scalp I almost fall asleep. The hospital-issue washcloth is rough but the soap and water on my skin feel wonderful. He washes and rinses me and then washes himself while I remain on the bench, my head tilted to the side and resting on the shower wall.

“Stay here,” he says. When he’s dressed again he pulls back the curtain and shuts off the water. He pats my hair and skin gently with a towel and wraps my pink bathrobe around me. “I have your slippers. Step into them.”

Chris tucks me back into bed and pulls the covers up. I’ve done my best to take care of everything at home while he’s been on the road all these months, but I can’t even shower without assistance and I’m going to need his help. For the last month, he’s been flying out on Sunday evenings. I don’t want him to go.

“You’re not leaving tonight, are you?”

“No.” I hear so many things in his voice: surprise, pain, sorrow. “I already told them I’d be out all week.”

“You did?”

“Yes.” He clenches the sheets in his fists. “You asked me once, ‘what is the worst thing that could happen?’ And it isn’t being unemployed. Or having to sell the house. Or the cars. Or any of those things. I thought it was, but it’s not. The worst thing that could happen to me is if something happened to you. Nothing matters but you and the kids.”

“Do you still love me?” I ask suddenly.

“Of course I do.” He looks confused and hurt, as if my words have cut him to the bone. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Because you haven’t said it in a long time. And sometimes I still need to hear it to know that it’s true.”

“I love you, Claire. I always will.”

“I love you, too.”

He brings my hand to his lips, kisses the back of it, and holds it close to his cheek. He lowers the railing on the bed, and I pull him closer.

I stroke his damp hair, knowing that Chris is the one who needs reassuring now.

chris

Claire has fallen asleep again and she doesn’t wake up when the doctor walks into the room fifteen minutes later. He shakes my hand and keeps his voice low.

“Your wife is doing great,” he says, flipping through her chart. “Blood glucose looks good, there’s been no recurrence of ketosis, and she’s done fine with the switch back to her pump. She can go home tomorrow.”

“Great,” I say. “That’s wonderful to hear.”

“I’ll be back in the morning to go over some discharge instructions,” he says before he leaves the room.

“Okay.”

This report is a vast improvement compared to what they told me shortly after Claire and I arrived at the emergency room. She was barely conscious and they said if I hadn’t found her when I did, the outcome could have been tragic.

She asked me if I was going to leave. I could see it on her face, the fear that I might actually get on a plane tonight like I have for the last month. Despite the fact that we were having this conversation while she was lying in a hospital bed.

What the hell kind of husband would leave his wife alone after something like this?

She thought you might, Chris.

And if that didn’t drive home just how badly I need to make some changes, then I don’t know what would. The image of her lying on the bathroom floor and thinking about what might have happened if I hadn’t been home sends me over the edge.

I walk into the bathroom, shut the door, lean my head back against it, and cry.