Page 1 of Someone to Watch Over Me

1

Marie

Lexi

Great tragedy comes with a line of demarcation—there’s before the awful event, and then there’s after. There’s before your young, vibrant husband is diagnosed with a dreaded neurological disease that will trap him inside an immobilized body and kill him far too soon, and then there’s after. There’s before your husband dies, and then there’s after. The line divides these things in a way that separates who you once were from who you’ve become and forces you to figure out a whole new life when you loved the one you already had.

And it makes you unable to cope when your new friend, the man who’s sparked the first inkling of potential romantic interest in the years since your husband died, is unconscious on the floor of his living room. This is where I find myself as a new catastrophe confronts me, making my brain want to shut down and run away from what’s happening right in front of me.

I can’t do that. Tom needs me. He’s been so good to me in the months since I took him up on his offer of a room at his place so I could leave my parents’ home, where Jim and I lived during his ALS battle. I force myself out of the shock and reach for my phone to call 911.

“911, please state your emergency.”

Those words in that official-sounding tone… They trigger trauma from the many times I had to call for help with Jim.

“Hello?”

“I, ah, my friend is unconscious.”

“Was there an accident?”

“I don’t know. I came home and found him this way.”

“The address?”

My brain is so scrambled that I have to think about it for a second before I can recall the address.

After I provide it, the operator reads it back. “Is that correct?”

“Yes, it is.”

“EMS is on the way. Can you check to see if he’s breathing and has a pulse?”

I’m instantly terrified. What if he doesn’t? “I, uh, yes, I can do that.”

“Place your index and middle fingers against his neck and press lightly.”

I know all too well how to check for a pulse, but I don’t tell the dispatcher that she’s dealing with an experienced caregiver.

I drop to my knees and lean over him, afraid to look at him or touch him or do anything to confirm my greatest fear—thathe’sleft me, too. “Please, Tom. Don’t do this to me.” My hand shakes as I press my fingers to the spot. How many times did I check to see if Jim was still with me before he finally left forever? Too many to count.

I’m relieved to feel the light beat of his heart under my fingers.

“He has a faint pulse and seems to be breathing but not like usual.”

“That’s good news. EMS is less than five minutes out. Can the paramedics get into the house?”

“Y-yes, the door is unlocked.” I force myself to look at his face, which is ghostly pale. His lips are, too. How can this be happening? He was fine this morning when we had coffee together and he sent me off to work with the lunch he’d packed for me, made from all my favorite things that he’s taken the time to learn in our time together.

A sob wrenches from my chest. “Tom.” I give him a gentle shake. “Tom, wake up. Please wake up.”

He doesn’t stir.

As tears spill from my eyes, I hear the siren in the distance. I start praying to a God I barely believe in anymore after what I saw Jim go through.

Please. Please save him. He’s a good man who’s been such a good friend to me when I needed one. He’s so sweet and kind, and just when I’ve been thinking about giving him a chance to be more than a friend, this happens. We need that chance. I need that chance. Please.

The paramedics come storming through the door and up the stairs.

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