Page 6 of Still The One

I’m glad he picked up that I was going whether he said yes or not. With his permission, I practically run through the halls toward the staff room. The door closing behind me feels like relief as I separate myself from what just happened.

Foster. He’s the best of FMX. How could this have happened? First the anniversary reminder, and now this. It sort of feels like the fate I no longer believe in is playing a cruel joke on me.

Seeing him like that – my God. Tears spill down my cheeks as I pace the small lunchroom. Foster has always been a whirlwind of excitement and charm, with his short dark curly hair and that mischievous twinkle in his eye. In the past, I could never resist his flirtatious banter or his contagious laughter. God, he has to be OK.

‘He’ll be alright,’ I say to no one in particular, sinking into a chair, my hands trembling. The room is quiet, a stark contrast to the storm still actively swirling through my mind.How is this happening? I say to myself, rocking with anxiety as exhaustion, relief, and profound sadness overtake me like a tidal wave. My mind replays every moment of the past thirty minutes, the clinical tasks interwoven with flashes of Foster’s and my very short life together – arguments, laughter, the mundane and the meaningful. Our story wasn’t simple, and neither are the feelings that linger.

The sound of the break-room door opening causes me to try and pull myself together and I’m thankful when I hear Genevieve’s voice.

‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’

‘I’d like to change my guess from five to 500,’ I say, wiping unexpected tears from my face with a sniffle.

I underestimated that one for sure. The adrenaline of the trauma room that had kept me focused is fading, leaving a raw, aching void in its place, knowing I’ve done all I can and maybe it won’t be enough?Please, let it be enough.

‘How ya doin’?’ she asks gently, sitting down next to me.

I shake my head. ‘Not great. Not great at all. Everything I never wanted to remember I am, and nothing feels OK right now.’ I glance up at her. ‘Nothing. What do I do?’

Right then, my phone vibrates in my pocket, and without really thinking about it, I answer the call.

‘Is this Eve Cassidy?’ the caller asks.

‘This is she,’ I say, curious about who would be so formal when calling me.

‘My name is Sarah. I work with Oregon Health and Science University. I’m calling about your husband, Guy Foster. He’s had an accident and?—’

Her words nearly stop my heart and I suddenly realize what this phone call is.I’mstill Foster’s emergency contact. I remember him adding my name to his FMX paperwork that Matty keeps on file for emergencies, all those years ago, and hoping I’d never get that call. This call. Yet here it is. After I participated in stabilizing him. My phone slips from my hand, landing on the floor with a thud.

Genevieve grabs it.

‘Hello?’ she says, noticing that I’m frozen in place. She listens for a moment, her gaze on me. ‘Where should she wait for him? OK. Yes. Thank you.’ Gen hangs up with the caller then wraps an arm around me, pulling me close. ‘Go,’ she says. ‘Wait for him in the ICU family room. She said it may be a few hours. I’ll smooth everything over with Dale.’

4

EVE CASSIDY

After many cups of stale hospital coffee and attempting to preoccupy myself with whatever HGTV show is playing on the remoteless TV in the ICU family waiting room, I decide to badge myself into the unit and see if Foster’s out of surgery and in his room yet. Yes, this is frowned upon. No, at this moment, I don’t care. It’s been hours; surely they’re done in the OR by now. I approach the front desk, stopping anxiously in front of a woman I don’t know.

‘Who are you looking for?’ she asks, not even looking away from her computer.

‘Foster—er,GuyFoster?’

He hates his first name – always has. It’s why I’m stumped every time I hear it. I’ve never known him as Guy. In his words, every dude on the planet gets called ‘guy’, so how is he to differentiate the people actually speaking tohimfrom one of the other billions of ‘guys’ on the earth?

The receptionist scans her screen, and a click or two of her mouse fills the silence between us.

‘Guy Foster.’ She nods like his name rings a bell. ‘And you are here because…?’ Her gaze drops to my hospital badge,still attached to the breast pocket of my scrubs, her eyebrows furrowing. ‘You’re from the ER? Didn’t he come in via ER?’

‘Oh, um, yes. Sorry, I’m not here on the clock, I’m off-duty.’ I cover my badge with my hand.

The receptionist looks confused but taps on her keyboard again like she’s writing a novel. ‘Are you family?’

‘Yes?’

She narrows her eyes.

‘I’m his… uh—wife.’ I blurt out only the tiniest of white lies. The sentence is really only missing one word.Just please don’t ask me for a marriage certificate, because I burned that years ago.

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