Someone to Watch Over Me

Wild Widows Series, Book 4

Chapter 1

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—that he’s left 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.

One of them draws me away from Tom so the others can go to work. “Are you injured, ma’am?”

I shake my head. I’m not injured. I’m terrified as I watch them work on him with the kind of frantic energy saved for the direst of emergencies.

This cannot be happening. What if he dies, too? What will I do then?

“Does he have any kind of cardiac history?”

“I, uh… I don’t know.”

“Is there anyone who would?”

His sister. They’re close. She would know. I look around the room for his phone and spot it on the kitchen counter. As I go to grab it, I recall the night he rolled homemade meatballs and asked me to grab his phone to check to make sure he hadn’t missed any of the ingredients. He’d rattled off his code then, but do you think I can remember it now?

Come on, Lexi. Think. His life might depend on you remembering that code.

“Ma’am?”

Oh my God. My mind is completely blank. My hands are shaking, and I feel like I’m going to be sick at any second.

His twin nieces. Their birthday. When is their birthday? Around Christmas, he said. They hated that. Too much all at once. Their mother holds a half-birthday party for them in June, so they can spread out the celebrating.

Twelve…

Twelve…

Ten days before Christmas, he said.

Twelve fifteen.

I punch in the number, and it works. Thank you, Jesus! But what’s his sister’s name again? I’ve met her a couple of times but haven’t spent much time with her. She’s always frantically busy and on the run when she comes by.

Come on, Lex. He needs you. Think!

I open his favorites and see my name first on the list. At any other time, I’d need a minute to process that I’m first on his list, but I don’t have a minute.

Cora is number two.

Yes! His sister is Cora. I push the button to call her.

When she answers, there’s music playing in the background. “Hey, shithead, what’s up?”

“Cora, this is Tom’s friend Lexi.”

“Oh, hey. What’s up?”

“Tom collapsed. I found him when I got home. The paramedics are asking if he has cardiac history.”

“What? No! He’s perfectly healthy. But our dad… He died of a heart attack at forty-two.”

I convey information that adds to my own panic to the paramedics.

“Where’re they taking him?”

“Where will you take him?” I ask them.

“Inova Fairfax.”

“Did you hear that?”

“Yes. I’m on my way. Ask them what they think is wrong.”

I ask the question for her.

“We aren’t qualified to make a diagnosis.”

Cora gasps. “Is he… He’s not… I mean, he isn’t dead, is he?”

“He had a pulse when I checked it. It was faint, but I felt it.”

“Oh, good. I just talked to him an hour ago. He…” Her voice breaks. “He can’t leave me. He just can’t.”

It occurs to me that if I hadn’t accepted his offer of a place to live when I needed the change of scenery so badly, he might’ve died on that floor without anyone due home to find him there.

“I’ll let you know if there’re any updates.”

“Thank you, Lexi. Thank you so much for calling.”

As I grasp his phone, I watch the paramedics working frantically to save his life. I’m right back to that last night at home with Jim, when I had to tell the EMTs not to take any extraordinary measures to save him, when that was the last thing I wanted to say. I wasn’t ready to let him go, even if his suffering had become unbearable.

I’d never have let him go if it’d been up to me.

Fortunately, he’d made the decision for both of us, and when the time came, I respected his choice to end the battle that’d been lost before it ever started. Not that we’d known that at the beginning, when we’d been so determined to beat a foe that couldn’t be defeated no matter what we did.

“Ma’am?”

I realize the paramedic has been speaking to me.

“Would you like to ride with him?”

No, no, I would not like that. I’m terrified of what I might witness. But I can’t let him go alone, can I?  No, you can’t.

“Yes, I would. Thank you.”

I grab my purse and jacket and tuck his phone into my purse after making sure mine is there, too.

The paramedics carry the stretcher down the stairs to the front door and out into the yard. As I close and lock the front door, I can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever come back to the home he built himself and loves so much.

When I glance at my watch, I’m surprised that only fifteen minutes have passed since I got home from another hospital. I went to see Wynter and Adrian’s baby. Being in a hospital again was all but unbearable, even if it was one I hadn’t been to before. The sights, the sounds, the smells make them all the same to me.

Wynter and Adrian are so thrilled with their baby girl, Willow, and I survived the trauma of walking into a hospital. I accepted a long time ago that it’ll always be difficult for me to go anywhere medical, but showing up for the people I love is important enough to push aside my distress to be there for those who’ve been there for me.

Tom has been there for me.

More than some of the people I’ve known all my life.

As I climb into the back of the ambulance, I hope I can be there for him the same way he’s been for me.

The speed with which the ambulance travels, the frantic way the paramedic continues to work on him… My anxiety spikes to levels reminiscent of Jim’s final week. If I’d lived the whole rest of my life without ever again experiencing that kind of fear, that would have been fine with me.

I pull out my phone and draft a text to Iris, feeling as if I’m typing with fingers that belong to someone else.

Came home to find Tom collapsed on the floor. On the way now with him to Inova Fairfax.

After I send the message, I make the mistake of looking at him. His face has taken on a grayish tone, and if I hadn’t felt his pulse with my own fingers, I’d assume he’s dead.

“Is he…” I’m afraid to ask.

“Alive but critical.”

I know from experience that even if the EMT is certain of what’s wrong, he can’t tell me. That’s not his job. Memories of Jim in respiratory failure come rushing back along with emotions I haven’t experienced since the final days with him—despair, fear, anxiety, overwhelming sadness, all mixed with a love so deep, it still touches every corner of my heart and soul.

Do I love Tom like that?

I think I might. I’ve known for a while now that my feelings for him have blossomed in our months together, but I’ve kept him firmly in the friendship zone because I’m not ready for more. I might never be ready. It’s been almost three years since Jim died, and I’m still mired in the lingering anguish of his illness and death.

Loving someone else the way I loved Jim will take courage I’m not sure I possess anymore. I’ve learned the hard way not to risk more than I can safely afford to lose.

My phone vibrates with a reply from Iris. Oh God, Lex. I’m so sorry. What can I do besides pray for your Tom?

I want to tell her he’s not my Tom. But isn’t he? He wants to be. I’ve known that for a while, too. Iris and our Wild Widows friends were the ones who gently informed me that a man doesn’t pack a lunch every day for a woman unless he has strong feelings for her.

Of course they’re right, but I told them I’m not ready for all the things he could be to me.

They reminded me I’m not on anyone else’s timetable but my own, which brought me comfort. The last thing I’d ever want to do is hurt him in the process of dealing with my own crap. I had the hugest crush on him in high school, but he never knew I was alive, or so I thought, until we met up a year ago in a local bar, and he definitely recognized me. That was interesting. We had a drink, and I shared my sorry tale of widowhood with him, including the strain of living with my parents out of economic necessity while Jim was sick and in the two years since he died.

I’ll never forget the way he gave me his full attention that night, listened to my story of loving and losing Jim, and how we’d had no choice but to move into my parents’ basement when his decline became more than I could handle on my own—and with both of us out of work and our medical insurance maxed out, we couldn’t afford outside help.

Tom offered me a lifeline that very same night—a room in his huge, empty house, free of charge and no strings attached. After weeks of trying to decide if taking him up on his offer was the right thing to do, I moved in, insisting on paying some rent. He didn’t want it, but I paid it anyway.

As I stare at him now on the stretcher, seemingly clinging to life, I’m suddenly in tears at the thought of losing this sweet, kind, amazing man who came back into my life at a time when I was certain my best years were behind me. Our relationship has evolved organically, one dinner, one conversation, one house project at a time. He’s never pressured me for anything more than friendship.

Despite my initial concerns, there’s never been any hint of a quid pro quo or anything like that. I love my parents dearly, but as their only child, I get their full focus and all their considerable love. That saved my life when Jim was sick and in the years since he passed away. But what had been so essential to me during a time of crisis became smothering as time went on, and my life remained stuck in the first gear of widowhood. With a go-nowhere job and medical debt that’ll take the rest of my life to pay off, I had few options until Tom came along with his lifeline.

I reach over to take his hand and am immediately shocked by how cold he is.

“Tom, it’s me, Lexi. I’m here. I’m right here.”

The shaky sound of my voice reminds me of Jim’s final days, when everything about me was shaky and rattled, despite having had plenty of time to prepare myself for what’d been coming for four years by then. I’ve learned through my widows that even with years to prepare, you’re never ready to lose the person you love the most.

Thoughts of Jim and memories of my months living with Tom cycle through my mind during the rapid trip to the hospital with the siren screaming and the paramedic never losing his sense of urgency as he consults with the hospital. I’m sure it takes only minutes to get there, but every minute feels like an hour without a single indication that Tom is in any way aware of what’s happening.

He commands every room he walks into, or at least that’s how it seems to me. Seeing him like this is devastating.

We’re met by a team of medical personnel wearing scrubs, masks and latex gloves. It’s a scene straight out of Grey’s Anatomy as they whisk him inside with the paramedics chasing after them. Their concerned expressions do nothing to soothe my battered nerves.

I’m like an afterthought as I follow them into the Emergency Department, where there’s already no sign of Tom or the paramedics who brought him in. I stop at the reception desk. “I came with Tom Hammett in the ambulance.”

“Please have a seat in the waiting room. I’ll have the doctor check in with you when there’s more information.”

“I can’t sit with him?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

The empathetic look she gives me indicates it’s probably in my best interest not to witness what’s happening behind the scenes.

“Thank you.”

I take a seat in a room full of people waiting to be seen. Their wait probably got much longer after Tom arrived in critical condition.

How can Tom be in critical condition when only this morning he told me to have a nice day at the office and that he planned to make the chicken dish that’s become my favorite of all the things he cooks for dinner?

I’m trying so hard not to totally lose my shit in a room full of strangers who have their own problems, but as the events of the last hour overwhelm me, that’s much easier said than done.