Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

My smile wobbled but I managed to nod. “I—I like it,” I said.

“Is Daddy okay?”

“He’s fine …” I didn’t want my next words to become a lie, so I added, “Just not feeling real good. I think he tried to do too much.” I took a breath that then left my body in a cloud. “Speaking of Sylvie’s mom, she and I were just on the phone … she’s asked if you’d like to ride your bike down and play.”

No questions asked, Michelle bound up, skipped to the opened-door garage, pulled her bicycle from where it rested against the wall near the stepladder and Westley’s power saw, and hopped on. “You don’t have to ask me twice,” she hollered as she pedaled down the driveway.

“Have fun,” I yelled back, then returned to the backyard to find Westley sitting with his eyes closed. “Westley.”

“Take my pulse,” he said when I reached him. “I’m trying, but I can’t seem to …”

I dropped to my knees again, fear slicing me in half. What if something horrible happened to my husband because I didn’t know anything about anything when it came to medicine? I should have gone to school like Elaine, I reminded myself. I should have become a nurse. Then I’d know what to do. “Westley.”

He extended his right hand, palm side up. “It’s not hard. Put the tip of your index and middle fingers on my wrist below my thumb.” His instructions came in pants. “Don’t use your thumb.”

“Not my thumb.”

“Your thumb has a pulse of its own, so …”

“Okay.” I laid my fingertips along the edge of his wrist, felt it throb where cold met clammy flesh. “I feel it. But how do I—”

“Your watch has a second hand, doesn’t it?”

I looked at my watch as if I didn’t know the answer. “Yes.”

“Wait until the second hand gets to a quarter hour and then count the beats for fifteen seconds.”

“Okay.”

I held my own breath as I counted the thumping under my fingertips, nearly losing count twice within the fifteen seconds. “Thirty-two,” I said.

Westley took in a slow breath through his nostrils then released it from between his lips.

“What does that mean?” I asked him.

He turned his face toward mine, then glanced over my shoulder. “There they are,” he said, and I stood as two men in dark-blue uniforms rushed toward us. They carried black duffel-looking bags that appeared to weigh more than the two of them combined.

“His pulse is thirty-two,” I said, wanting to be a part of the solution, a force behind the healing.

“One twenty-eight,” Westley said, correcting me. “Shortness of breath, angina.” He took another breath. “I’m diaphoretic, as you can see …”

Diaphoretic. Diaphoretic. A word I didn’t know. Elaine would know. But I didn’t and it sounded … not good. I took a step back and then another and another to watch through a tunnel of fear and apprehension as the paramedics worked effortlessly on my husband. Gasped as one of the men ran back to the front of the house only to return pushing a gurney. I crossed my arms against a chill that penetrated my bones, then looked down and took in my attire. A long-sleeved turtleneck under a sweatshirt with matching sweatpants, the latter wet from the knees down. Should I go to the hospital dressed like this?

“Ma’am.” The remaining paramedic walked toward me. “You’ll want to follow us to Brady General,” he said. “We’re going to transport your husband—”

I looked at Westley who peered over his shoulder at me. “It’s going to be okay, Ali,” he said. “It’s going to be okay. Just drive to Brady and go straight to the ER.”

I walked to him, a knot forming in my throat, tears stinging my eyes. “Wes,” I said, leaning over to kiss lips that quivered beneath mine. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

He chuckled. Actually chuckled, which brought a sigh of relief from me. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

Encouraged by his humor, I added, “I’m too young to be a widow.”

“And you’ll have to go out and buy a new black dress …”

“And pearls. Miss Justine would demand pearls.” With that, the paramedics continued onward.

I started to turn away, to return inside for my purse, but he stopped me with, “Ali.”

“Yes?”

“Call Paul.”

Chapter Thirty-five

Michelle spent the following week with Sylvie’s family, the two girls joyfully pretending they were sisters while I spent the time sitting next to Westley’s hospital bed. Or pacing in chilled hallways while the doctors performed first this test and then that one. Praying. Begging God. Making every deal I knew to make as long as the Almighty held up his end and kept my husband alive.

Julie called every day, offering wisdom and hope and letting me know that the folks Dean worked with were praying alongside me. Although certain none of them were making deals, I thanked her and them. Yet, I knew they were sincere in their petition. Still, I doubted they loved or cared about Westley—or even Dean—enough to strike a deal with God.

Heather also called daily. She had, in the years of my marriage to her brother, met and married her own Prince Charming, Nathaniel, who programmed bank computers but who talked nonstop about leaving the rat race behind to plow his own farm. Heather also worked within banking—which was how she and Nathaniel met—during her days and tended to the most rambunctious three-year-old I’d ever encountered during her “off hours.” With each phone call she apologized profusely that she couldn’t “let go and come help me,” but I assured her I had all the help I needed.

Paul and DiAnn took leaves of absence from their jobs, leaving their kids with Westley’s mother and father who drove across the state to help. Even though I slept at the hospital, my brother- and sister-in-law returned to our home each evening. But they kept daily vigil with me, listening to what the doctors said, what they advised. Then, on the day