Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

two men pushed my husband through double doors where he would undergo a double bypass, they stood on either side of me and held my hands until time to head for the waiting room. There they reminded me that Westley was young and strong and that he would come through this. DiAnn fetched coffee for the three of us, coffee we barely touched. It grew cold and formed a gray layer along the top until we tossed the remains into a lined trashcan. We made small talk, glancing occasionally at the television where a soap opera played out in all its drama.

As if we needed more drama.

Paul looked at his watch incessantly, an act that should have worked my last nerve, but instead prompted a “what time is it now?” from me. And each time he’d say, “Ten minutes since the last time I looked,” and DiAnn would sigh.

“I’m going to get more coffee,” she said, not thirty minutes after we’d thrown away the first cups, then disappeared down the hall.

“She’s stressed. She’s worried about Wes, missing the kids …” Paul explained. We sat side by side in the yellow-gold faux leather and wood chairs, the kind you only find in medical offices or cheap beachfront motels.

“I worry about your mom and dad if—”

“Don’t, Allison. Don’t even go there.”

“And Michelle,” I choked out, knowing the only person in the hospital I could be completely honest with was Paul. I didn’t dare mention my fears to Westley. Didn’t dare add to his concerns of life and death. And I was still too afraid of DiAnn.

Paul leaned over to rest his elbows on his knees then turned his head toward me. “What did you tell her?”

“Only that Daddy had gotten tired the day we worked in the yard and that he was in the hospital, but he’d be home soon and not to worry,” I spilled. “To enjoy her time with Sylvie.”

A long exhale escaped from Paul as his attention went to his shoes. “Listen, uh—I should tell you that Cindie called last night.”

“Oh, God. What did you tell her?”

Paul straightened. “Nothing. I didn’t actually speak to her. She left a message on your answering machine.”

“For Wes?”

“No. Michelle.”

Tears stung my eyes until a lone traitor slipped down my cheek. “Paul,” I whispered. “If anything happens to Wes … Michelle …” I couldn’t say the words. Couldn’t fully share my greatest fear. Losing Westley would be one thing—devastating—but losing Michelle on top of that would mean the end of my existence. She had become more than just Westley’s child, the toddler I took in so soon after we married. She was now my daughter as well. My little girl. Nearly every minute of every day revolved around her. How would I—

DiAnn returned then with three fresh cups of coffee in a carrier, steam curling above the Styrofoam. She handed mine to me, then Paul’s to him before sitting and producing three donuts from a small white sack.

“I told her Cindie called,” Paul said, reaching for his donut.

“Don’t let her worry you.” DiAnn extended a donut toward me, but I shook my head. “Eat it,” she all but ordered. “You’ll be happy for the sugar rush later.”

I took the pastry and bit into it, relishing its delectable warmth. “You heated them?” I asked, marveling at her consistent attention to detail.

“They were under a warming lamp,” she said around her own bite, then swallowed. “Back to Cindie—seriously, do not give her another thought. You have to stay focused on Westley.”

“They sort of go together,” I reminded her.

“The three of you go together. Besides, Wes will be fine.”

“I just don’t want Cindie to find out about … all this.”

DiAnn took a long swallow of her coffee. “Not bad for a hospital cafeteria,” she said, then added, “Paul and I will handle everything where Cindie is concerned. Do not give it another thought.”

I nodded at the woman whom I’d been so unsure of the first time I met her. Of course, she’d put a wall up back then; she hadn’t wanted to see me hurt. Even now, with her strong personality, I felt intimidated, all the while knowing she only had my best interest in mind. “All right,” I said, but I couldn’t help but give it a thought. More than one. A million and one. What would I do without Westley and Michelle? What would I do with the little bit of happiness I called mine?

Westley returned home in fine spirits eight days after he’d entered the hospital. Release orders stated that he was to make a cardiologist appointment in one week, not to return to work for at least six, and to forego any strenuous activities for at least three months. The first order was easy to adhere to; the next two were problematic.

Westley found it nearly impossible to stay home and relax. Never mind nearly impossible. Within days he managed to talk me into taking him to the drugstore where he promised to walk in only long enough to make sure his fill-in didn’t need anything or that he had all of his questions answered. “Five minutes,” he pleaded after I had given him several exasperated “nos.” But when I put my foot down with a firm “absolutely not,” he simply retorted, “Fine. I’ll drive myself.”

Knowing he meant business, I relented and drove him to the store where he stayed for more than an hour. And when he returned to the car and to my horrified if not furious expression, he looked at me as if I should not have expected anything less.

Within two weeks, he returned to work part time, and no amount of arguing on my part or Miss Justine’s mattered. He did what he wanted to do, in true Westley style, defying fate and logic. His prescribed half-mile walk began at a mile. The later prescribed two miles became four. By the time six weeks passed, he was out riding bikes with Michelle, had returned to work full time,