Dying to Remember Read online

  She’d gone to bed early that night, only to be awakened by disturbing dreams and two telephone calls. The dreams stemmed from a recent argument with Chris, and one in particular had made her heart pound. In it, Chris had backed her up to a wall and clamped a hand around her throat. In real life he had never harmed her, nor had he ever threatened to, yet in the dream he’d been transformed by rage. The encounter had been so vivid that upon awakening, Elizabeth recalled seeing the reflection of her eyes in the blackness of his pupils. She’d awakened gasping, saved by the telephone.

  That first call came from Boston Riverside Hospital, where one of Elizabeth’s postoperative patients had spiked a fever. An orthopedic surgeon, Elizabeth rotated being on call with the other attendings in her group. Both Elizabeth and Chris routinely received calls in the middle of the night, and they kept a telephone on each nightstand. Even Rex, their golden retriever, had grown accustomed to the sudden ringing of the phone or the beeping of a pager. Sometimes he wouldn’t even turn his head. Usually Rex spent the night on the floor beside the bed, but Elizabeth let him sleep with her when Chris was away.

  “Just don’t let him put his butt on my pillow,” Chris would say.

  “No bum on the pillow,” she would reply in the British accent she’d retained despite having lived for more than a decade in the United States. Tonight that’s exactly where Rex’s bum was, with her encouragement. But it gave her no satisfaction. Without Chris, she felt only silence, and that was worse than the pounding drums that preceded it. One bad decision, a mistake of the heart, a foolish fling she had never envisioned. It was an event so unexpected and uncharacteristic it seemed at times that it had never really happened. But it had happened, and it had caused more upheaval and heartache than she’d ever imagined.

  When the telephone rang a second time, Elizabeth suspected her patient had spiked another fever. But the voice on the other end came from an entirely different hospital.

  “I’m calling from Toronto General,” the woman said. Elizabeth felt her heart skip. She sat up and switched on the lamp by the phone. Rex turned his head to her, squinting pensively. “Your husband became ill this evening and has been admitted to the hospital here for treatment,” the woman continued.

  Elizabeth’s mouth went dry. “What kind of treatment?”

  “A specialist is evaluating him now. The cause of the illness hasn’t been determined yet, but he’s very sick. How quickly can you come here?”

  He’s dead or dying, Elizabeth thought. In the United States, hospital personnel are usually instructed not to discuss death over the telephone. The hospitals want to minimize their liability should a family member lose control. The administrators and attorneys are especially concerned that while rushing to the hospital, someone might have an automobile accident and then sue, claiming the hospital inflicted mental anguish that caused the reckless driving. In most US hospitals, when a patient dies, the nurses instruct family members to come quickly but not to rush, that their loved one has taken a turn for the worse. Elizabeth wondered whether the same was true in Canada.

  She tried to think of what could have happened to Chris—a perforated appendix, meningitis, food poisoning, a heart attack or stroke. But the woman wouldn’t elaborate, except to assure Elizabeth that Chris was indeed still alive, although he had lost consciousness before arriving at the hospital and hadn’t regained it since.

  Elizabeth canceled her surgeries for the next day and took the first flight to Toronto. At the international terminal, a sea of passengers flooded the customs area.

  She stood behind a young couple and their child, a little girl of about two. Bundled in a pink jacket and matching scarf, the girl held her mother’s hand and pressed against her leg, but unlike her mother, she faced backward, staring up at Elizabeth, as if wondering about the cause of her frown.

  Elizabeth caught the child’s gaze and smiled despite herself. She thought of the family she had hoped to have with Chris, and she imagined a little girl like this one gazing up at her. A month ago she would have shrugged off the notion as fanciful—neither she nor Chris had either the time or the inclination—but now she looked forward to it, with all her heart. She wanted to go on walks with Chris, pushing a stroller through the Boston Public Garden. Now that seemed next to impossible.

  She’d called Toronto General before boarding the plane in Boston, and the nurse on duty had informed her that the doctors still didn’t know the nature of Chris’s illness. But the nurse assured her his condition required only medical intervention, not surgical. At least he wasn’t going to have to risk an operation and anesthesia.

  Several minutes ticked by, with travelers clearing the room only a few at a time. By the time Elizabeth reached the front of her line, the place was nearly empty. She had selected one of the slowest customs officials.

  “What is the purpose of your visit?” the young man asked, smiling pleasantly as though trying to endear himself to the pretty American woman.

  “My husband is in hospital here,” she answered, and her British accent prompted him to look again at the photo in her passport. She was tempted to add that her husband might also have passed away during her wait in line.

  “Do you have any—”

  “All I have is a change of clothes. Please, I really must go to see him. He’s very ill.”

  He started to say something else, but then, as if sensing the anguish underlying her urgency, decided not to. He simply stamped her passport and handed it back.

  Elizabeth exchanged $200, then hurried from the airport and hired a taxi. In silence they drove through the vibrant city of more than three million. Elizabeth had never felt more alone. She’d packed a small suitcase, and she held it in her lap like a stuffed animal. Later she would check into a hotel if regulations at the hospital prevented her from spending the night with Chris.

  The taxi left her at the main entrance to the medical complex, and just inside, a receptionist gave her information on Chris’s whereabouts. Chris had been admitted to the medical intensive care unit. He lay comatose, hooked up to a respirator, an IV, and a heart monitor. Standing at his bedside, Elizabeth took his hand as the attending physician, Dr. Gallagher, explained the situation. A balding man with large jowls and a broad face, he reminded her of Winston Churchill.

  “We’re still uncertain what caused it,” he said, scowling, “but it’s most likely some type of food poisoning. We have a few other patients with similar symptoms.”

  “Have any recovered?”

  He chewed on his lip before answering. “Not completely, but one appears to be improving. We’ll know more in a few days.”

  “Days?”

  “Well, maybe less. I’m not sure. We’ve never seen anything quite like this.”

  Elizabeth spent the afternoon holding Chris’s hand, caressing him, and talking to him. She knew that patients in a coma can sometimes hear and understand people around them. She reminisced about happier times together, including trips to Cape Cod—running with the dog along the beach, picnicking on the Hyannis Port breakwater, and walking hand in hand along the shore as waves lapped at their feet. Sometimes they’d made love on the beach at night. One time early in their relationship, they’d made love in the city, in Cambridge beside the bronze Henry Moore statue in the great court of MIT. The huge abstract figure had shielded them from passersby as she and Chris fervently unbuttoned, unbuckled, and unzipped each other’s clothes.

  She now felt a yearning as she relived that summer night under the stars. Chris had positioned himself on top of her, and she had reached down to guide him, feeling his excitement pulsate in her hand. Kissing her neck, he’d entered her, tenderly, her flesh yielding to his.

  That had been a long time ago, when they still couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Now she promised herself and Chris they would make love in that same place, beside the Henry Moore statue.

  She touched her husband’s lips, parted around the intubation tube that allowed the respirator to breathe for
him. She wanted to kiss him, and much more. She wanted to feel him inside her. She longed for that intimacy, that affirmation of life.

  Chris was going to die. She knew that the way a migratory bird knows the coming of winter. Yet somehow she would have to prevent it. She was, after all, a physician. What better person to thwart death?

  “We can’t give up,” she said, clasping Chris’s hand. “I love you, and I need you. We’ll fight this together. Don’t leave me.”

  She told him how he had changed her life and that she refused to spend the rest of it without him. She had moved to the United States after completing medical school in London and had become an American citizen only after marrying Chris. Her parents and brother still lived in Southgate, a London suburb.

  She wanted to tell Chris how terrible she felt, how deeply she regretted the course of recent events. But she could say only, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  All that mattered now was getting him back. If she could just get him back, somehow they would work things out.

  Somehow.

  Chapter 3

  Elizabeth spent three days at the hospital before heading back to Boston on the afternoon of Thanksgiving Day. Chris’s condition remained the same, and the doctors advised her to go home, promising they would keep her apprised of any changes.

  “But there must be something I can do,” she’d insisted.

  “At this point I don’t think there’s anything anybody can do,” Dr. Gallagher had replied.

  There was one thing—as soon as she returned to Boston, she would work on the logistics of transferring Chris to Riverside Hospital, where everyone knew him and where he would receive the best possible care. But before that could happen, Dr. Gallagher needed to find a way to wean him off the respirator, and she knew that might never happen. The fact that he’d shown no improvement in three days was an ominous sign. The longer people are in a coma, the less likely they are to recover and the more likely they are to have serious complications if they ever do regain consciousness. Still, she had to start making arrangements for transferring him to Boston. Not doing that would be the same as giving up, and she wasn’t going to give up on Chris. Not now. Not ever.

  On her first night back, Elizabeth kept to herself. The big Tudor house now felt even bigger, yet less substantial, like an imitation of their home. But at least Rex made it feel less empty, even though the dog hadn’t bonded as much to her as to Chris. This despite the fact that she doted on him more. Maybe Rex sensed Chris was the better person. He could be stubborn and demanding, but part of him was also kind and even sensitive. Most people never saw that side of him, especially coworkers at the hospital, but she never lost sight of it.

  For dinner Elizabeth made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a cup of tea, then headed from the kitchen into the family room, Rex at her heels. He usually didn’t follow her from room to room, but perhaps he sensed her anxiety. Or maybe he wanted a bite of the sandwich.

  Taking a seat in front of the hearth, Elizabeth set her cup on the coffee table. Rex lay at her feet. She reached down and stroked his fur. He was the best-natured animal she had ever known, a four-year-old, seventy-pound pushover. Children could pull his ears or tug his tail, and he would just look imploringly at her or Chris to make them stop. Sometimes she wished Chris were more like him.

  Rex gave a sigh of contentment.

  “You’re lucky you don’t know what’s going on,” she said to him. “For all you know, any minute now Chris might come in through the garage door.” She wished she thought that, too.

  How could things have changed so suddenly, so terribly?

  She took a small bite of her sandwich. The bread felt like cotton in her mouth, but she forced herself to chew and swallow. You don’t want to look emaciated when Chris comes back, do you?

  She stopped petting Rex to take a sip of tea, and the dog turned to her, head tilted, as if to say, “Why are you stopping?”

  “I can’t pet you all the time,” she explained, and put down her cup to tear off a small piece of sandwich for him. “Here you go, baby. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  Rex wolfed it down.

  “Don’t tell Chris.” He didn’t approve of feeding the dog human food.

  Elizabeth fought back tears. A few weeks ago, she and Chris had been looking forward to Thanksgiving. Now it was the worst holiday in her life.

  She took another bite of her sandwich, and it stuck to the back of her throat. Somehow she forced it down. Starting now, she would have to eat more, not just to maintain her strength for Chris but for the baby.

  The pregnancy had come unexpectedly. She had believed that someday a baby would strengthen their marriage, provide more of a sense of purpose and permanence, and enable them to work on more than just their careers. But this pregnancy threatened to tear them apart. In the overall scheme of life, their previous disagreements had been about relatively minor things, but this was huge.

  The day she broke the news to Chris, she’d spent much of the morning throwing up, less from morning sickness than from the anticipation of his reaction.

  “Do the test again,” he’d insisted.

  Elizabeth had opened another kit and added another urine sample. When the red line appeared, indicating positive, he turned livid.

  “I don’t believe this!” he’d raged. “How could this happen?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t plan it. You know I’m taking the pill.”

  “I don’t believe this!”

  The rancor had escalated from there.

  Now Elizabeth tried not to think about it. She had never seen Chris so angry. He didn’t like things beyond his control, and her pregnancy was certainly that. Still, she’d decided to have the baby, with or without him.

  She only hoped it was his.

  Chapter 4

  Elizabeth had never planned on having an affair, certainly not with a neighbor who lived across the street.

  On many occasions she’d seen him walking his dog, a black-and-gold Yorkshire terrier the size of a small casserole dish. The man carried it like one, with both hands, when he crossed the street or traversed a large puddle on the sidewalk. She wondered what he did for a living. Tall and well built, he moved with the ease of a professional athlete, yet she sensed he also carried a heavy burden. His shoulders slumped, and he seemed overly protective of the dog, as if afraid someone or something might snatch it away.

  For months when the mystery man and Elizabeth passed each other on the street, they would only nod or say hello. She knew nothing about him, only that he seemed devoted to the dog.

  Then one day in October, she found herself on the same street corner with him—both heading home from walking their dogs.

  “I’m Marshall,” the man said. “Marshall Coburn. And this is Poco.”

  “Elizabeth Barnes. Nice to meet you.” She held out her hand, and he shook it. “And this is Rex. I’ve seen you more than a few times. I’m sorry I never introduced myself.”

  “That’s okay; I know most people around here tend to keep to themselves. But it’s good to meet you and Rex.” He flashed a disarming smile, and she suddenly realized how handsome he was, his rugged good looks. Early thirties, she guessed.

  “Are you from England?” he asked as they headed across the street.

  “Yes. I’ve been in the States for quite a few years now, but I never picked up the American accent. How about you? How long have you lived here?” She had noticed, as soon as he’d introduced himself, that he didn’t drop his r’s like a native Bostonian.

  “A little more than three months,” he said. “But I’ve lived around Boston and Cambridge for more than ten years. I work in Cambridge.”

  “What type of work?”

  They had reached an intersection, and they turned around to head back, Poco in the lead.

  “I teach,” he said. “Creative writing.”

  “Interesting. At Harvard?”

  “Actually MIT.”

  “MIT? Really?”
<
br />   He smiled. “That’s how most people react. They think MIT doesn’t even have a writing program. The students tend to be more mathematically than verbally inclined, but most of them are highly creative. They’re all gifted intellectually. Some have an impressive command of the English language, but others think a semicolon is part of their gastrointestinal tract. Fortunately they’re all eager to learn. That’s a luxury many teachers don’t have—students who want to learn.”

  “That must be gratifying. Do you do any creative writing yourself?”

  “Now I just teach. I used to write poetry.”

  “Really?” She didn’t think he looked like a poet, although what does a poet look like? “Why did you stop?”

  They had reached his front steps. “That I’ll save for our next conversation.”

  A true man of mystery, she thought. “Until next time, then.” And she headed across the street.

  A few days later, Elizabeth ran into Marshall again as he was walking his dog. Poco scampered along, full of energy, darting back and forth across the sidewalk.

  “He seems pretty energetic today,” she said.

  “Yes, he’s a little like an on/off switch. Today he’s on.” He maneuvered Poco to the grass, where the dog would less likely get underfoot.

  They talked about the dogs for a while, and then Elizabeth suggested, “Perhaps now you can tell me why you don’t write poetry anymore.”

  He hesitated but then said, “I lost my inspiration—Abby. She was my wife. The first time I met her was in Lobby Seven, the main building at MIT, when we both reached for the last copy of The Tech at the same time. The school newspaper.”

  Elizabeth thought about telling him she had spent a year at MIT as an exchange student during college, but she didn’t want to interrupt his story.

  “We decided to share it,” he continued. “I’ve always marveled at that coincidence, the way we were brought together. I discovered she taught there as well—aeronautics and astronautics—and so the next day we met for lunch. After about five minutes, I knew I was going to marry her. She was my soul mate, the love of my life . . . But we were married for less than two years. Ten months ago a reckless driver killed her in a crosswalk.”