Waking Amy (Amy #1)

by Julieann Dove

  I waited to hear whether anyone was home before I opened the door. My towel dropped and the operation began. Just in case it wasn’t the right size, I left on the tags. Not that I could return it without a ball cap and Unabomber glasses. Especially if the same girl was at the cash register. She’d remember offering me a gift receipt and me turning it down. Could you return a thong? I certainly hoped not. I’d have to get over that image of wearing a returned article of underwear before pulling off this seductress scene.

  As I looked to figure out what went where, I still wondered what was so appealing about these tiny slips of bondage. They had to be concocted by terrorists. And what type of wardrobe did a guy have to shop for when wanting to seduce a girl? A G-string? No thanks. I appreciated Wesley’s boxer shorts. But Sonja said that it wasn’t good enough to be complacent. You had to keep the mojo flowing, she warned. God knows, I had a scarce supply of that. If any.

  Sonja certainly oozed with mojo—a different guy each weekend. I sit and daydream about her life sometimes at lunch. Not the images of contracting a viral disease, but I would’ve liked to have dated more in college. Not that for one minute I’d give up my life with Wesley. Lord knows, I could never live alone without the security of someone taking care of me. But how exciting to have guys take you to dinner, wondering whether you were going to get kissed at the end of the evening. Or in Sonja’s case, whose house they were going to sleep at. I’d do anything for her, but I worry she’ll never find her Wesley. Someone she can count on and will take care of her.

  There it was. Lying like contraband on my bed. A fugitive hiding out in a foreign land. The satin finish contrasted sharply with the soft rose petals of my delicate bedspread. I looked at the new bondage-like nighty, trying to embrace it for its captivating abilities. Tonight was for the sake of my marriage. Wesley was a good guy: never called in sick to work, provided for our needs, and respected me. And, more importantly, I couldn’t make it on my own without him. I wasn’t built for it. What were a few nights of discomfort and shame to my daisies-and-ladybug sheets? I needed the security of Wesley. Who cared if he didn’t light a fire in me? Maybe I had no fire. I’d seen commercials about women with hormone deficiencies. It could be possible. I needed to check on that when I had more time. But, I’d have to call a 1-800 number to do so. Dr. Poole, my gynecologist, was the same doctor who delivered me when I was a baby. To tell him I had no sex drive would be like having Father Frederick selling me my satin panties.

  After looking like a contortionist in the bathroom mirror, it was on. All flaps, straps, and bands accounted for. One wrong move and it could all spring out of action and knock someone’s eye out. I might’ve even pulled a muscle putting it on.

  I squeezed my feet into the three-inch heels my sister left behind two years ago and stumbled out of the bedroom to glance at the clock. It was fifteen minutes after six. Maybe traffic held him up. I turned on the closet light and pulled the door almost shut, permitting a sliver of light into the room. Enough to show him my new wild-cat ensemble. Too much lighting would make me self-conscious. Especially if one of my boobs accidentally fell out or something. I set the MP3 to Marvin Gaye and hit repeat. Let's Get It On!

  Now, to select a position to advertise the goods. What would be a good one? Thinking back to sexy movie scenes, I tried out a few. On my back? Too tramp-like. On my side? I might fall asleep. On my stomach in crawl position? He might expect naughty tricks, and I didn’t know any.

  I finally decided on a side position with my two legs half bent. Nothing felt right. Surely, he wouldn’t anticipate too much. He knew I wasn’t versed in the “come and get me” language. I’ve known him since elementary school; I was an open book when it came to past relationships. All four of them, if you counted Uncle Sam, Dad’s brother, who I had a crush on since I was five years old. He always looked and dressed so nicely at family gatherings. Short brown hair, neatly parted on the right side, with a clean-shaven face. I could smell his cologne when he’d scoop me up for a hug. He’d wear a suit and tie, with a real handkerchief tucked in his lapel. I’d pretend one day he was going to marry me.

  Hopefully I didn’t look as awkward as I felt. My stomach growled to remind me it had been neglected in this “sex evening” project. It would have to wait until it was over. It didn’t matter that the bag of chocolate cookies was calling my name from the kitchen. I couldn’t put anything in my body that needed to eventually come out. I wasn’t quite sure how to get this thing off. I hoped Wesley was male-hardwired and knew what to do with it.

  I watched as the clock blinked a few more numbers on its screen. Six thirty and I was less in the mood than an hour ago, which wasn’t very much to begin with. Where was he? A few more growls from my stomach and I knew it would be a buzzkill if I didn’t throw something into it. My belly tended to let out cat-calls if it became too ignored. Long screeches that were embarrassing. Especially in the middle of board meetings in which I was hungry, yet too nervous to eat the pastry on the back table because I wasn’t sure who made it. Obviously my co-workers used their kitchen workspaces for more than baking.

  I dashed downstairs and watched for any signs of car lights in the drive, ready to sprint back to the room and resume the sexy, natural pose. The cool air nipped at me, raising the few hairs I’d managed not to cut. I opened the cabinet and pulled out some saltines. Wiser choice over chocolate cookies. I might have to brush my teeth, and who had time for that? Darn it, I forgot the white strips. Oh, well. Maybe next time.

  Five dusty crackers down and it was time for a drink. I pulled the fridge open and grabbed the container of sweet tea, chugging it right out of the pitcher. I’d have to remember to tell Wesley to open the other one in order to avoid co-mingling of germs. The bustier seemed to be holding everything in place as I felt my insides expanding from the added liquid and food. My eyes stared aimlessly while I drank the nectar. Then I saw it.

  It was placed on the freezer side with the aid of my favorite I Love Lucy magnet. It was the one where she was shooting the commercial for Vitameatavegamin. “Amy” was handwritten on the front. I put the bottle of tea on the table and took down the note. Wesley had never left me a note before. No love notes, not even wish lists for the grocery store. What could he want to say on paper and not on the phone? My eyes squinted from the fluorescents that bled white artificial light over the room.

  Dear Amy,

  I never wanted to hurt you. Please don’t be upset, but I can’t do it anymore. I have to leave. We’ve been growing apart for a while, and every time I try to talk about it, you change the subject. I’ll always love you, but I don’t love you the way that I should. After the dust settles, I know you will see it was the right thing to do, and you’ll be happy. We deserve to be happy, Amy. I’ll keep in touch.

  Wesley.

  The saltines sounded like grenades going off in my stomach. My insides wrenched and moaned as I sat down on a wooden chair beside our table. The cold surface stung my legs. Gone? What? The unsettled snack that seconds before was welcomed into my stomach began to climb its way back out. The room spun and I put my head between my legs.

  It was too late. He would never get to see “Amy the Sexpot,” and I’d have to move down the street from Edith in accounting. I looked down, feeling the chilly air on my shoulders. Was this what death felt like? Maybe after I got some decent clothes on, I could figure out what the note actually meant. I put my body on autopilot and walked toward the stairway. The phone rang and interrupted my bout of confusion and nausea. I wasn’t in a frame of mind to talk to anyone. I let the answering machine pick up.

  “Hello, this is Mercer General Hospital calling for Amy Whitfield.”

  I ran to the phone and lunged for the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, is this Amy Whitfield?” The voice was unfamiliar and official-sounding.

  “Yes,” I said. My tone was still suffering from whiplash over the “freezer letter.”

  “This is Kelly Bradshaw. I
’m an ER nurse at Mercer General. I hate to inform you, but your husband, Wesley Whitfield, was brought in by ambulance. He’s been in a car accident.”

  The room moved like the spin cycle on my washing machine. Helium took residence inside my brain cells, and my head felt as if it might pop off my shoulders if I didn’t hold it down. I grabbed for the back of the sofa to catch myself. What did this woman just say? “I’m sorry. I can’t understand you.”

  “Ma’am, your husband’s in Mercer General. Are you all right? He has been in a car accident. If you are okay to drive, I think you should come immediately.”

  I dropped the phone, figuring she meant he was on life support and two seconds away from dying. My eyes shut, and I fell to the floor. All I wanted was to be able to get into my cotton pajamas and watch television while Wesley brushed his teeth in the bathroom. Then he’d come to bed, turn the table light off, kiss me on the cheek, and turn over and fall to sleep. It generally took five to seven minutes when sex wasn’t involved. Then he would snore intermittently all night.

  After a few bursts of uncontrollable tears, I pulled myself together and gathered my purse and keys off the floor by the front door. My rational, more realistic side chimed in as the louder thoughts in my head. The woman did say he was there. Maybe he needed a ride. Was the accident bad? Immediately? Why? Was he all right? I grabbed my raincoat from the closet, wrapped it around me and cinched the belt. I locked the door robotically and sped to the hospital.

  Chapter Two

  The nurse ushered me to the triage area. Her uniform had little ponies on it. I focused on the pink ones. It relieved me to see them in the midst of despair and death. The farther we walked, the more the bright lights began to burn my puffy eyes. I caught my runny nose with a soaked tissue I kept pulling out of my pocket. Noises of the things going on around me echoed inside my brain. Was Wesley okay?

  “Wait here. I'll see if someone can talk to you.”

  I rocked back and forth on my heels. I had almost fallen four times in those skyscraper stilts. What was I thinking when I didn't change to my flat work shoes? Now with those trusty companions, I could walk miles and never feel a hamstring burn. Sonja told me that was because they were too ugly to make tendons get overheated. Right now my body was waiting for some kind of indication to either retch with impulsive puking or to relax with a seat and a cold beverage. Preferably alcoholic, even though the last time I drank, I got a little tipsy. It was at Paige and Doug's wedding, and Doug's brother asked me to dance. Said he liked my red hair and how I smiled at everybody. I never danced with him, incidentally. I felt like it was cheating on Wesley and giving Doug’s brother the wrong impression.

  People rushed past me, performing their own evening rituals. Doctors in lab coats looking down at the floor, walking into the compartmentalized, sheeted walls; nurses in colorful Crocs rushing back and forth with papers, dirty sheets, or clipboards; and orderlies pushing beds on and off the elevators. Few made eye contact. I wasn't certain they even knew I was there. Everyone was on his or her own mission. It was like a hidden city kept secret from the healthy people of the world.

  Two doctors emerged with the nurse, outside of a curtained partition. One was older, with lots of deep wrinkles on his face and salt and pepper hair that was parted neatly to one side. The other man had tousled dark, wavy hair. He seemed to be a lot younger, possibly in his thirties, having only tiny squint lines around his eyes. He looked like he belonged more on the cover of a magazine than in a doctor's coat at County General, wearing a stethoscope.

  “Mrs. Whitfield?” the older gentleman asked.

  “Yes. Is Wesley all right? Can I see him?” Words fell out of my mouth without my thinking.

  “I'm afraid he's still unconscious. He has a few broken ribs and a broken arm. We've set the arm, and the ribs will heal in time on their own. We're not sure about the depth of his brain injury.”

  “Brain injury? Oh my Lord. What happened to his brain?”

  The older man laid a gentle hand on my sleeve. It instantly calmed my erratic nerves. “He has sustained a concussion, and he hasn't regained consciousness. His brain is functioning and the scans look promising. We're not sure how much, if any, damage was done. We'll know more when he wakes up.”

  “When is that?” My breathing was beginning to slow down to normal, but the saltines and tea continued to slosh against the sides of my anxious stomach.

  “We'll have to wait and see what Wesley's going to do. His body has sustained a traumatic impact. Sometimes it's twenty-four hours, sometimes more. He's being prepped to move to a private room. Would you like to see him?”

  Let's see, how did this work? Wesley left me. He was in his car, speeding in the opposite direction, and leaving me behind. Would he want to see me? This was too weird. But he was still my husband, anything other than seeing him would be unnatural. “Yes, please.” I took a deep breath. “Do you know what happened? Was there another car involved?”

  “There were no other people brought in to the ER tonight involved with this accident.” He pointed toward the doctor standing next to him. “Mark, show Mrs. Whitfield to her husband, please.”

  “Certainly, Dr. Brown.”

  The younger doctor held his hand out and introduced himself. “My name is Dr. Reilly. I'm your husband's neurologist.”

  He leaned in, whispering something when I grasped his hand. His breath was warm on my cheek and he smelled like aftershave, the good kind they sell in cases at department stores, not on drugstore shelves. “You might want to pull your coat closed a little more.”

  I looked down. My trench coat was gaping open, all the way to my tightened belt. Lace, bows, and naughtiness for all the world to see. I quickly closed it and felt a rush of heat crash to the surface of my face, sending the temperature in my raincoat up by twenty degrees.

  I pressed my collar together, hoping somehow it would Velcro to my neck. “I'm so sorry. I'm not a prostitute or whatever it might look like. Honestly, I bought this for tonight, for Wesley. I thought he was running late and…” At that moment, my world crumbled to a million pieces. The whore-like outfit, the high heels, the public humiliation of wearing it and being caught. My husband lying unconscious, the letter telling me it was over. All of it. Tiny splinters of glass shattering. Too tiny to pick up without the suction of an industrial vacuum.

  “It's okay. It's lovely. I'm sure he'll love it.” He said it with the most sincerity a man could, having been caught in the vortex of a woman gone terribly wrong.

  I tried to hold it together. It was too late to bolt for the door. I had to ride this one out. The young doctor pulled the curtain back. I stared in disbelief. Wesley laid wrapped up in wires and bandages. There was a cast on his arm. The machine next to his head barked out a constant, even beep. He had one black eye, and his cracked lips were shut, without expression. Shock waves of reality kept me lucid. He had rarely been sick a day in his life. To see him incapacitated made my body convulse with fear. What would I do now? What if he never woke up? What if he did and still left me? It would be no different.

  “There have been accounts that indicate a person in a coma can still hear. Do you want to talk to him?” The doctor signaled for me to go closer, but I stood close to him, fear standing in the way of me stepping one foot closer to the bed.

  “I don't know what to say. I think I'll wait in the hall for them to take him to his room.” I dashed out of the room and nearly fell on the freshly cleaned floor, as I ran in search of a hideout.

  I held onto the metal handicap rail in the public restroom. My husband nearly died, trying to escape me. Surely, he wouldn't want me here. What was I doing here? But it was too late to leave now. The doctors and nurses would not only think I was a part-time call girl in denial, but also a cold-hearted wife. I splashed water on my face, retied my coat, and willed a look of calm on my face. I exited the bathroom a less fallen-looking girl.

  “Dr. Reilly,” I raised my voice.

  He looked up from his
clipboard. “Mrs. Whitfield, they took your husband up to the fourth floor. I'm on my way. Would you like an escort?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I caught up to him, and we walked to the elevator.

  “About earlier. I…”

  “Mrs. Whitfield, an accident makes people do and say things that they normally wouldn't. You don't have to apologize.” He pushed the number four button and looked up at the scrolling numbers on the panel. I noticed the intensity of blue in his eyes.

  “It's just that this is not who I really am. I feel like I'm on some type of candid camera show. You know, the one where it's all a game and the elevator door opens and someone says I've just been punked or whatever. Surely, you've seen it on television.” I wiped the tip of my wet nose. “I never thought my life could fall apart in two short hours. And I'd be dressed in a garter belt and snaps when it did. I mean, my Lord, did I just say garter belt?” I grabbed my chest. “The most exotic thing I've ever worn was a strapless bra, and even then I felt half dressed.”

  When the word “bra” replayed in my head, I realized what ramblings were coming out of my mouth. I always babbled when I was nervous. It drives Wesley crazy. But Dr. Reilly seemed unaffected by what I was saying. Perhaps he was too busy daydreaming about getting off work and going to bed. Lucky him.

  “He could have a full recovery. We won't know until he wakes up.”

  The bell rang and the doors opened. The doctor gestured for me to go first, and we started down the long hallway together. I didn't speak anymore. It’s amazing how naked you feel half-dressed underneath a coat. And how stupid you sound, talking to someone completely unaware of the severity from the night’s events.

  “Hello, Mark,” said a blonde nurse, who brushed close by him on purpose. The hall was obviously large enough where she could've avoided bodily contact. She put me in the mind of Sonja, with her colorful eye makeup. Instead of scrubs, she wore a tight-fitting white skirt with matching top. She looked better suited for some type of futuristic, sterile nightclub than a hospital ward. Maybe she should shop for uniforms with little-pony-girl downstairs.