Page 20 of Hello Handsome
I rattled off the list I remembered, and he followed up with a question.
“What were you doing when these came on?” he asked. I could hear his engine fire up. He was on his way to me.
I closed my eyes tight, about to answer his question. And that’s when I realized… I was getting ready for a date. Was I ready to tell my son?
“Dad?” There was an edge of panic to his voice. “Are you there?”
“I’m here,” I said tightly. Breathing was still hard to come by. So I lay back on my bed, still holding the phone to my ear.
“You sound like you’re in pain. What were you doing when you noticed something was off?”
“I was getting ready to go out,” I said while staring at the stationary ceiling fan. It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the full truth either.
“No heavy physical activity?” he asked.
“No,” I answered. “Unless you count putting on my pants.”
Fletcher chuckled. Then he said, “Don’t make me laugh when I’m freaking out, Dad.”
“You’re not supposed to freak out,” I argued, keeping a hand pressed to my chest. “You’re a doctor.”
“I’m also your son.”
My eyes stung with tears, and the realization washed over me that I could be having a heart attack. I would love to be reunited with Maya, but I didn’t want to leave my kids behind, my grandkids. I’d never get to meet Fletcher’s baby that’s on the way.
“Dad, hanging in there?” he asked. “I’m just five minutes away.”
“Don’t drive too fast,” I warned.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he retorted.
I shook my head, trying to make my breathing deeper. “You’re such an oldest child.”
Fletcher let out a huff. We were silent for a moment while we waited for him to get to me. I wondered if I’d die here in this bed. In the same place where Maya had passed years ago.
“I’m at the turnoff,” he said. “Stay where you are.”
“I’m in my room,” I told him. “Not going anywhere.
“Good. Just hang on.” The noise in the background of his phone quieted while I could hear the sound of his engine outside. It cut off when he parked in the driveway, and just seconds later, the front door banged open.
Soon, Fletcher was in my room, ripping open his doctor’s bag and pulling out a stethoscope.
“How are you feeling?” he asked me.
“Tired,” I admitted.
His face blanched as he pressed the stethoscope to my chest. His dark eyes were serious while he focused all his energy on listening. Then he moved the stethoscope to other spots, the metal cold against my skin.
“Take a breath,” he ordered. “Again.”
I did as he asked. When he tugged his stethoscope from his ears, he said, “I’m going to do an ECG. It’ll measure your heart rhythms.”
I nodded. He started unbuttoning my shirt, but I said, “I can do it.”
He looked doubtful but eventually agreed. My fingers shook as I undid the buttons. He busied himself with the machine, setting it up and plugging it into the wall. Then he stuck pieces to my chest, making a comment about my manscaping being helpful. I rolled my eyes.
He watched the screen for a few seconds. And for all the years that screens just like this monitored my wife, I still had no idea what all the numbers and patterns meant.
