The Next Wife by Kaira Rouda (top 20 books to read .txt) 📗

situation like this one. It’s my fault I drank too much. I’ve made my bed, as they say.

I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep on the couch, or if I have slept.

Right now, I know I need help.

“Tish?” I think I called out my wife’s name.

I wait for an answer, but there isn’t one.

The vise that’s been squeezing my chest clamps down. I can’t catch my breath. My heart pounds against my rib cage.

I use my right hand to check my pulse on my left wrist, but the blood pumping through my fingers makes it impossible to count beats. My chest seizes.

And then I know. Oh my god, I’m having a heart attack.

I’m panting as I sit up and reach for my phone. It’s fallen under the coffee table. I slide from the couch to the floor. With the last bit of energy, I reach toward my phone as my chest seizes again. I can’t breathe.

My fingers wrap around the phone. My lifeline. My hope. I slide my finger across the screen, opening the text message: Call Me.

I want to. More than anything. I love you. I want to call you. I want to be anywhere but here, with anyone but her. I want to call, but my fingers aren’t working. My hands are numb. I’m sitting on the floor as my head lolls to the side, my neck unable to hold it up. I have a big head. A heavy, big head.

My breath catches in my throat as panic washes over me.

Suddenly, a stabbing pain grips my chest. I collapse forward, landing on my face, unable to break the fall with my numb hands. My nose is bleeding. I taste the rusty metal. Blood. I roll onto my back to escape the flood of blood.

The pain is unbearable, a million pounds of pressure and a bolt of lightning.

I can’t breathe.

There is only darkness.

CHAPTER 13

TISH

I stretch and hop out of bed, taking my time as I walk across the wide-plank wood floor (heated, of course) and pull back the ugly floral (of course) curtains in the master bedroom. It’s a beautiful, sunshine-filled mountain day. I slept like a baby with the bed all to myself. It’s late, almost ten in the morning. I decide to shower and get ready for the day before making coffee. I know I need a little more time before I go downstairs.

An hour later, I’m looking good. I’m wearing a black EventCo T-shirt—for old times’ sake I guess—jeans, and tennis shoes. I check my phone, and I’m surprised it’s already 11:00 a.m. Time flies.

I pull open the double doors to the master bedroom and walk out into the still-dark great room. I closed all the blackout shades last night before going to bed, and even in the brightness of midday, they do a remarkable job. Small shafts of light escape from the crevices of a few windows, but for the most part, it’s like a cave in here. Or a tomb.

“Time to wake up, sleepyhead.” I walk toward the couch and notice a foul odor I can’t describe, a smell unlike anything I’ve encountered. “John?” I find him sprawled on the floor, halfway under the coffee table.

“Oh my god.” I run to the kitchen, my stomach lurching, and dial 911 from the landline. They answer immediately.

“What’s your emergency?” the operator asks.

“It’s my husband. He’s passed out on the floor. Unconscious. Something is wrong. He’s vomited all over, and I think wet himself. Oh my god.” I think I’m screaming. I don’t know. This is disgusting. Worse than anything I could have imagined. I’m shaking all over. My voice quavers, “Hurry, please.”

“Help is on the way. The squad will be there in two minutes. You’re at 565 Mountain Village Boulevard. What unit?”

“Penthouse 401. At the Plaza. Oh my god. Please hurry.”

“Ma’am, is your husband breathing?” the operator asks. “You need to try to perform CPR. Do you know how to do that?”

“No. I meant to learn, but I was too busy.” I’m sobbing now. I know she is trying to help, but I can’t go over there, touch him. It’s too awful. I won’t do it. I grab a dish towel and drench it with cold water. I ring it out and hold it on my forehead.

“Keep talking to me and walk to his side. Now!”

I do as I’m told, pinching my nose with my fingers. I can’t see John’s upper torso, it’s under the coffee table. Why is he under the coffee table?

“I’m here. By his side. Oh god.” I pull on John’s arm. On TV they put their finger somewhere on the wrist, right?

“Is he breathing?”

“I don’t know,” I answer. I lean over and wipe his face with my towel, cleaning him up from the mess he’s made.

There’s a loud, hard bang on the door. “Paramedics!”

“Let them in, ma’am.”

I jump up and rush to the door, flinging it open as a team of four medics push past me and invade the living room. Without my directions, they’ve found John and pulled him out from under the table. One man is pushing on his chest while another starts an IV. I watch in horror until a woman emergency worker approaches me.

“Ma’am, your husband is in cardiac arrest. We’re going to have to transport him.” We watch together as John is rolled onto a stretcher.

“I need to go with him. I’m his wife.” I’m chasing after the stretcher when someone grabs me. “Take your hands off me.”

“Ma’am, I’ll drive you to the Telluride Regional Medical Center where they’ll stabilize him before transporting him on. Come with me.” And then he starts the questions: “How long have you been in town? Does he have a heart condition? Did he overdo it yesterday? Activity and altitude increase the risk of a heart attack.”

I’m numb. I don’t have any answers. I don’t want to talk to this stranger. As we step off the elevator, everything starts flashing black and white. I drop to the