Chapter 2
I try again, shaking him softly at first, calling his name over and over again, but panic starts clawing up my throat.
Every time my hand touches his face or his neck, I feel how hot he is.
Not warm. Hot. Burning up. His breathing is so shallow I have to lean close just to hear it, and even then, I barely can.
He was sitting here cooking in his coat, probably felt sick before, and I didn’t notice anything.
How could I?
Every time he came in the evenings he barely talked to me. He’s been so overworked, and I have no idea what the hell is going on, but it’s bothering me that I can’t even wake him up.
“Lincoln,” I call again, louder. “Lincoln.” My voice rising higher every time. “Lincoln!” I scream, slapping his face now. He won’t wake up.
This isn’t normal.
I grab my phone immediately and dial 911, my hands shaking so hard I almost drop it. The operator answers, and I cry as soon as I hear their voice.
“Yeah, my husband, I mean my—” I don’t even try to correct myself.
“My husband is unresponsive. He came in and collapsed on his bed. He’s in his winter coat and he’s r-really hot, like very hot to the touch.
I think he has a very bad fever and he… he won’t wake up no matter what I do.
I’m slapping him and he’s not waking up. ”
The operator tries to calm me down and walks me through what to do.
“Ma’am, I need you to take a deep breath for me,” the operator says. “Is he breathing?”
“Yes—yes, but it’s really shallow,” I say, scrambling to get some ice from his fridge and dumping the tray into a bucket.
“Okay, you’re doing great,” the operator says. “I need you to cool him down. Use a towel, ice, whatever you have. Lower his body temperature.”
“Yeah, I’m about to dump some ice in a towel and uh p-put it over him, or some ice on him or something,” I say with a trembling voice, rushing back to him as she talks me through it.
“Keep calling his name,” the operator tells me. “Try to keep him responsive. Let me know if anything changes.”
I keep trying to wake him up like the operator told me to. He moans, but he doesn’t wake up.
“Lincoln, baby, wake up. Link,” I say over and over again. He still doesn’t respond.
I try to drag him over onto his back, struggling because he’s dead weight in his exhaustion. I place the ice all over his neck and chest and also around his head. It doesn’t matter if the pillows and bed get wet. I would rather him be mad at me later for something so trivial and save his life.
I’ve been down this road with him before.
And it reminds me of my mother again. Lincoln will work himself dead if no one intervenes. He’s bad at that, always pushing himself and pushing himself and pushing and pushing until he can’t anymore. Just like my mom.
I always thought I should have fought harder to protect her. But I was just a girl.
But I can save Lincoln.
I have to.
Lincoln has worked himself so hard so he could provide for us, even though he hurt me.
The whole reason he even took the Helion job, with the kind of hours that they worked him, was because he had a dream for our future.
And everything he said he was going to do, except for staying faithful, he did.
Paying off my father’s debt wasn’t easy.
Paying my debt wasn’t easy.
And then he paid off his own debt too, which he did last.
Taking overtime after overtime with no breaks. Even when he was sick he would still go to work and still somehow try to find time for me.
Until his body started shutting down.
Until his body started running on autopilot.
And all he could do to combat this was to drink coffee or take caffeine pills, which are bad for his heart.
Half the time Lincoln would come home, he would just be catatonic standing outside of our house, staring at the door. And I would open the door and talk to him. It’s like he would see right through me, he was so tired.
“Baby? Babe,” I would call him again, before his eyes finally looked and focused on me. Those days I would have to take his hand and lead him inside the house. It’s like he was so tired he couldn’t even turn the doorknob to come inside.
And then I would set him on the couch or in our bed. And he would just… pass out.
It got to the point where he would lose track of time. Forgetting whole conversations. And even what day it was half the time. His literal mode of living was eat, sleep, work, eat, sleep, work, eat, sleep, work. Over and over with no end in sight.
The only thing Lincoln would tell me is that I am the one who motivated him to work as hard as he did.
And now he won’t wake up.
I shake him again, panic rising in my throat. Ice melting on his skin. Operator still talking in my ear.
“Lincoln!” I cry. “Please… wake up.”
His eyes remain closed, and I can hear the sirens in the distance.
That sound, those rising, urgent wails, fills me with something close to hope as they draw closer.
But Lincoln’s breath is still coming in those shallow, broken pulls, each one sounding worse than the last. Nothing about the way he’s breathing feels right.
It reminds me of his heat exhaustion years ago, except…
this time something feels wrong. Off. Worse.
The operator is still trying to keep me calm, but I can hear the edge in my own voice, the panic no longer hiding.
“Ma’am, stay with me,” the operator says. “You’re doing everything right. Keep talking to him. Keep his airway open. Help is almost there.”
“I don’t like the way he’s breathing,” I cry, my voice cracking. “I don’t like it, something’s wrong. He’s not waking up! He won’t wake up.”
“Ma’am, you’re doing amazing. Just try to stay calm so you can monitor his breathing. Just stay with him. Help is on the way, okay?”
My vision blurs from tears. I keep touching his face, his neck.
He’s burning.
Burning.
My hands are shaking as I try to cool him down, ice melting against his skin. I keep saying his name, louder and louder, but he won’t respond.
Everything else becomes a blur.
I rush around the house. Morris is crying, weaving around my legs, confused and scared. I make sure he has water by turning the tap so it drips into his bowl, and I empty half a bag of food onto his plate. The whole time my heart is pounding like it’s going to explode.
Then I’m out the door, following the ambulance as they load Lincoln inside. My brain keeps chanting the same fear over and over: what if I get to the hospital and it’s too late?
What if this is just like my mother?
What if he dies and I never see him again?
Even if Lincoln and I were never getting back together, the idea of him dying, of losing him this way, is too much.
I can’t.
As much as he hurt me, my latent love for him still made me grateful he was alive out there somewhere.
At least when he is alive, I had the right to be angry. How the hell am I supposed to be mad at a dead man?
At the hospital, everything moves too fast and too slow at the same time. They rush him in, and when they ask me who I am, I don’t even hesitate.
“I’m his wife.”
And I don’t correct myself. It doesn’t matter. I’m family. I stay glued to the ER doors until they call me in.
Inside, they’ve already hooked him up to monitors. Tubes, wires, beeping machines. I stand at a distance, giving the doctors space. My hands feel numb. My body feels like it’s floating.
A doctor is working on his feet, carefully cleaning the blisters, some already popped. They mention swelling. Redness. Possible infection.
One of the doctors, Doctor Bashert, turns to me.
“His temperature is extremely high,” Bashert says, glancing at the monitor. “We’re running labs now. It could be sepsis. We won’t know until the bloodwork comes back, but he’s showing multiple signs.”
My stomach drops.
“What… what does that mean?” I ask, my voice barely there.
“It means the body is fighting something serious,” the doctor explains. “We’ve started IV fluids, antibiotics, and oxygen. His blood pressure is unstable but improving. For now, we’re watching him closely.”
I don’t even know how long all of this takes. My brain keeps skipping moments, like it’s censoring everything too traumatic to process. His blood pressure monitor keeps beeping.
Oxygen tubing keeps fogging.
Nurses move around him like they’re all performing a dance.
My God… he was fine. This morning when he left, even though he was taciturn, he was… he was fine.
This feels like a dream.
All of it.
And then… his fingers twitch.
His eyelids flutter.
And suddenly Lincoln’s eyes open fully, wide and terrified. Within seconds he starts hyperventilating, his whole chest rising fast.
“Gabby! Ga—Gabby! GABBY!!! GABBY!!! GABBY!!!” he calls out, frantic, his voice breaking as he tries to sit up before the nurses gently hold him down.
I shoot up from the chair.
“NO! GABBY! Where’s my wife!? I need my wife! Where—”
“Lincoln, everything is okay,” one of the nurses cuts in to attempt to calm him.
Another does the same. Nothing works and a male nurse has to step in to restrain him.
“GABBY!!!! GABBY!!!!!” he yells so loud his vocal cords sound like they pop.
“LINK! HEY! Hey, I’m here, Link. I’m here,” I say quickly, going right to his side.
He reaches out his hand past the nurses, and when I hold out mine, he grabs it like he’s drowning.
His eyes, God, his eyes, they look so big, like he’s burning alive in some kind of hell, desperate for something familiar to hold onto.
He is terrified.
Completely out of it.
His skin is cold and hot at the same time, his grip tight, almost painful.
“Gabby… please don’t leave me!” he begs, choking a sob, his voice cracking as he hyperventilates. “Please… I—I’m scared… please… please don—please don’t—please don’t le—leave me!”
I want to cry. I’ve never seen him this terrified in my life.
A nurse moves closer.
“He has a bit of white coat syndrome,” I explain gently. “It’s really bad.”
“I know. We’re giving him something to calm down.”
“Please Gabby, don’t go,” he repeats, squeezing my hand so tight I can barely feel my fingers.
“I’m right here,” I whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You sai… you said you wouldn't give up on me, please. I'm sorry. Please don't leave me here. Please,” his voice sounds so small. His eyes are boring into mine as if I hold the last word for whether or not he gets to live.
Then his eyes roll back and he slumps onto his back as the medication takes effect, and he finally goes still, falling asleep.
The nurse squeezes my shoulder. “We’ll keep him calm. Don’t worry.”
I fight the urge to burst into tears.
A little later Dr. Bashert returns.
“We’re doing everything we can. Early signs are positive, but we’ll need to monitor him closely. He should be okay, but we’re not out of the woods yet.”
I nod, even though my legs feel hollow.
And as I stand there holding his limp hand, all I can think is:
Please, God. Don’t take him from me.
-??-