Sighing, I reach up to rip off the plastic face shield.
If it sounds like my mental health is in the toilet, that’s probably correct. But I challenge you to find any healthcare worker dealing with COVID-19 patients on a daily basis who is in great spirits right now. Other than Veronica, of course.
I don’t know Ronnie’s secret, but I swear she must sprinkle cocaine on her cornflakes. How else can you explain that much positivity? It defies logic.
When the phone vibrates in my hand, I stare at it for a moment before answering and lifting it to my ear. It’s Yvette’s foulmouthed French prince, returning the call. But he’s too late. I wish I knew a sorceress who could curse him and turn him into a beast.
“I’m sorry,” Gabriel says. “I was in a work meeting with my students. What did I miss?”
I have to bite my tongue to conceal my disappointment and judgment. “Your wife’s heart stopped. But we got it beating again.”
“Wait—what? Are you serious?” he seems genuinely shocked. “Can I speak to her? Can I see her?”
“Unfortunately, she’s heavily sedated and on a breathing machine,” I tell him. “So now… we can only pray.”
“I don’t believe in God,” he responds.
A deep sigh expands my chest. “Well, that’s just something nice we say to be comforting in these situations. You don’t have to actually pray. But it can’t hurt, can it?”
“I suppose not,” he responds, “but it also won’t help.”
He’s so infuriating. “Maybe it means nothing to you, but I will pray for her,” I tell him with determination. “There’s not much else I can do.”
“Well, you’re her nurse… I hope there’s something else you can do.”
“I did all I can. We all did. Now it’s up to her body to fight this.”
“Should I try to get on a plane?” he asks me. “Travel there? Will it help if I can be by her side?”
“The borders are closed due to the virus. You can’t get into the United States from Europe,” I inform him.
“Shit,” he curses softly. There is a silence on the line. “You know, I did this to her. I’m responsible.”
“How?” I ask.
“She started smoking because of me. When I met her, she was a student in my philosophy class—I was younger then, I had just published my first book. I thought I was such badass—the rebellious, nihilistic professor smoking with his students on the veranda and talking about life. Like I knew anything about life. I didn’t realize that Yvette had never smoked before. She later told me that she only pretended to smoke to try and impress me. But she was a good girl, and I corrupted her.”
So, he’s a philosophy professor. That’s interesting.
“She took up that filthy habit just so we could have more conversations together. And then many years later, after we were married… my mother became sick and that motivated me to quit. I also thought it would be a good idea to stop smoking if I was ever going to become a father… but Yvette never had the discipline to stop. I led her down that road, but I couldn’t lead her away.”
“It’s not your fault,” I tell him gently. “Smoking isn’t the only factor that made her so sick. I mean—it really doesn’t help. But I’ve seen a lot of older people who smoke, even people double her age, recover from this virus quickly with very few complications.”
“Then what made her so sick?” he asks. “What are the other factors?”
“I’m sorry, Gabriel. I really don’t know.”
“I am telling you,” he says a bit fiercely. “I am responsible. I broke her heart. Over and over again. I was a bad husband. I destroyed her health.”
Somehow, I believe him. I don’t know how to respond. “Do you have any children together?” I ask, as I begin to slowly pace up and down the hospital corridor. It’s the middle of the night and it’s unusually quiet. Creepy. I’m glad I didn’t have to go to the morgue.
“No,” he responds softly. “I always wanted them… but she wasn’t ready. We never got along well enough, for long enough, without some kind of huge fight. Now… I wish we had just done it. Just gone ahead and started a family together. Maybe it would have given us a reason to grow up and stop fighting. Maybe she would have been safe at home with the kids, and she would be peaceful and happy… instead of taking jobs on the other side of the planet just to escape me. And exposing herself to this virus…”
Why is he telling me all this? I guess grief comes in many forms. Maybe he’s just using me as his counselor, to get some emotions off his chest and cope with what is happening. I guess it’s my job to listen and try to be soothing. But I also just… sort of like listening to him speak.
He’s got a thick French accent, and his voice sounds sort of dignified when he’s not cursing up a storm. Actually, if I’m being honest—he still managed to sound rather sophisticated while cursing. He must have developed some oratory skills from giving lectures at his job. Enunciation and emphasis, and all of that good stuff.
All I know is that I went from feeling tired and half alive to curious and interested. My feet are moving effortlessly, my body almost floating unconsciously back and forth down the hospital hallway. I also feel calmer listening to his life story, like it’s a lullaby.
“Maybe it’s not too late,” I tell him. “Maybe you’ll still have a chance to fix everything that’s broken.”
“I doubt that,” he responds. “You know, I haven’t seen Yvette in a year? We’re estranged. I’ve been expecting her to send me divorce papers for months. She hates me.”
“No… she doesn’t. She asked me to call you over and over again. She
