“Oh…” he responds. He seems to be getting choked up. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see her? Please?”
I nod, even though he can’t exactly hear me nodding. Moving through the hospital, I head back to Yvette’s room and put on my face shield before entering. I press the video button on her cell phone and flip the phone around quickly so that he can look at his wife on the selfie cam. There is no way I am showing him my miserable face.
“Evie,” he says softly, gasping at the sight of his wife hooked up to the machine. “Oh my god, Evie. Ma petite chérie.”
My heart sinks at the passion and devotion in his voice. He goes on saying soft words, cooing and whispering to her lovingly in French. I hold the phone closer to Y so that maybe his words can reach her through the coma—maybe his love can heal her better than any of our modern medicine can. I wouldn’t be surprised. Personally, I think that the love in his voice could wake the dead.
Once again, I’m wishing I could trade places with her.
But not so that she could have my health, this time—so that I could experience her love. I’m not proud of myself, but I can’t help the feelings of jealousy coursing through me. She has so much. She has no idea.
She’s in a coma and she can’t even breathe on her own, but somehow, her life is still better than mine. Filled with more love and affection, more light.
Listening to Y’s husband talk is causing my eyes to sting with tears, but I fight to maintain my composure. I’m on the outside, looking in. Having this beautiful relationship shoved in my face just highlights my own feelings of emptiness.
I wish I had the superpower to stretch my arm out to double or triple its length so that I could step back, farther away, and stop invading their privacy. But I need to hold the phone up so that he can see her face. My hand is trembling, and I try to look away, focusing on something else in the room.
I try to think about something else. Like how nice it would be to open a bag of Cheetos and collapse on my couch, watching Netflix. That’s all I can really aspire to, in this moment.
But then I hear Gabriel’s voice speaking to me.
“Nurse,” he is saying. “Sorry, Nurse—I didn’t get your name. Thank you so much for letting me see her.”
“It’s no problem,” I respond, pulling my arm back so that the camera faces me. And then I see him. Oh god, it’s even worse than I imagined. He’s gorgeous. His eyes look sincere and full of emotion. He’s so beautiful I can hardly look at him.
I quickly tap the screen to turn off the video, but my hands are shaking and it takes me a second. I’m sure he’s seen what I look like, too. And I know exactly how dreadful I look right now with the mask and face shield, and zero eye makeup. I feel so humiliated. I feel like nothing.
I’m not even one of the dwarves in Y’s movie. I’m like one of the animals who helps her clean the house while she sings. That is literally all I am.
“Can you keep her phone with you?” Gabriel is asking. “Can I just call or text you to check on her?”
“I’m about to go home,” I tell him. “My shift was over a while ago. I can only unlock the phone using her fingerprint. I had better leave her phone here for the next nurse.”
“No, please,” he responds. “I prefer to deal with you. Can I have your personal number, just in case of emergency?”
“Sure,” I tell him slowly, feeling a bit of an uneasiness in my chest. A little flutter of something dangerous, like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff and about to jump off. Did he just ask for my number? This is getting out of control.
“And your name?” he asks. “What is your name?”
“What does it matter?” I ask him, my voice a bit snappier than it should be. Then I abruptly end the call. I shut my eyes, feeling ashamed of myself.
I know. I can be really super charming sometimes. That probably has nothing to do with why I’m single as sin, and probably going to die alone. A cranky old spinster who wasn’t even warmhearted enough to own cats.
But wait—it does make sense for me to give him my personal number. He’s in the middle of a crisis, and it’s the least I can do. It’s nothing personal, right? I reach out to press Yvette’s finger against her phone to unlock it, and I quickly type him a text message containing my phone number. There, that’s it. Super professional.
Now I can go home and eat my Cheetos.
Except my hand refuses to drop Yvette’s phone. I can’t help but scroll up to see all her other text messages from Gabriel. They are in French, often all caps, and the few words I understand look angry—furious. Sometimes there are weeks and months with no messages between them. It actually seems like a very strained and unhealthy relationship. But there must be something holding them together, because they both seem to adore each other.
I am not sure why, but I navigate away from the messages with Gabriel, to peek at Y’s conversation with Sexy Babe. Whoa. These texts are in English, and there is no mistaking the nature of their relationship. And the pictures! Oh my god. Damn. Yvette really knows how to take a dirty selfie. How does she make her cleavage look that good? I twist the phone to the side for a better view.
