Free My Husband's Sweethearts by Bridget Asher

current
projects."
    "Current projects?" I ask.
    He doesn't follow up. Instead he looks out the window,
checks the challenged mattress, that real estate of
sleep and dreams and sex. We continue through a tollbooth
and get a skeptical look from the operator, like she's
seen a few mattresses fly off car roofs. She's a little territorial,
too, a look that says: You're bringing that onto my highway? I can ignore it though. My plan seems to be
working.
    We pull into the neighborhood and start the suburban
wind through the dimly lit streets.
    "If you don't mind me asking, who's dying?"
    Before I have a chance to make something up—which is
my instinct, for some reason—Elspa says, "Her husband."
    "I'm sorry," John says. "I'm very sorry to hear that."
    There's a catch in his voice that seems to reveal he's been
through some loss of his own. We all have our losses.
    I turn the corner onto my street. I see the house lit up
like Christmas, every light on, and an ambulance parked
out front, the red lights circling. A spiked shiver runs
through me. The front door is open. Light spills onto the
lawn and across my mother's back where she's standing,
arms crossed, staring down the driveway.
    "It's too soon," I say in an urgent whisper. "Not yet.
We aren't finished!"
    "What is it?" John asks.
    Elspa is saying, "No, no, no, no."
    Just before we reach the driveway, I stop the car and
jump out. The car rolls forward, bumps the curb. I knock
my head ducking back inside to throw it into park. I drop
the keys in the driveway and search my mother's face. She
just shakes her head. "I don't know what happened! I
called 911!"
    I begin to breathe heavily like I'm about to hyperventilate.
I stagger toward the house and stop on the porch.
Elspa passes me on the run.
    I turn to look at John Bessom, who stands next to the
car and the mattress. He doesn't undo the straps. I feel
sorry for him. He doesn't know what he's in the midst of,
what he's come too late for. I'm stalled here on the porch,
breathing in sharp gulps.
    "And so you must be the son. I'm so sorry," my
mother says to John.
    I take a woozy step toward them, just another step that
comes too late, but then I realize this is the way it's got to
unfold. My mother looks calm now. She'll do this well.
She takes his hand, puts her arm around him, maternally.
John looks like a kid all of a sudden.
    "They're trying to save your father," she says. "But I
don't know . . ."
    John is confused. He stares up at the lit bedroom window.
"My father?" he asks. "Arthur Shoreman?"
    "Yes," my mother says, "Artie."
    Artie isn't dead yet. They're trying to save him. I run
through the front door and up the stairs. Arthur Shoreman,
I hear my mind repeat. Arthur Shoreman. I hate the formality
of it. The way it sounds like a name on a form, a death
certificate. Not yet, I tell myself. Not yet.
    I turn into the bedroom. Artie is lying on the bed, an
EMT on either side speaking in code, as they do. There's
machinery. Are they running an EKG in here? I can't see
Artie's face.
    The male nurse stands back, looking on.
    Elspa is shouting, "Why don't you fucking do something?"
Panic-stricken, she falls on top of the bedside
table, swiping everything on it to the ground.
    "Get her out of here," one of the EMTs yells.
    I grab her arms, then pull her to me and out into the
hallway. I hold her and rock her. She calms down and
grasps onto me, weeping.
    "If he dies, I'll die!" she says.
    "No, you won't," I tell her.
    "I won't be able to make it through this," she says.
    I can't begin to comprehend that Artie might be dying
already, that it may only be his body lying on the bed. I
have no idea how long I hold Elspa like this, but I realize
this is the first time I've really been there for someone else
for a very long time.
    And then I hear Artie's voice. "Hey, back off!" he
shouts.
    And then one of the EMTs says, "That's good to
hear!"
    Elspa hugs me tighter.
    "He's back," I