Free My Husband's Sweethearts by Bridget Asher Page A

whisper.

Chapter Eleven
Sometimes It's Hard to Figure Out What Happens
When Your Eyes Are Wide Open
    All that follows is a little surreal.
    The EMTs are still bustling around
Artie, joking some now. I picture Artie's
son still out on the lawn, the mattress, I assume, still
strapped to the roof of the car. Elspa can't stop crying
even though Artie is miraculously alive. I lean through the
bedroom doorway, one arm still around her. "He's really
back?" I ask the EMTs. "He's all right?"
    "He was never gone, ma'am," says the one with the
boxy back. "False alarm. Tension. Indigestion. His heart
problems are serious, as you know, but he's doing just
fine."
    "Hear that?" I repeat for Elspa's sake. "False alarm.
Tension. Indigestion."
    Artie rolls his head toward me. His eyes are moist and
he smiles nervously. "Is she gone?" he asks.
    "What?" I ask. "Who?" I wonder if he's talking about
Elspa. This strikes me as an odd thing to say. I wonder if
he's still out of it. And then he flinches and shuts his eyes.
    "False alarm?" a woman asks, in a strangely familiar
voice. She's suddenly standing at my shoulder—a tall, elegant
woman, in her early fifties, wearing a pale blue fitted
dress and smoking a cigarette. She's pretty in a shrewd-looking
way—arched eyebrows, high cheekbones. Her
shoulder-length brown hair is pulled back in a silver clip
at the base of her neck.
    "Who are you?" I ask.
    "I'm Eleanor," she says, as if this clarifies everything.
    I simply stare at her, shaking my head. My ears are
buzzing. Artie almost died, but now he's alive.
    " You invited me, " the woman explains patiently. "I
thought I just wanted Artie to rot in hell, but then I decided
that I wanted to see him before he does." She
brushes something from her skirt. Ah, yes, I remember
the voice now—the woman I called late that drunken
night who had the oh-so-sweet message for Artie. Here
she is. Another one of Artie's sweethearts—a lovely entrance.
"Wouldn't it be wonderful if Artie were able to
make peace with his past—all of it—before he died?" she
adds.
    "You shouldn't smoke in here," Elspa says, regaining
her composure a little.
    She smiles at Elspa as if she's just said something
thoughtful but unimportant. "I barely ever smoke. This is
an emergency cigarette. Only that." And then she turns to
me. "I think my being here may have upset him," she says,
with a small—delighted?—sigh.
    "You think so?" Artie roars from the bed.
    "Your mother had to call 911," Eleanor says calmly. "I
may have upset her, too."
    "Did you try to kill him or something?" I ask.
    "Oh, no," the woman says with a wry smile. She raises
her voice so that Artie can hear her perfectly well. "Killing
Artie would elevate me to a leading role in his life. He
would never pay me that kind of respect."
    Eleanor, I say to myself. I kind of like her.
    *
    I tell Artie that I'll be back in a few minutes. The male
nurse says that he'll stay and get Artie ready for bed. I
usher Elspa and Eleanor downstairs quickly. I notice that
Eleanor walks with a limp, an uneven rhythm, though
she's still wearing a pair of heels. It's a deeply embedded
limp, not the kind from a blister or a tender ankle.
    "Why don't you sit here for a minute?" I tell Eleanor,
pointing to the breakfast nook chairs. "Pour yourself a
drink."
    "I prefer to be sober."
    "Okay then."
    She sits down, elegantly, crossing her ankles.
    I guide Elspa outside to the backyard by the pool. I
tell her to wait here, that I'll come back for her. She's still
sobbing off and on, her arms wrapped around her shoulders,
her back hunched. I'm not sure she knows where
she is, or whether she can hear what I'm saying.
    Ignoring Eleanor for the moment, I walk swiftly back
through the house with the urgency that accompanies a
minor emergency—a fire in the oven or a party that's
taken a bad turn. Artie must be the guest of honor, but if
I'm the hostess I have to tend to my needy guests. I walk