Robert Has a Heart Attack, part one

She wanted the taxi to drive faster, and while the driver may have been going as quickly as he could, she felt her anger rise. Every stop sign seemed to her to be some devil force mocking her in her fear and anxiety. The people walking on the sidewalks were dark shadows, which at any moment could become an obstacle. If someone had asked her if that mid-June day was sunny or warm or raining or cloudy or windy or cold or humid—or anything for that matter—all that she would remember was that the colors of the world had been diminished to multiple shades of gray.

She had been peeling potatoes for supper when the telephone rang. While it was still early in the afternoon, she liked to get everything ready an hour or two before she started the actual cooking. She was planning to fry pork chops and serve them with mashed potatoes and gravy, fresh peas that she would shell once she finished with the potatoes, and strawberry shortcake for dessert. The strawberries were not fully in season yet—it was only June 19—but she had managed a few from her small patch in the backyard. She had already cut them and dusted them with sugar so that by the time she and her husband Bob had dessert and coffee, they would be juicy and sweet. She made the shortcake before lunch, after she picked the strawberries.

Because her hands were in the sink amidst potato peelings and water, she nearly let the telephone ring until it finished. Whoever it was would call back in a short while, thinking that perhaps she was outside, indisposed or running an errand.  However, the ringing was persistent, and she dropped what she was doing, grabbed her towel and hurried to the alcove in the dining room where they kept the telephone. She was slightly annoyed that after she finished, she would need to change kitchen towels, which she had just done that morning.

“Hello?” she said into the receiver.

“Leta?”

“Yes.”

“This is Sparky from Pfizer,” the man’s voice said. “I am sorry to interrupt your afternoon, but there’s been an accident.”

“Accident?” Leta repeated, her mind going numb.

“They’re taking Bob to the hospital right now.”

“Hospital?”

“I can send someone to fetch you,” Sparky continued, “but that’ll take too much time. So as soon as we hang up I am going to call you a taxi, and the driver will be there as quick as he can.”

Leta said nothing. Harold Sparks was one of Bob’s work friends. Everyone called him Sparky, even his wife and children. There was a reason, but Leta could not remember it. Still, in that moment, learning that her husband was hurt and being taken to the hospital, that was all she could think about.

“Leta?” He inquired gently. “Are you there?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I’m here. What happened? Is Bob all right? What hospital?”

“Mercy,” Sparky answered.

Ten minutes later Leta was in a taxi on her way to Mercy Hospital.

To be continued.