Splitting the Difference Read online

  Copyright © 2013 by Tré Miller Rodríguez

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2013

  ISBN: 978-1-938314-21-6

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1563 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  For Alberto, my muse,

  &

  for Laurie, my happy ending

  Sunday Mourning

  no, no, no, this can’t be happening

  (March 15, 2009, 11:43am via Twitter)

  * * *

  The morning of March 15th, 2009, does not begin with buzzing alarms or espresso or reading the New York Times in bed with my husband of three years. It begins with the sound of retching.

  Honey? I murmur, eyes half-closed. Everything okay?

  My husband’s laugh echoes from our bathroom, and my eyes blink open to pale morning light.

  Can I . . . get you anything?

  Alberto answers with more heaving sounds.

  Getting you Zantac, I say, climbing out of bed.

  The kitchen clock reads 5:23am and our counters are littered with empty antacid packets. There’s nothing rare about seeing Alka-Seltzer—it’s the Cuban version of chamomile tea—but in the four years since I’ve known Alberto, he’s never thrown up.

  Armed with Zantac and ice water, I knock on the bathroom door and hear the toilet flush. Alberto emerges, naked and sweating.

  I threw up, he explains, his voice more four-year-old than forty-year-old.

  It’s okay, baby, I say, leading him to the sofa. You’re kinda warm . . .

  should I open a window?

  Yes, please, he nods, swallowing the Zantac. Sit with me?

  I crack a living-room window and curl into him. We talk about what he ate for dinner—gyro meat from our favorite Greek place—and whether he’s been evacuating from both ends.

  No, he answers, with a shiver.

  Maybe it’s that weird flu that’s going around? I suggest, wrapping a blanket around him. Alberto continues to sweat and shiver, despite the open window and blanket.

  Should we go to the clinic on 23rd and Seventh? I ask. It’s always open.

  Alberto had his annual physical less than forty-eight hours ago, so spending our Sunday at a walk-in clinic is the last thing either of us wants to do.

  We can get dressed and go, I offer, half-heartedly.

  Neither of us moves a muscle.

  Thirty-six hours from now, I will replay this exchange and hate myself for not getting up from the sofa and insisting we go to the clinic. In the years ahead, this moment will stand out as the singular frame in which today’s outcome might have been altered.

  But at daybreak on March 15th, 2009, I do not realize that my husband does not have the flu.

  * * *

  By his own admission, Alberto did not “do sick” gracefully.

  A common cold would send him over the edge—I’m dying! The suffering! The agony!—and send me to KFC for his favorite “sick food” or the market for Nyquil, VapoRub, and Kleenex with aloe. If he got sick in foreign countries, hospital trips or house calls from doctors were involved. Once, in the high drama of a sinus infection, he’d said, You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone, Tré! Then he called his sister, Barby, to complain that his wife was mean because she makes me take antibiotics and they give me acidez.

  When he had inner-ear surgery the first year we were married, his mother, Hilda, flew to New York: Partly to be here for Albert, she explained to everyone, but mostly because Tré doesn’t know what she’s in for.

  Three days after he was released from the Ear, Nose & Throat Infirmary, Hilda flew back to Miami, apparently assured that her son’s recovery wouldn’t result in his subsequent divorce. But on the fourth day, I was concerned about his lack of sleep—Lunesta didn’t help, painkillers didn’t help, a glass of wine with either of them didn’t help—so I called his surgeon and drove us to the Infirmary on Second Avenue.

  The doctor unwrapped the bandage, took one look at his ear and put him on the table. When interns started using words like aerate and 16-gauge needle, I stepped in.

  Excuse me, I whispered. My husband hates hospitals and needles, but he’s watched enough Grey’s Anatomy to understand what’s happening right now. So I really need you guys to have this discussion out of his newly restored earshot.

  They shot me a collective look of annoyance, but moved to the other side of the room.

  As the needle was prepared, I took his hand, told him to look at me and nothing else. It entered his inner ear drum and his pupils dilated. While they drained the fluid causing his discomfort, Alberto squeezed my hand purple.

  Hey, you’re doing great, I said, maintaining a calm face. Tell me what you want from KFC after this.

  He was too spooked to reply.

  It’s almost over, I promised him. And you’ll be able to sleep tonight.

  He blinked at me before whispering his order: three breasts, original recipe. With gravy. And a biscuit.

  Done and done, I said.

  It’s almost over and you’ll be able to sleep tonight.

  * * *

  Instead of making an early-morning trip to the clinic, we remain on our sofa discussing the flu: who’s had it and for how long.

  Still sweaty, Alberto stands up and stretches before heading to the bedroom. I follow and sit beside him on the edge of the bed.

  You sleepy?

  Yes.

  Stomach still hurt?

  Yes.

  Maybe you could try to get the rest of the food out of you? It might help you rest?

  He sighs, squeezes my shoulder, and walks toward the bathroom.

  Hey, I call. If your head wasn’t shaved, I’d offer to hold your hair back.

  He laughs weakly before the retching sounds begin again. I wince and do the only thing I can think to do: pray for sleep for him.

  I drift off mid-prayer, but awaken to a rhythmic flapping sound. Alberto is sleeping vertically across our bed and his right arm seems under the control of a mad puppeteer: it rises jerkily into the air and smacks down on the duvet. I get up and peer over him, unsure if I should wake him from what seems like a nightmare. I shift my weight and observe him until eventually, the arm-thrashing stops. His toes are touching the floor, which looks uncomfortable, but if I move him, he might wake up.

  Too risky, I decide.

  I shut off the bathroom light, glance at the clock—6:42am—and arrange myself in a ball at the end of our bed.

  It will be two hours before I open my eyes again, and by then, all that seems promised and predictable right now will have slipped through the open window in our living room.

  * * *

  A year and a half after this Sunday morning, I will be in Southern California, where I grew up, accompanying my fifty-nine-year-old mother to a cardiologist. That afternoon, I will learn more about the human heart than I ever wanted to know.

  Through illustrations and rubber-heart replicas, her doctor will explain that a nerve bundle in the left chamber of Mom’s heart isn’t functional. And that the bundle in the right chamber compensate
s by rerouting the electrical impulses. The electricity does a longer lap than it should, he says, but in a word: she’ll be fine. And just to be sure, he’s putting her on a heart monitor for the next month.

  I will stare at images of my mom’s heart while the doctor comments on how resilient and creative and determined the human heart is.

  I will stifle the questions forming in my throat: is the heart so “resilient” that it would hide a massive blockage from an EKG less than forty-eight hours before cardiac arrest?

  Are the hearts of my eighty-eight-year-old grandparents—who each survived recent heart attacks—so much more “creative” than the one belonging to my husband, chief creative officer of his own ad agency?

  Is the heart’s “determination” to beat contingent upon a wife immediately taking her husband to a clinic at the first sign of vomit?

  I will say nothing.

  The window in which to ask these questions has already closed.

  * * *

  It’s after 8am when I wake beside Alberto, who isn’t snoring.

  I reach for him but upon contact with his skin, my eyes jerk open.

  What the—why is he so cold?

  My eyes race to his face and what I see sends an alarm roaring through my gut.

  He is a terrifying shade of yellow.

  No!

  His mouth is frozen in a gasp.

  Alberto!

  His lips are lavender.

  No, no, no.

  The phone, where’s the phone?

  911. This is Harmony: what’s your emergency?

  I just woke up and found my husband not breathing! He’s—yellow!

  What is your name and does your husband have a pulse?

  I’m Tré—and I don’t know if there’s a pulse!

  Put your ear to his chest, she instructs.

  I put my ear to his ice-cold chest but can’t hear anything over the roar in my ears.

  Is there a heartbeat, she asks.

  I don’t know, I yell. I can’t tell if it’s his or mine?

  Let’s stay calm, Tré. Is your husband lying on a flat surface?

  The bed. He’s on the bed!

  I need you to move him to the floor so you can perform CPR.

  Episodes of Law & Order flash through my head: I don’t know much, but I do know if there’s one thing you never do, it’s move the body.

  (The Body. Is. Alberto.)

  Not possible, I argue. He’s twice my weight. I can’t move him.

  You can do CPR without moving him, she says. But first, you need to open the front door so the paramedics can access your apartment.

  I start toward the foyer before realizing I’m half-naked. Even as I’m pulling an Ella Moss top over my head, I know it’s too low-cut for a crisis. But there’s no time to deliberate: doors have to be opened and CPR must be performed.

  When I unlock the front door, the weight of last night’s dry-cleaning delivery prevents it from staying open.

  Have you opened it? Harmony asks.

  Not yet, I shout. Gotta move all this stuff hanging on the door—gimme a second.

  I start shoving plastic-wrapped clothing into the foyer closet and see Alberto’s shirts, his ties.

  CPR!

  I must perform CPR!

  I grab the phone, rush back to the bedroom, and in my panic, forget to open the front door.

  As I stand over Alberto, I become conscious of the sirens approaching.

  I hear sirens, I tell Harmony. Thank God.

  I hear them too, Tré. But right now, we need to do CPR.

  Yes, I say, snapping out of it. Tell me how to do this.

  Interlace your fingers and place them in the middle of his chest.

  I try to ignore the temperature of his skin and the visible veins creeping down his forehead.

  Just pump vigorously, she urges.

  I start pumping. His head is jumping off the pillow. His eyes are not opening.

  What’s supposed to happen here? I shout. How do I know I’m doing this right? Will he—

  Harmony interrupts to ask if the front door is open?

  Oh my God, I say, and race to the door.

  Two young NYPDs in uniform are standing in the hall. I hang up with Harmony and start answering their questions—any drugs last night? any alcohol?—as I lead them to Alberto. They’re visually sweeping our apartment, but I don’t care. There’s nothing to hide.

  No, I say, just Greek food and movies about Cuba.

  When we reach Alberto, I realize he’s still naked so I cover his lower body with a chenille blanket. Just as I step away, the paramedics and firemen charge inside.

  I retreat to the kitchen to call my parents in California, but like a scene out of a horror movie, the call keeps failing. On the third try, it connects and my mother picks up.

  I hear my voice explain that Alberto wasn’t breathing when I woke up this morning and that he’s still not breathing, but the paramedics are here and they’re working on him.

  While answering her questions, I think I hear him cough—wait, Mom! hang on!—and lunge out of the kitchen into the chaos. Alberto is on the living-room floor, surrounded by medics and monitors. I want to rush to his side and keep him calm until I realize he wasn’t coughing: it’s just the sounds of the air bag they’re pumping into his mouth.

  Is he breathing yet? Is he breathing? she yells across three thousand miles.

  No, I whisper. It was only—oh, God. Is this really happening?

  I’m waking your Dad right now, she says, firmly.

  Please tell him what I told you. I gotta see what’s going on out there.

  I take a few halting steps toward what used to be our living room. It’s as if the firemen lifted a corner of our apartment and everything—sofa, coffee tables, area rugs, artwork—tumbled to one side. A medic blocks my view of Alberto and explains that the reason they haven’t taken him to the hospital yet is because we have the same equipment here as the ER does. He asks about Alberto’s age, medical history, and whether he takes any prescription drugs?

  He’s forty, I answer. He’s been on Lipitor, and he had a full physical on Friday. I was there: They gave him an EKG and a clean bill of health.

  Someone else asks for his driver’s license, which I produce from his orange wallet.

  I return to the kitchen in a daze and call Alberto’s mother. His stepfather answers, and when he hears my tone, he asks if everything is okay?

  Nothing is okay, I say. Please get Hilda.

  He mumbles something in Spanish before handing her the phone.

  Nené, what’s wrong?

  Mamacita. I don’t know how to say this, but please sit down, because I’m about to tell you that Albert wasn’t breathing when I woke up this morning. I called 911 and did CPR but—the paramedics are still working on him.

  Is he breathing yet, she gasps.

  No, Mumu, not yet. Please pray.

  I’m getting a flight right now, she tells me.

  Yes, I say, forcing back tears. Please—get here.

  I love you, Tré.

  Love you, Hilda.

  Alberto’s sister in Jersey doesn’t pick up her cell or home phone. Ditto for her husband’s cell. I hang up without leaving Barby a message because who leaves this sort of news on voicemail?

  My next call is to Fico, Alberto’s best friend and business partner of ten years. I repeat facts.

  I’ll be right there, he says.

  A year from now, Fico will confess that he was so stunned by my call that he told his wife and three young daughters that Uncle Alberto had an allergy attack. To this day, the word allergy still throws his kids into hysterics.

  At 9:03am, the worst-case scenario becomes official.

  Someone in the living room calls it.
<
br />   Alberto is pronounced.

  Massive coronary event.

  As the medics start clearing out their equipment, I start looking for a chair, the floor, anything for equilibrium.

  This can’t be happening.

  Someone asks me for his social.

  I hear myself recite it.

  Paperwork is produced.

  My mouth feels paralyzed but my fingers manage a signature.

  Do you want us to cover him, they ask.

  I look at Alberto, the chenille blanket still draped over his lower body, and kneel down beside him.

  His mouth is open, skin tone nearly normal after receiving the oxygen. He just looks asleep. And pale.

  Don’t cover him, I whisper, before returning to the kitchen.

  The madcap arrangement of our furniture means Fico has to nearly step over Alberto en route to the kitchen. His brown eyes are wide with horror when he lifts me into a hug.

  This doesn’t seem possible, he says. Or real.

  I keep hoping it isn’t, I say, turning from the living room and toward the window.

  We’re still holed up in the kitchen, avoiding the abandoned triage scene, when Fico’s wife appears. Nikki is visibly shaken—her dad died of a heart attack in front of her—but she shifts into event-planning mode, her profession for the past decade.

  Tré. Have you called your PR firm yet?

  No.

  Give me your boss’ number and I’ll handle it.

  I nod and press buttons on my phone.

  I stare at my digital calendar and announce in a flat voice that I was supposed to do Pilates with my friend Mariana this morning and I had a hair appointment this afternoon. There’s a dentist appointment tomorrow and drinks with a client on Tuesday. We divide up who’s-calling-who to clear my previously scheduled life.

  While leaving a voicemail for Mariana, I’m repulsed by my need to pee. My stupid bladder thinks this is just another Sunday morning? I make my way past the cops on our off-kilter sofa, their radios breaking the silence. Alberto’s arms are outstretched on the floor and I notice the wedding ring on his left hand. I kneel down to remove it, but it’s stuck.

  He’s already started bloating?

  I scramble to the bathroom, pump some liquid soap into my hand and use it to gently remove the ring.