I suddenly remembered one sunny Sunday morning in the winter, just weeks after our wedding. The sunlight had streamed into the bedroom, turning it buttery and warm, and his hair—he’d had such thick, glorious hair back then, light brown and all crazy if he didn’t comb it down. I’d thought those freckles on his shoulders so endearing. We made love . . . maybe the first time when it wasn’t awkward, because that’s how inexperienced we’d both been. Both of us virgins on our wedding night, hardly typical for the crazy seventies. But I’d been brought up with old-fashioned values, and John had been, too.

Anyway, we were pretty happy with ourselves that morning, since we’d finally figured out this sex thing, and we spent the whole day in bed, eating toast and then leftover spaghetti, reading the Sunday Times until it got dark. Then we showered and dressed and went to the movies. Can’t remember what we saw.

“Go ahead, Mrs. Frost, talk to him,” someone said, putting a hand on my arm. A nurse. Gosh, she seemed so young. Beautiful skin. Her eyes were kind.

“John?” I said, looking down at him. I wanted to call him honey, or darling, but it had been so long since either of us used a term of endearment for the other. “John, don’t worry. I’m here. You’re being taken care of. Darling.” I put my hand over his.

Please don’t die.

The thought came as a shock, a lightning strike right to the heart. We could do better, couldn’t we? It wasn’t too late?

“Here are his things,” someone said, thrusting a plastic bag at me.

“Mom! Oh, my God, Daddy!” Juliet was there, and started to hug her father, but he was too confined. She hugged me instead, her body shaking.

“I know, honey, I know,” I said. “He’s going to UConn, and they’ll do everything they can for him. World-class medicine, don’t you know.”

“Mrs. Frost.” It was the doctor again, with some papers in her hand. “He’s ready to go. The CAT scan did show a significant bleed, but no head or neck fractures. The chopper is here. Are you okay to drive to Farmington?”

“We’re fine,” Juliet said, then looked at me. “Riley London’s watching the girls and Oliver’s on his way home. I’ll drive. Do you have your car? Can someone drive it home?”

The details of emergencies. Who drove which car? Did Lindsey have my coat? Did I thank her for driving me? Would she cancel all my appointments for tomorrow? Oh, wait, it was Friday. Should we take Route 9 or Route 2? What was the traffic like? Did I need the ladies’ room before we left? I did.