What's Left of Me

Him.

My life changed the night I met Parker. He has shown me that it is possible to carry on with the life I was meant to live, showing the world that even though I was dealt a shitty hand in life, I still took the gamble and came out on top.

I am Aundrea McCall, and I am a survivor.

Epilogue

Parker. Three years later.

I stand up from the edge of the bed, re-folding her letter, tucking it safely away in my coat pocket. The voices from the living room get quieter, and I know it’s only a matter of time before someone comes in here to get me. The wake is in an hour, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it.

I’m not sure I’m ready to see her body.

I’m not sure I can stand the thought of my last memory of her being like that, in the same church where I made her my wife.

I’m not sure of anything.

There’s a knock on the door but I don’t look to see who it is. “Parker, we’re going to head out now. Do you want to ride with us?” Genna’s voice carries through the room as she pushes the door open wider.

I’m standing lifeless in the center of Aundrea’s old room.

I can’t move, so I don’t.

I can’t speak, so I don’t.

I just stand there with my eyes closed, breathing quietly, trying to take in any scent of hers that lingers.

The scent that still reminds me of that day.

The day my life was taken away.

I wake up to the sound of Aundrea’s phone. The vibration of the phone against the nightstand is like a bee buzzing right in my ear. The sound stops for a second, then starts back up again. Finally, I open my eyes. Squinting, I try to read the numbers on the clock. My vision is still blurry as I try to focus my eyes against the sunlight shining between the blinds. 8:09am. Whoever is calling her this early better have a good reason.

I don’t feel Aundrea curled up against me as usual, so I reach behind me, feeling the bed to see if she is still here, or if she’s already awake.

When I make contact with her hip, I smile at the thought of her still in our bed. Moving onto my side, I move my hand to grip her hip, feeling the silk of her nightgown between my fingers. Her head is facing right, and her left arm is out to the side, her palm up. She looks so peaceful.

So beautiful.

Aundrea is truly the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and even more beautiful when she’s sleeping. The way her lips stay slightly parted as she breathes in and out and her chest rises and falls. There have even been times I would just lay my head on her chest and listen to her heartbeat. Just listening to the sound of deep thumps in her chest gives me a sense of completion. A sense of happiness.

When I look up at her chest, I wait. I wait for the moment she takes in a sweet breath and slowly releases it. It’s my favorite part of watching her sleep; listening to the sound of her breathing. I gaze at her chest, holding my own breath as seconds pass. Then, after what feels like a minute.

“Aundrea?” I whisper.

When she doesn’t stir, I reach down to her left hand and interlock our fingers.

My heart stops, and I immediately sit up. “Aundrea?” I ask again.

I get on my knees, leaning over her motionless body and grab her face, turning her head toward me. “Aundrea?”

She doesn’t move.

She doesn’t even react to the sound of my voice.

I bring both hands to her shoulders and lightly shake her. I don’t take my eyes off her face. Her eyes stay closed and her mouth relaxed.

“Aundrea!” I yell.

I look down at her chest, waiting for the breath.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

“Aundrea!” I scream. I shake her more.

She doesn’t flinch.

I bring my shaking fingers to her neck and feel for a pulse.

Learning CPR and doing it are two totally different things. All protocol goes out the window. What you do first ... how many breaths ... how many compressions. It’s as if someone or something else takes over your body. When you’re placed in a situation that requires you to do CPR, the adrenaline that takes over your body is unlike anything you will ever go through. Nothing matters except the person in front of you. And, when that person happens to be the love of your life, you feel as if you’re seeing yourself lying lifeless in front of you.

I don’t have time to think.

I react.

I jump over her body and lean my head down over her face to feel for air. To feel anything. I know I won’t feel anything, but I have to make sure. I have to know.

When I don’t feel her cool breath against my cheek, I tilt her head back. Not thinking twice, I open her mouth and bring mine on top of hers, giving her two short breaths.

Moving my hands to her chest, I place one on top of the other and start pressing into her perfect chest.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 … 20, 21 … 28, 29, 30.

I bring my mouth back to hers, filling my lungs with air as I do.

Breath.

Breath.

My hands move back to her chest. I press deeper counting out loud with each push.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11…

“Come on!”

12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18…

“Breathe!” I scream, looking down at her face. Her body jerks with each movement.

19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26…

“Come on, Aundrea! Breathe!”

27, 28, 29, 30…

Breath.

Breath.

I repeat this pattern over and over again until I lose count on how many cycles I’ve done. I can hear cracks in her chest with each compression I do. I know I’ve already broken a rib or two, and with each additional crack I know more are breaking. I keep saying, “I’m sorry” each time I press deeper into her chest and with each additional crack that fills the room.

“Come on, baby. Come on!”

I know I can’t keep doing this. Not alone. But I’m too scared to stop. I don’t know how long she has been like this, and I know every second counts. Stopping means less air. Less of a chance to bring her back to me.

I realize that sooner or later, I’m going to need help. Pausing, I look down on the nightstand for her phone. I fumble with the phone as I get into the call screen, exiting away from the two missed calls from Genna. I dial a number that has been programmed in my brain since I was four years old: 911.

“911 what is your emergency?”

“My wife … I— I need help! She needs help! She’s not breathing!” I cry into the phone at the top of my lungs. I don’t know why I am screaming. I know the operator can hear me just fine, but a part of me thinks they’ll know it’s an emergency if I scream. That whoever is on the other line will hear my distress and it’ll somehow make things happen faster.

“Sir, I need you to stay calm. Did she fall? Is she hurt? How long has she been unconscious?”

Too many fucking questions! Just send someone to me! To her!

“No … I don’t know … I woke up and she wasn’t breathing. She isn’t breathing! I tri— I tried CPR. Please, you have to—”

I can’t finish. I drop the phone and fall to my knees. I know it’s too late. I know she’s gone, and it fucking hurts. I can feel the knife stabbing into my chest. With each sharp jab I fall forward onto the floor, clutching at the sheet that hangs off the bed, pulling it into my chest and crying harder.

I don’t listen to the voice coming through the phone. I claw at my chest, trying to take whatever is stabbing me out. No matter how hard I try, nothing comes out. It just keeps coming.

Stabbing.

Piercing.

Cutting.

I force myself to stand and bring myself to the bed where Aundrea is. I grab her body into my arms, pulling her to me as I sob.

She doesn’t feel warm.

She’s motionless as I bring my head to the crook of her neck.

She still smells the same. Like honey and sweet pears.

I cry into her neck rocking us back and forth as I pray. “Please God, please let her wake up. Aundrea! Please, baby, open your beautiful eyes. You can’t leave me. Not like this. Please don’t leave me. I need you. I need you. Please don’t go, Aundrea! I love you so fucking much. I need you with me. Open your eyes!”

I’m crying so damn hard that I don’t even hear the paramedics as they force their way into our apartment and into our bedroom.

One minute I’m holding Aundrea, and the next strong arms are pulling me away from her. I scream her name and start to lash out at whoever has their arms around me, moving me away from her body. The solid grip tries to pull me out of the bedroom, but I lash my arms out, grabbing onto the doorframe and stopping us. I can hear the cracks of the wood holding our weight as I try to force myself from not moving.

“No! Please! Please, she needs me! I need to be with her!”

All I see is Aundrea being moved and men hovering over her, calling out words I don’t understand. I don’t pay attention to how many people are in my room. All I focus on is her and trying to get a glimpse of her body every few seconds.

After a while, I give in and allow my weight to fall back on whoever is holding me up. The tears cloud my vision so that I can no longer see what’s unfolding before my eyes. When I hear a man say, to someone coming through the other end of a radio, “Dead on arrival,” I lose it.

Her scent brings me back to the present and, when I feel as if I’ve absorbed every bit of it that may linger in the room, I nod.

There are unspoken words between Genna and me as we make our way down the stairs and to the car.

Words of encouragement.

Words of strength.

Words of mourning.

When Jason turns off the car in the church parking lot, no one moves. Jason and Genna remain seated up front with their hands tangled together, and her parents sit in the back next to me.

I only saw Aundrea’s dad break down in public once: at the hospital. Aundrea’s mom, on the other hand, cries frequently. She’s always carrying a tissue with her no matter the time or place, even when she’s eating. It’s as if everything reminds her of Aundrea. She regularly walks around with her eyes swollen and red.

Genna’s been holding it together pretty well during the day. She lets out a few tears, but she mostly waits until she’s behind closed doors to let it all out. I walked in on her in Aundrea’s old room the day after Aundrea passed away. She was lying in the center of her sister’s neatly made bed, clutching one of her shirts tightly to her chest and shuddering with tears. Her cries grew louder when she felt me on the bed beside her. I don’t know where Jason was, but I knew she needed someone. I rested my hand on her back, rubbing gently, which only made her cry harder. We lay there, with the smell of Aundrea between us, and cried together. I’d never cried so damn hard in my life.

Jason moves first, reaching for the door handle. Like dominoes, we all fall behind him.

Entering the church is unreal. As I walk toward the sanctuary there are faces, eyes, handshakes, pats on the back, soft cries, and words of sympathy. I don’t recognize most of them, but everyone recognizes me.

My breath catches as I see the pink and white casket sitting front and center in the church. Photos line the wall, of Aundrea with her friends and family, Aundrea at school, on vacations, and with me. Next to the casket is an 8x10 photo of her. She’s sitting outside, in a beach chair, holding her Kindle and sporting a huge smile. There is so much life in that photo. She’s absolutely stunning. It’s my favorite photo of her. It was taken the day I asked her to marry me. We were on vacation in Florida with both our families. Her strawberry blonde hair had grown to her shoulders and it was blowing freely in the wind. I hadn’t planned on asking her that day, but when I looked over at her, I just knew there would never be more perfect moment, or place.