I don’t feel right, he told her. Trouble breathing. Heart feels like it’s racing; coming out of my chest.  She took a cold, wet towel and wiped his forehead.

Should I call an ambulance? She asked.

I don’t want to die, he said. This is my golden opportunity to leave this earth. The heart rate increased. Just stay here, he said. By my side.

I’m calling 9-1-1.

Please don’t. Please don’t.

She sat next to him on the edge of the couch. Try to remain calm, she said, continuing to dab his forehead. 

I think this is it. He closed his eyes. She held onto him. Sweat poured out. Suddenly, the breathing stopped. The body had collapsed. He was gone. Forty years had slipped by.

Up on the shelf was a teddy bear. It was orange and blue with a Chicago Bears jersey on him. Number 34. She looked up at the toy on the shelf and remembered practicing how to change a baby’s diaper with it. That was years ago, she whispered. Back before we lost the baby.

Time went by. She never got over her sadness. He never stopped smoking and drinking. She never stopped pretending.

Every night, while watching TV, she’d clutch onto the teddy bear she named Little Walter. Holding it close to her heart and wishing it good night when her husband fell asleep. She rocked it back and forth in her arms. Sang to it under her breath while he snored and shifted on the couch with his feet dangling. A half empty bottle of scotch on the coffee table. Cigarette burning.

And now she held her husband’s head in her lap. Sang and wished him good night. She felt alone. She felt alone. Why does everyone leave? She whispered. Everyone.