A Slice of Heaven

It’s your birthday tomorrow. I know you do most of the cooking, but I want to surprise you. With the kids out of the house for a few years now, I have more time on my hands, and I want to make use of the time alone since you will be working late tonight. I got all the ingredients together as listed from my mother’s old recipe card box, and I made sure I had all the right pans. I picked out my design for the two frostings, using a fudgier, darker version of chocolate for the lettering than the lighter base frosting, and I have all the utensils ready.

I preheat the oven as instructed. I mix the chocolate batter according to the directions, double-checking my accuracy each step of the way. For an extra touch, I toss and stir in a handful of chocolate chips since I know you love them. I pour the batter into the two pans and use this special trick I watched on the Google to keep the sides from getting too hard and keep the top flat. I set them in the oven, setting the timer as I do so. Once they are done, I take them out to cool, using the stovetop grates as my ‘cooling rack.’

Meanwhile, I clean up what I need to and then I practice my lettering on some wax paper with some of the frosting. Satisfied I can make it legible with a steady hand, I set the cakes on the little lazy Susan for the cake stand, making sure to remember to frost a middle layer before setting the second cake atop the first. I frost and decorate the cake with a simple design, making sure to spell out “Happy Birthday” and “♥U” evenly spaced and centered over the flat base layer by using toothpicks to mark some boundaries. I was quite proud of this!

I put the cake stand top over the cake, centered as best as I can make it for presentation to you, and leave it on the dining table flanked by a couple roses while I wait for you to come home and let me surprise you with a night out for dinner. After almost thirty years together, I still get excited to see you come through the door.

The home phone rings. “Hello," I answer.

“Mr. Phillips?” A woman’s voice asks.

“Yes,” I confirm, “this is Mike Phillips. Who is calling?”

“This is Elaine, a nurse at Mercy General. We need you to come to the emergency room. Amara, your wife, has been in an accident.”

I collapse into the nearby overstuffed chair, mute, and my heart pounding in my chest. My voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. “Uh.. how is she?”

“She’s in critical condition. We urge you to get here as soon as possible.”

Not even thinking about the apron I still wore, with all its chocolate smudges, I dash out the door to the car, barely remembering to lock the front door. I tear off as fast as I dared without risking an additional accident for myself. I get to the hospital emergency room, and staff at the arrival triage station direct me to your room. A nurse stands by your far side, watching all the instruments carefully.

“I’m her husband, Mike Phillips. How is she?”

The nurse looks up. “She’s receiving a lot of medications and holding on, for now. A massive pileup involving almost a dozen cars just happened, and all available surgeons and operating rooms are in use at the moment. We had to go according to severity. As soon as they are done in one of the ORs, or one of the other surgeons we called in from off duty arrives, she will be next.”

You are hooked up six ways to Sunday to a dozen different machines, and you are unconscious. I take one of your hands in mine. I try to be very delicate and careful, as IVs are hooked into you, and it’s cool to the touch. “Amara. Please hold on. I need you. It’ll be your birthday tomorrow. I want to celebrate it with you.” I kiss your hand. “I love you.”

I pause a moment. Normally, this is when I would feel a pair of slight squeezes from your hand. Two. Your silent shorthand for always letting me know “I love you, too,” since 'two' and 'too' rhyme. But, you are unconscious, so your hand remains still. I hang my head, dejected at missing the acknowledgment.

I try uplifting my voice, as if it will make things all work out. “I have a surprise for you. I made you a cake. Chocolate with chocolate chips. Your favorite.” Still no response.

Suddenly, several of the monitors start screaming a variety of alarms. The nurse comes over and pulls me away and then starts yelling a few medical codes into the hallway. A few others stampede into the room and begin attempting to counter them, and I am then pushed back against the far wall to make room. The original nurse gets me by the shoulder and ushers me out of the room and into the hall. After several anxious minutes, the dreaded death knell of a flatline rings out. Another few minutes, and the failed CPR and paddle attempts are over. I hear a doctor voice the time of death, and I become overwhelmed with anguish; I collapse against the wall and slump to the floor right there in the hallway.

It all happens so fast, I hadn’t had time to call the kids before you are gone. I make those painful calls now. The next hour or so is a blur, a mess of strangers, despair, consoling the children, unfamiliar surroundings, and obligations to sign a million forms. I ultimately make it home in a detached, melancholy funk.

From the entryway, I can see the dining table and the cake stand. The lid is askew from how I left it. Did one of the kids come home and mess this up? A little vexed, but also realizing the vexation is displaced, I walk over to investigate. The lid is off to one side, almost touching the edge of the cake within. I lift it up to see how much did someone eat, and I am surprised and relieved that the cake is intact. Well, mostly. I go to put the lid back on when I notice something is different.

On the top of the cake, next to the “♥U”, softly drawn atop the flat frosting, is a shallow “2”, to make it read: “♥U2”. In your handwriting. The tears flood forth unbidden the moment I see that, and I immediately sit down in a dining room chair, allowing the loss to overtake me for several hours.

For some reason, this time, enduring the tears helps, and the event is cathartic for me. I am able to work through several paths of one-sided conversation about you with myself, along with the meaning of life and my future without you. I am clearer of mind now that I know you await me in the hereafter. I don’t care that it messes up the aesthetics of the cake; I cut out the slice that perfectly outlines the "♥U2”, and I enjoy our literal slice of heaven.