The wrong direction

My fifth day in a row at BH's house, the fourth full day since his wife and kids left for much-needed R&R, I get a call from my husband.

My husband is having trouble breathing. He's throwing up. His inhaler isn't quelling the asthma attack. "I need you."

Check with BH, check with the attendant on duty, call the attendant who is scheduled to arrive: everyone on track, everything under control, can I leave to help my man? Husband hangs on the line.

Out the door. Driving home. Cell phone, every few minutes: "Where are you?"

Hold on. Hold.

Home. Husband into the car. Head for the emergency room.

Fire on the hillside, traffic clotted on the bridge, looky-loos and weekend-escapees. Slow, slow.

Emergency room. Hand husband over to doctors. Wait. Wait some more.

Two hours later, he's stable, but they can't predict whether he'll need to stay only a few more hours or remain overnight.

My cell phone has lost its charge. If BH's attendants try to call me, I won't know.

Back to BH's house I go.