But then I find myself racking my brain, struggling to recall the details from the last few years, when he must have been seeing Paula at the same time. Last year, he gave me a charm bracelet and took me to Café Chianti. Did he take Paula out to dinner too? Perhaps the weekend before or after? Did he give her a charm bracelet as well, and if so, what were the tokens that symbolized their relationship? Were they romantic and personal?

Deciding that I’m just torturing myself by wondering about these sorts of details when nothing can change the past, I’m tempted to send a text to Nathan—the only other widowed person I know besides my mother—just to say hi, because he probably has a hard time with this cruel, wicked day too. But I recognize that I’m feeling bitter toward Alan, and I don’t want this to be about vengeance, so I set my phone aside.

Later that night, it chimes on the kitchen counter anyway. I pick it up and read a text from Nathan: Hey you. Happy Valentine’s Day. Most romantic day of the year, right? Having fun yet?

I smile and let out a breath that releases all the tension in my neck and shoulders. I quickly type a reply: I swear you must be my alter ego. I was thinking about going for a flying leap off the Macdonald Bridge just now, but your message has cheered me up. :)

I hit “Send” and wait for his reply.

Avoid the bridge. Water’s too cold this time of year. Instead, I recommend a big bottle of cheap whiskey. Works for me.

I laugh and type, Perfect! Wish you were here so we could drown our sorrows together.

He doesn’t respond for a moment, and I wonder if that was an inappropriate thing to say. It’s Valentine’s Day, after all, and it’s been only three months since I buried my husband. I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings about this friendship that’s been growing between us.

Finally, a message comes in. He says, Me too.

I sit down on the stool at the kitchen island and start to feel a bit uneasy. What if Zack picked up my phone and read these messages? What would he think?

Nevertheless, it’s been a rough day, and I’m grateful to be able to express at least some of what I’m feeling. Nathan is one of the few people who truly understand.

I decide to text another message: Three months in and I’m feeling pretty angry at the universe, but mostly at Alan. Especially today. It’s hard to remember the good times.

There’s a long pause. Do you want to give me a call?

I consider that, and part of me wants to, but another part of me is afraid of confiding in this man too much more than I have already. He’s generous and kind, smart and handsome, and he’s alone on Valentine’s Day. It feels a bit dangerous.

Inhaling a deep breath, I type a reply: I would love to talk, but I probably shouldn’t. Zack’s waiting for me to watch a movie. I’ll insist on an action thriller of course, with lots of car chases and fistfights.

None of that is true. Zack is at Jeremy’s house, and I’m here alone. But it gets me off the hook without my having to explain my feelings.

Nathan texts back, Good plan. I recommend Jason Bourne. Or King Kong has a certain appeal on Valentine’s Day. It’s a love story, sort of, so you won’t feel like you’re practicing total avoidance.

I chuckle. Then I marvel at Nathan’s gift for lightening my load at any given moment. Those are excellent suggestions. Thank you. Have a great night :).

You too. TTYL

I like how he ends the message with “Talk to you later.” It’s nice to know that the door remains open.

I set down my phone and start to walk away with a smile but immediately return to it and delete that entire thread of texts, just to be safe.

A few days later, I sit down with the chief of surgery to talk about the future. I explain to him that I’m feeling better with the medications Dr. Tremblay has prescribed and I can function very well throughout the day and have no trouble meeting with patients, but I inform him that I can’t continue to wait around to return to the OR. I need to make plans for the future.

“I need to find another way to be a doctor,” I tell him, “and I’m sure you’d like to bring in another surgeon to replace me permanently.”

Dr. Richards regards me with sadness and compassion. “I’m so sorry, Abbie. You know how hard it is for me to hear you say that. You were a terrific surgeon. I hate to lose you.”

“Thank you, John.”

“But I respect and appreciate your decision, and I agree that it’s for the best. Do you have any idea what you’re going to do next? Where you’ll go from here?”

I think about his question and look down at my hands on my lap—no longer the hands of a surgeon.

“Not yet, but I’m considering going back to being a regular GP, maybe joining an established practice that needs an extra doc. Daytime hours only.”

“There are plenty of those in the city,” he says. “I’m sure they’ll be fighting to get you. And you know you can rely on me for an excellent reference.”

“Thanks.” I rise to my feet and shake his hand. “It’s been a pleasure working with you these past few years. I mean that.”

He makes a slight grimace. “Wait a second. You’re not planning on quitting today, are you? Because there’s still plenty of work around here—follow-ups and consults—and I haven’t even begun to look for your replacement.”

I smile at him. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay until you find someone. I’d never leave you in the lurch.”

He wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. “Phew.”

I laugh, and we chat for a few minutes. Then I return to my office to work on some files. Eventually, I feel an overwhelming urge to lay my head on the desk and close my eyes. Thankfully, it’s a good time of the day for it. I have a full hour before my next appointment, so I get up, close my door, lock it securely, and lie down on the sofa to take a quick power nap.

A short while later, I wake to the sound of a knock at the door. It’s my receptionist, Janine.

“Dr. MacIntyre, are you in there? Please answer. Your door’s been locked for two hours. Are you okay?”

Oh God, has it really been two hours? I missed my appointment?

I try to get up, but I can’t move, and this time, I know exactly what’s happening.

Janine knocks again. “Dr. MacIntyre?”

I want to answer her, but I can’t even lift my hand off the leather sofa or open my eyes or call out. All I can do is lie there like a corpse, listening to the sound of her rapid knocking on the door.

Her voice grows more panicked. “Dr. MacIntyre! Are you in there? I know you are. Please answer me, or I’m going to get security to open the door.”

Please don’t do that. Just give me a minute or two. The paralysis will pass soon . . .

But it doesn’t pass, despite my intense efforts to push my eyes open and roll off the sofa.

I hear keys jingling and Janine talking to someone, and I prepare myself for the security guard to walk in and find me drooling on the sofa cushions.

The lock clicks, the door opens, but it’s not the security guard. It’s Troy—the young firefighter who rescued me from my vehicle on the night of the accident and later found Winston in the ice storm. He’s wearing heavy gear and carrying the Jaws of Life. Despite my embarrassment, I’m overjoyed to see him because he saved my life and Winston’s too.

And that is the moment I know that I’m dreaming.

He kneels down beside the sofa. “Dr. MacIntyre, can you hear me? Just try to relax. You’re going to be fine.”

I want to tell him that I’m already fine. I know exactly what’s happening to me. It’s just narcolepsy.

He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Don’t be afraid. We’re going to get you out of here. We’re just setting up the equipment. Can you hear me?” He presses his fingers to the pulse at my neck and says to Janine, “She’s alive. But barely. We just need to get her out of here.”

No! I’m fine! And you don’t need to get me out of here. Just wait a minute or two. I’ll be able to move soon.

And you’re not even here.

Two more firefighters come running into my office to operate the Jaws of Life. Troy tosses a heavy blanket over my head to protect me from flying glass and steel. I feel panic and fear.

The noise is deafening, and my heart is racing. Then it occurs to me that maybe I’m not here at all. Maybe I’m back in the wreck, and all of this agony in my life has been a nightmare, just like I imagined it was on the night Alan died. Maybe none of it’s real. Maybe I’m truly dying. Maybe I’m already dead. Is this the afterlife?

Please, don’t let it be that. I don’t want to die. I want to live.

Suddenly my strength returns, and I can move my fingers and toes but not the rest of me.

Am I stuck under the dashboard? Is that the weight that’s pressing down on my legs, or is it just the paralysis? Am I truly unconscious?

I draw in a quick breath and force my eyes open.

It’s bright.

The middle of the day.

I’m staring at the ceiling in my office.

The room is quiet and empty. The door is closed. Troy isn’t here, and Janine isn’t knocking at my door.

But my heart is pounding like a drum, and I can’t stop shaking as I try to sit up.

It was just a dream, Abbie. You’re not back in the ravine, trapped in your car. You’re not dying.

But it felt so real . . . the sound of the machines, Troy’s voice in my ear, the fear of death. I truly thought I was back there.

I wasn’t, thank heavens.

I survived the wreck, and I’m still here.

I’m here. I’m alive. And I’m so grateful for that.

Slowly, I sit up and try to work some strength back into my limbs. I rest my elbows on my knees and rake my fingers through my hair, shake my head to try and clear away the fog.

I glance at the clock on the wall, worried that I’ve missed my appointment, but evidently I’ve been asleep for less than twenty minutes, not two hours, although it feels like ages.