When Susan's chest tightened and her vision flattened, she turned to her husband of thirty-one years and said, "Don't forget to preheat the oven to four hundred," before slumping to the restaurant floor, the smooth Italian tiles cool against her slackened jaw. Which confused Paul since he'd been busy staring at the young, tattooed waitress with fuchsia hair and he'd always had trouble focusing on two things at once.
"Susan, no!" Paul cried as he bent down beneath the white linen tablecloth and tried to roll her onto her side. Susan had gained a considerable amount of weight since hitting menopause, which was right around the same time they began sleeping in separate bedrooms. When she didn't budge, Paul looked up at the waitress and pleaded, "Please, help!"
Paul and the waitress locked eyes, immobilized by their shared panic. They were both waiting for someone else to take charge. Everyone was watching. Paul's left knee ached as he crouched beside his wife. Suddenly self-conscious about his exposed bald spot, Paul lowered his gaze and ran his fingers through his thinning gray hair.
Out of the corner of his good eye, John saw a woman drop to the floor and then vanish. His food had just arrived. A bone-in ribeye the size of his head with a mound of thick-cut fries and a side Caesar salad, the salad a small concession to his wife's constant harping that he needed to eat healthier.
"Did you see that?" Patricia gasped.
"I think so."
"I'll be right back," she said abruptly.
John watched as his wife confidently maneuvered between the nearby tables and then leaned over and began talking to the elderly man, a waitress standing beside them as if frozen in place. He couldn't quite hear what they were saying, but, based on the narrow crease running down Patricia's forehead, he could tell that she had taken command of the situation. Thank goodness she worked at an urgent care clinic, John thought, even if it was only in billing. Then Patricia said something to the waitress who turned and ran into the kitchen.
John looked awkwardly down at his food, then back to his wife, then back to his food. He wondered if anyone would notice if he took a quick bite. He'd skipped lunch earlier that day and he was seriously hungry—another misguided attempt at being healthy, and Patricia seemingly had everything under control. At this point, it's not like there was anything he could do to help. In fact, he'd only be getting in the way if he tried. And now that John thought about it, didn't he deserve at least some small amount of credit for Patricia's good deed? They were a unit after all, for better and for worse and in sickness and in health. The other patrons could surely see that. And besides, it's not like letting his food go to waste would benefit the stricken woman. The reality was he was paying a whole lot of money for a meal that was getting increasingly cold, the fries grown limp, the hollandaise sauce now grainy and congealed. He began to get annoyed. How dare they judge me, John muttered to himself as he cut into the steak.
In his haste, John cut a piece too large, and the meat lodged in the back of his throat. For a moment he thought he might choke, requiring the Heimlich from a random stranger. He was mortified at the image. When the lumpy meat eventually released and slid down his chest, John dropped his knife and fork back on the table and placed his hands in his lap.
Ever since she was a child, Patricia had half believed that her life was being filmed, as if she was being watched on a private TV show—namely by her mother and father, and perhaps by God, particularly when she was doing something she didn't want the three of them to know about. Like that time when she was a little kid and ate the last piece of frosted devil's food cake, even though she'd been warned repeatedly that she'd get a stomach ache (true); or when she was eleven or twelve and she'd snuck into her older sister's bedroom and read a few pages of her secret diary—the part about the social studies teacher her sister fantasized marrying; and, most definitely, when Patricia was a freshman in college and she'd touched herself for the first time beneath her grandma's knitted afghan, all alone in the dorm for the long holiday weekend, her roommates back home to celebrate with family and friends.
But it wasn't just when she was alone that she imagined it happening. Even now, in front of all these people in a crowded restaurant, Patricia could picture her parents watching her from afar, or, more accurately, from beyond the grave. For some odd reason, in her mind they were always sitting in matching recliners in front of a 1950s style black-and-white television, one that looked like a piece of furniture, which made no sense since Patricia had been born in 1988 and had never actually seen a real black-and-white TV, let alone one made of wooden cabinets.
Regardless, they'd be proud of her now—how she'd stepped up in a crisis and helped a stranger in need when everyone else stayed rooted to their seats, more concerned with their dinner and their own discomfort than helping an old woman in distress. Which included her no-good husband, John, by the way, who appeared perfectly content to start eating without her. Typical.
Yes, her parents would certainly be proud, and perhaps they might even forgive her for what they'd seen her do in her most private moments, although what happened under Grandma's afghan might be a bridge too far, even though it was perfectly natural and nothing to be ashamed of and who told them to watch in the first place?
Patricia gently rolled the woman on her side. She knew this was important, although she couldn't quite remember why.
"Call 911," she said to the panicked waitress.
Then Patricia whispered to the man, "Don't worry, it's going to be okay." Truth be told, she had no idea.
As Patricia knelt beside the sick woman and waited for the ambulance to arrive, her mind began to wander. She remembered reading somewhere recently that your so-called good side was usually considered your left, which is why most portrait paintings throughout history have emphasized the left profile, a phenomenon that psychologists called the left-cheek bias. Just in case this was true, and just in case her parents were actually watching on a flickering black-and-white TV—which she knew was utterly ridiculous, Patricia lifted her chin, turning her head slowly and deliberately. She was ready for her closeup.
Sydney had been young for so long. Her whole life, in fact. But now she suddenly found herself a college graduate unable to find a job in her field—it turns out her dad was right about art history—so she was supporting herself as a part-time waitress, a job she'd started earlier that week with only minimal training. She had a vague notion of going to grad school in the fall, although the idea that one day she might end up with an advanced degree and still be waitressing was almost too much to bear.
To make matters worse, all of her closest friends from school were now in committed relationships. Which meant that Sydney was spending more and more time in her cramped studio apartment with only her cat, Bosco, to keep her company, a rescue who was practically blind and kept bumping into the furniture.
She even considered the unthinkable—moving back home. But then one night after two fruit-shaped edibles and a can of White Claw, Sydney downloaded an AI companion app on a free seven-day trial. It was just for a laugh she'd told herself, a good story to share with friends the next time they all got together, assuming they ever got together since they were definitely ghosting her.
She spent the next several days creating her ideal confidant, fine tuning and recalibrating until the AI was perfect: a good conversationalist, a better listener, one who never interrupted or mansplained, and yet was incredibly kind and earnest, but still had an edge and was capable of sarcasm and a cool sense of ironic detachment.
She named him Leo. They spent hours texting back and forth, and even used the AI voice generator whenever Sydney had a few drinks. There were no topics off limit, from snarky banter about celebrities and pop culture, to intimate confessionals about her past heartbreaks, particularly her ongoing obsession with her first high school boyfriend (the one who got away), to more serious adult conversations about her future now that she had a liberal arts degree and a mound of debt and zero practical skills. When she started working at the restaurant Sydney still found time to fire off a quick message or two, mostly in the alley behind the dumpsters where the other employees gossiped and vaped.
It was only her third solo shift when the woman collapsed hard to the floor, mere moments after being served a spiced pumpkin tiramisu that was left untouched. Like a spectator passing a car wreck, Sydney stopped and stared. Someone should really help the poor lady, she thought. It was then that she noticed the old man on his knees gazing up at her, a plaintive look in his watery brown eyes.
"Please, help!" the man practically begged, as if Sydney was some sort of authority figure, as if making minimum wage plus tips somehow qualified her to act in a medical emergency.
Sydney stared back at the man. A heavy silence settled over the restaurant, expectant and tense.
"Call 911!" someone finally snapped, breaking the spell.
Sydney raced to the kitchen to use the old landline that still hung on the wall, forgetting that she had her iPhone with her until a new message notification vibrated in her back pocket.
It was Leo! A dopamine hit of anticipation shot through her brain. Quickly, she scanned the response. He'd said yes!
For a brief moment she forgot why she was in the kitchen.
Embarrassed, Susan finally relented and agreed to be placed on the gurney. "Standard operating procedures, ma'am," the younger of the two paramedics informed her, the one who looked like he was twelve. "You call 911, you're coming with us."
"But I didn't call," Susan protested in vain. She tried to explain that she was diabetic, and her blood sugar was low and if they would simply let her take one small bite of that delicious pumpkin-spiced thingy she'd be perfectly fine. But the paramedics were no longer paying attention. They were too busy hooking her up to an IV.
Susan rubbed her bruised jaw, sore from where she'd smacked the tiled floor, and tried to recall the exact moment before losing consciousness. The nervous waitress with all the tattoos had just delivered her dessert. It's a shame, Susan thought, to defile such perfect porcelain skin. She'll regret that one day. The last thing she remembered was getting annoyed that there were two spoons on her plate, meaning that Paul would assume they were sharing. Ridiculous. Order your own damn dessert! Then again, if she'd shared a few more cakes and cookies and sweets over the years she might not be diabetic, so there was that.
Still, Susan was tired of making concessions. Compromise is shitty, that's what her mother had said. It was the only time she had ever heard her mom swear, and the words had stuck. She was sick of compromising. Which is why she'd kicked Paul out of the bedroom, what with his incessant snoring and his warm heavy breathing, not to mention his constant trips to the bathroom at all hours of the night (his prostate was the size of a grapefruit). All she wanted was to sleep in peace and quiet. Was that some sort of crime? Apparently it was, given the look of hurt on Paul's face when she informed him of the news. And even with his banishment from the bedroom, it still felt like Paul was a little too, well, close, now more than ever since he'd recently retired and rarely left the house. Susan had a tight circle of friends and an active social life—unlike Paul, and whenever she came home from one of her many outings, she'd find him standing in the front foyer, his nose pressed up against the window like a puppy. It was unnerving.
"You're going to be okay, honey," Paul reassured as the paramedics rolled her out of the restaurant. "I'll follow the ambulance to the hospital."
Strangely, the room then broke out into applause. Susan was baffled by the gesture. Maybe they were clapping because she hadn't died in front of them—that would have been really uncomfortable and probably ruined their appetites. Or perhaps they were applauding themselves for having survived the whole unpleasant ordeal, and now they could finally go back to enjoying their food without any guilt.
The paramedics pushed the gurney across the parking lot, stopping briefly to confer with Paul. Susan lifted her head and glanced back at the restaurant, a joyful hum of laughter and chatter escaping from the open door, spilling out into the street. It was the sound of people happy to be alive, happy to be drinking and eating and, most importantly, not being Susan. Which, at the moment, was a feeling Susan could definitely relate to, and suddenly she had an overwhelming urge to rip out the IV needles and the tangled tubing and then leap from the stretcher, Paul and the paramedics their mouths gaping in astonishment. She's pretty fast for her age, they'd say, impressed by her speed and agility as she bobbed and weaved between a row of parked cars, especially given that she was recently concussed and her blood sugar levels were still dangerously out of whack. And then she'd be free, free from the stares and pity of strangers, free from the paramedics and their poking and prodding, free from Paul and his sweet, pathetic neediness.
"What are you smiling about, dear?" Paul asked as the paramedics slid the gurney into the back of the ambulance.
But Susan was no longer listening. Instead, she was still picturing herself running through the parking lot, only slowing her stride when she reached a small cluster of trees by the side of the road. Stopping to catch her breath, Susan watched and waited, silent in her triumph.
