Good Under Pressure

The elevator doors open with a chime. Derek pushes past the crowd, exiting first. Time is money. His voice rings in my head, and I fear this won’t be the last time I hear his excuses for being a jerk.

I wait for the rest of the crowded moving room to clear, putting as much distance between myself and my now ex-husband.

Two years of lawyers, courts, and arguing left me with half my money and one less husband. That's a pretty good result, if you ask me.

The outcome of neither of us being in one another’s lives anymore wasn’t good enough for Derek. He’d argue until his voice ran its course if he knew it’d leave him the victor. It’s one of the reasons I married him. His ruthless nature is intoxicating when he’s on your side, troublesome if you’re not, entertaining if you’re in the middle, but hardly anyone is neutral about Derek. A man with a million opinions with the confidence to share them.

Derek hustles through the court, muttering too loudly about how he has to go back to work and how the judge royally screwed him. Really, I should be the one complaining because I don’t have an employee spot at the court as he does. I had to wear heels and trek across town because our city is too big for adjacent parking, but too small for public transportation. The drivers in this city are used to desolate streets. They treat pedestrians like squirrels darting across the road, swerving in hopes of saving a life, but unremorseful if the critter falls into their path.

Oh, and I did lose half of my trust fund to the muttering man that used to be my husband. But to be fair, he did stick with me for ten years, the coincidentally shortest amount of time it takes to be rightfully owed half of everything from the richer partner.

I wish I weren’t angry or bitter, but a respectful separation seems impossible.

Ahead, Derek opens the door, and his impatience backfires: the wandering elevator crowd catches up, thinking he was holding the door open for them. He wasn’t. Never has, probably never will. I bite my lower lip, and a fierce compulsion for petty vengeance springs in my chest.

I rush past the lawyers, judges, and civil servants in their khakis and pale blue shirts. I must be in the queue to receive my door holding. Derek doesn’t notice me as I walk up. Our eyes make the briefest of contact, and I smile. His nostrils flare. A line of dark, curly hair peeks over the edge. I used to wax those.

Then, I’m outside in the smallest biggest city. Busy cars honk on the crowded streets. I take a breath. It’s full of exhaust and sweat, but right now, it's the beginning of a new life. The thought is pleasant, nerve-wracking, but it comes to a close before I can flesh out my post-divorce nap schedule.

Derek steams toward me. “You made me look like a fool!”

“I think quite the opposite. You held the door for a single, attractive lady. I would say it was quite chivalrous,” I say.

He harrumphs. “I’m glad I’ll never have to see you again. Consider this the last time I talk to you unless I run into an issue receiving my spousal support checks.”

“I’ll be sure to send it through your firm, that way all your lawyer friends can see how greedy their wannabe partner is.”

He waves his hand, dismissing me.

I smirk. “See you never again, Derek,” I say before turning to leave. The day suddenly seems so bright. Not a cloud in the sky. Sure, the heat is borderline unbearable, but when you’ve shed two hundred pounds, it’s not quite as suffocating.

I pivot, leaving Derek for good.

Then, tires screech, followed by a thud. Shrieks and gasps fill the air.

A car has smacked into a pedestrian. The man lies in the middle of the road, unmoving. His leg bends the wrong way.

The compact car is strewn across the intersection. The driver’s side door is ajar. The driver, a boy who doesn’t look old enough to hold a license, wails on his knees. “Oh my God! Oh my God!”

The passersby pull out their phones, hopefully dialing 911 before filming the incident.

I take a step forward. Maybe I can help. My only medical knowledge was a CPR class I took over four years ago when Derek and I were planning to have a baby, but that was so long ago.

Paralyzed by indecision, Derek is beside the stricken man before I can move an inch. Derek’s already thrown his jacket aside, barking orders at the growing crowd of onlookers.

“Call an ambulance!”

“Is anyone a doctor?”

“Get that kid to shut up!”

Before I realize, I’m running to the incident. My heels clack on the pavement, and I kick them off. The black concrete burns my feet, but it’s an incentive to run faster.

Derek shakes the pedestrian’s shoulder, but no response. Dribbles of blood run down his cheek. His leg still looks wrong.

Derek responds with CPR, starting with chest compressions. Thirty compressions followed by two rescue breaths. Derek paid no attention in class, I recall, so how is he performing CPR correctly? He left numerous times to take client calls. When one’s a lawyer, one’s always on the clock, he’d always say. I thought it’d be one of many reasons he wouldn’t be a good father.

My breathing hitches at the sight of a man I used to love giving his all to save someone else, a stranger.

Sirens wail in the distance, echoing off the five-story buildings. Derek continues his work, but briefly pauses to catch his breath. Sweat drips down his forehead, his cheeks flushed with heat. My mind conjures an image of Derek taking a drag on a cigarette. He knew I was trying to quit for the baby. What if a client smokes? he’d say. I can’t stand there with nothing in my hand.

“Move over,” I order. Derek obliges.

I start where Derek left off. He finished twenty compressions. I complete the cycle—ten more, then two breaths. The sirens grow louder, near to the point of bursting my eardrums.

I complete another cycle of CPR.

The pedestrian coughs. His body shudders, and his eyes open. A moan escapes his bearded lips. I lean in to hear the muted gasp. He’s alive. I wipe his blood from my cheek. I study the man’s chest, watching it shallowly rise and lower. Less than a moment later, the ambulance arrives. The red and blue wash Derek’s features. We make eye contact, a moment of recognition. A silent appreciation between the two of us.

We’re good under pressure. If only there were an endless supply of people nearly dying in front of our marriage, Derek and I might still be together.

The EMTs arrive, shortly followed by the police. The EMTs review Derek’s and my work. Satisfied, they give us a nod. The wailing teenager is put into cuffs. The crowd disperses because the show is over. The pedestrian is loaded onto the stretcher and into the ambulance. The police question us, and in fifteen minutes, the accident disappears from the city’s memories.

I plop down on the curb, wishing I had a cigarette. Derek sits beside me. “Good job,” he says, offering me a drag of his half-burnt cigarette.

“I can’t believe you still do that. No wonder you couldn’t perform five minutes of CPR.”

“Guy from accounting smokes. I keep him company.”

I nod. That seems about right. A stranger is always more important than his wife.

I stand, brushing off my skirt. “Have a nice life.” I leave Derek sitting on the curb. My burnt feet sting with each step, but a giggle escapes me. A lightness enraptures my soul, alleviating the heaviness of my physical body. The air is cleaner outside of Derek’s cloud of smoke.

He calls for me, but I ignore him. “Bah!” he grumbles. His muttering continues, but grows distant as he walks away.