Two hours later there was no call, and still no answer when I tried his cell phone. Around midnight, the clock and I had a conversation, I told the clock I wanted to wait another fifteen minutes before my new life began, the life in which Karl had been killed in a plane crash. I requested fifteen minutes more in this worldwhich I was quickly coming to see as the pastbefore figuring out who to call, who to wake up. Youll remember this feeling when the phone rings, I told myself. Youll remember how scared you were when he calls to tell you hes fine. And it was true. As many times as Ive been in exactly this situation, I never forget it, and it never fails to shock me, the flood of adrenaline that does not serve for fight or flight but drowns me. At twelve-thirty I shifted my perspective again, from wondering what it would be like if he were dead to the knowledge that he was dead, and I decided I could wait another fifteen minutes. He would be dead forever, so what difference did it make if I have myself a little more time? I still had no idea what I was supposed to do.After I had extended the final cutoff two more times, he walked in the door. Thats how these stories always end, of course, except for the one time they dont. I saw the headlights against the garage door and went outside in the rain to meet him with my love and my rage and my sick relief. I wanted to kill him because he had not been killed. I wanted to step into his open jacket and stay there for the rest of my life. How had he not called?I did call. I called you from Kentucky.But you never told me youd left Kentucky.It took a long time to get the transponder fixed.Then why didnt you call to say youd landed?It was too late. In the house, he went to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of orange juice. He was dead tired but not dead. I didnt want to wake you up.He might as well have said, I thought you were sleeping because I have no idea who you are, or who any normal people.I stayed awake for what was left of the night to watch him, just to make sure he was really there.

These Precious Days by Ann Patchett