The phone rang that Tuesday evening, September 12, 2006, and my heart quickened. Maybe Jim was calling to wish me a happy forty-fifth birthday. That would be just like him. Twenty-six years of marriage and we were still as much in love as we’d been back in high school. Maybe even more. Our youngest had just left for college, and we were looking forward to this time together. Camping trips. Weekends at a B and B. Romantic motor-cycle rides, me sitting behind Jim, my arms around his waist, leaning against him, feeling his strength.
I picked up the phone.
“Is this Lindy Wilson?” a woman asked. “I’m a nurse at Santa Rosa Memorial Hospital. I’m calling about your husband. He’s been in a serious accident.”
My mind couldn’t process what she was saying. It had been a beautiful late summer day. Jim had ridden his Yamaha Royal Star over the Sierras to a meeting of fellow electric utility superintendents four hours away. He’d hated not being home for my birthday. I glanced at
