Page 11 of A Storybook Wedding

Aunt Rose’s doppelganger smiles. “You’re at the Block Island Medical Center.”

“A hospital?”

She shakes her head. “No, my friend. This is actually a very modest primary care facility, but with the absence of a hospital on the island, we also offer urgent care as needed.”

I look at Cecily. “What happened?”

Aunt Rose goes on. “It appears that you and quite a few others from your program suffered from paralytic shellfish poisoning. Happens every now and again in this area, unfortunately.”

“What is that?” I ask.

“It’s caused by a marine biotoxin. Essentially, you ate a lobster that ate some toxic microscopic algae. But don’t worry, Mr. Ellis. You’ll be okay. You were brought here for monitoring because you passed out.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It appears you may have had a panic attack. We gave you some Klonopin, and now that you’re awake, I’m happy to give you some anti-nausea medication.”

“Please,” I say weakly.

“Sure thing,” she agrees. “Be right back.”

“Wait,” I manage. “Can I be moved into, like, a room? Please?”

“I’m sorry, but we only have three private rooms, and they’re all at capacity. You were asleep, so we placed you out here in the hallway instead,” Aunt Rose explains. “We’re not really set up for this many visitors, you understand.” She smiles, and I cannot discern whether it’s intended to be sweet or condescending. “Several others in your program ate the bad lobster as well. In fact, had there been any additional, we would have had to airlift some of you back to the mainland.”

Still, three rooms? For an entire island of people? I wonder. Really?

“What about her?” I ask, gesturing in the general direction of Cecily.

“She was willing to stay out here as well,” I am told. “And thank you again, dear, for being so accommodating.” Aunt Rose pats Cecily on the hand before turning back to face me. “Now, let me go grab those meds for you before you get hit with another wave of nausea.” She winks at me, as if we are both in on a little secret.

I look across the hall at Cecily, who has pushed her bucket to the far edge of her bed. Her knees are bent, and her forehead rests on them. Her eyes are closed; her glasses press into the thin skin of her kneecaps, leaving a mark. There’s no room in our shared area to pretend like she’s not there, but I swear, if she starts crying again, I won’t know what to do with myself, and the position she’s in certainly feels reminiscent of one a person might choose when they’re about to begin sobbing.

Try a little small talk, I decide. I clear my throat. “Bad day, huh?”

She turns her head sideways, still resting on her knees, and pushes her glasses up on the bridge of her nose with her pointer finger. I must be drugged, I think, because that little thing she just did there was surprisingly really cute.

“This wasn’t in the brochure,” she says. It strikes me as funny, but when I chuckle, my stomach squeezes so hard I feel like I might black out from the pressure.

I wince, and she gives me a sympathetic half smile.

The nurse who looks like Aunt Rose returns and adds something to my IV—the anti-nausea meds, God willing. We sit quietly after she leaves, and yes, by some saving grace, I manage to start feeling a little less disgusting.

“Did they give you this stuff too?” I ask, gesturing at the IV.

She nods gently. “A while ago. You were asleep.”

“Then how come you were still getting sick?”

She shrugs. “Aftershocks, I guess. I feel better than before, by a lot. Just exhausted.”

“What time is it? Any idea?”

Cecily is wearing a watch—an actual analog silver bracelet thing that ticks. She checks it. “Almost midnight,” she says.

“Damn it,” I mutter.

“What?”

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