Page 26 of Merrily Ever After
My smile drops as an oncoming cyclist hits a pothole, and I jerk back as she careens onto the pavement. Something whacks into my ankle, the front wheel perhaps, and when I lift it up instinctively, I slip. The world goes into slow motion as I start to fall onto the busy road, shouts of alarm echoing all around me. Someone behind me yanks at my purse, trying to pull me back, and there’s a horrible pain in my arm that I register a second too late.
A horn blares, and as I hit the tarmac, I look up just in time to see the flash ofoh shiton the bus driver’s face.
And then everything goes black.
*
Another festive trip to the hospital. I fear this is starting to become a tradition for me.
I sit sideways on the bed in my little curtained square, trying to ignore the dull ache in my arm. The one currently in a sling, strapped to my chest. They had to cut my blouse open to get to it. It wasextremelydramatic or at least I thought it was. The doctor didn’t seem to care. He also didn’t ask me before doing it and it’s not like I would have said no, but it was an expensive blouse and I don’t know if my insurance covers that kind of stuff.
At least my coat is okay. I mean, excluding the massive murky stain on the front.
At first, everyone thought I threw up, which would be understandable. But no. That was just the soup bursting open all over me. They cleaned me up as best they could, but I still smellof pickles and I want to say chicken liver? I can’t know for sure. But also, I don’t think I want to.
I pluck at the shapeless gown thing they gave me as a top, restless. The emergency department is smaller than I thought it would be. Though maybe that’s because I’ve only seen one teeny tiny part of it. A little curtained part. Other than that, I guess it’s not so bad. No one’s crying or screaming in pain. No one has any horrific injuries like on television. There’s just a lot for talking and waiting and beeping machines. It’s pretty boring, actually. Boring enough that I pull out my phone and message my sister.
Hey guess what
She texts back immediately.
What
I got hit by a bus
When a minute passes with no response, I send her a selfie with my sling and the bandage on my cheek.
My phone starts ringing exactly two seconds later. Uh-oh.
“Zoe!” Molly’s dulcet tones screech in my ear. “Are you serious?”
“I’m fine.”
“You got hit by abus?”
“And I’m fine. A few bruises and a day off work.”
“Did you break your arm?”
“The bus broke my arm. Let’s not victim-blame here. But listen, I want to tell you about this soup I—”
“Oh my god.” Molly sounds halfway to a mega freakout. “I’m coming to Dublin.”
“No,” I say quickly. I should have anticipated this. “You’re not. It’s just an elbow sprain and I’m fine. Dad’s collecting me and he’s bringing me home.”
“How did you get hit by a bus?”
“Honestly, I’m just surprised it’s taken this long.”
“Zoe!”
The curtain snaps open.
“I’ve got to go,” I say as the doctor who cut my blouse steps inside. “I might be dying.”
I hang up, flashing him a smile. He’s handsome. Very handsome. He’s got that tired, I’ve-been-up-for-seventeen-hours-keeping-people-alive air about him and is the kind of man my friends have tried to set me up with dozens of times. Authoritative. Capable. Good jaw structure. Probably makes decent money.
But so do I. And I also have a much better bedside manner.
