Page 28 of Merrily Ever After
Hmmm. “Not that I want to sit on this bed for five hours, but I’m feeling very rushed through this process.”
“That’s because you’re weirdly okay,” the nurse says. “I think the duffel coat might have padded your fall. But you’re going to be sore for the next few days. Any big changes, call your doctor, but otherwise you just need to rest.”
“I don’t really rest.”
She smiles. “Now you do. You’ve got your prescription?”
I nod, glancing down at the sling. “How long do I have to wear this thing?”
“Usually two to three weeks for an elbow sprain. But you’ll need to check that with your GP. Do you need a work cert?”
“No,” I say. “I need to bathe my four-year-old.”
She winces. “Best to make that Dad’s job for the next few days.”
Right. Great. I’ll call the sperm clinic.
“Before you go,” I say as she reaches for the curtain. “How does your skin look like that?”
“Genetics,” she says apologetically, and I sigh before letting my father know I’m coming.
There’s a small huddle of people at the exit, all staring listlessly through the automatic doors. It isn’t hard to guess why. The cloud cover I woke up to this morning has turned to heavy, loud rain that’s soaking everything in sight.
I squeeze through them anyway, now desperate to get out of here as I step out onto the covered path outside.
The only other person risking the downpour is a stubbled man in a hospital gown, who’s chugging on his vape like he’s going to die if he doesn’t.
He acknowledges me with a nod. “Raining.”
“Sure is,” I say, and glance down at my phone to see a message from my dad.
Out on road by bus stop.
Why can’t you meet me in the hospital?
Six euro for parking
Wonderful.
Vaping man blows a stream of watermelon-scented chemicals my way. “What happened to you?” he asks.
“Um …” I shoulder my purse awkwardly on my good arm and peer through the vast parking lot, looking for the exit. “I got hit by a bus.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m getting a vasectomy,” he offers.
“Nice. Christmas present for the wife?”
He just looks at me.
Okay. “Have a good one,” I tell him, and tug my smelly coat over my head as I step out into the rain. My foot immediately lands in a puddle, but I ignore the uncomfortably wet sensation just like I ignore each jolt to my arm. It’s fine. I’m fine. A bad day. That’s all.
And, I mean, hey.
It’s not like things can get any worse.
