Page 6 of Must Love Hockey
He slams the back door. “All done here. Want me to park it at the Navy Yards?”
“I’ll park it at home tonight,” I say. “Meet you at the air terminal tomorrow.”
“Sure,” he grunts. “’Night, Jimbo.”
“’Night. And thank you!”
But he’s already gone.
* * *
By the time I ease the van onto 6thAvenue, it’s midnight. Stadium traffic has cleared up, so the drive to the hospital only takes ten minutes. And I get lucky with an on-street parking space.
“How can you parallel park this thing?” Emily asks, watching me lean on the wheel.
“I’m a Brooklyn boy. I could parallel park the Staten Island Ferry on a postage stamp.”
She laughs, which is how I know she’s really on the mend.
I hop out of the van.
“You don’t have to go with me,” she says. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
“Sorry.” I shrug, locking the vehicle. “I can’t just leave a woman alone in front of a hospital at midnight. What if they tell you to go somewhere else?”
She gives me a funny smile and doesn’t press the issue.
When we reach the check-in desk, a militant-looking guy in a buzz-cut and scrubs gives Emily a long form to fill out.
“Seriously, you don’t have to wait,” she says, taking a seat to fill out the paperwork.
“I’m not leaving you here until I’m sure we’re in the right place,” I tell her.
“Then I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” she says, leaning over to attack the form, which seems to require a hundred pieces of personal information.
When she’s done, we approach the desk again. “What’s your health concern?” Mr. Grumpy asks.
“I had some kind of violent allergic reaction,” Emily explains. She goes on to tell him about her symptoms and how Doc gave the go-ahead to apply Wilson’s EpiStick. She lifts her sleeve to show him her hives, but the red spots have faded to nearly nothing.
“And you think it’s okay to go around stabbing yourself with a stranger’s medicine?” the man behind the desk barks.
“Not usually,” Emily says, straightening her spine. “But this was an emergency and the doctor said he thought it was merited.”
I practically have to wire my jaw shut to avoid jumping into their conversation, because this guy is being a first-class asshole. But I won’t be that guy who talks over a woman who can speak for herself.
And I’m not the only one who’s irritated, either. There’s a slight young man standing ten or so feet behind him, holding a pen and a medical chart. He’s simultaneously eavesdropping and making notes on someone else’s clipboard chart.
“Fine,” Mr. Militant says eventually. “Come on back. The standard procedure is three hours of observation following a dose of epinephrine.”
“How much will it cost?” Emily asks. “I have a really high deductible.”
“Not my department,” he barks. “Now come on through before I give someone else your spot. And just you. No boyfriends.”
Emily turns to me, wide-eyed. “Okay. Wow. Thank you for all you’ve done.”
“It’s nothing—”
“Let’s go!” bellows the asshole, and Emily flinches.
