Page 96 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
Rizzo calls to say she got my message about the doctor and not to worry about the chart I left unfinished.
“I told them you are allergic to the color of that room,” she says. “Also, I have ginger tea. Come steal it from me later.”
“I will,” I say. “Thank you for yesterday.”
“You bet,” she says. “And if a strange car tries to be your friend, you remember I am meaner than it.”
“I know,” I say. I want to say more.
I don’t.
She hangs up in the way that says she will text me a photo of a cat in a sweater if I sound shaky.
A bike messenger cuts too close.
I step back, bump someone’s shoulder, say sorry, keep moving.
My skin is buzzing in that way it does when I have slept too little and thought too much.
The SUV drops back and then edges forward.
It wants to teach me a rhythm.
I speed up and pick a new one.
By the time the hospital is in sight, the crowd has thinned into the morning lull between bus schedules.
This is the part of the day I like least.
The light is flat, the street is quiet, and everything feels like it is waiting.
At the curb by the service entrance, a white van half-blocks the alley.
There is a cartoon wrench on the side and a phone number in a font that looks like it lies.
The rear doors are open a crack.
Inside I see tool cases lined up too neatly.
The driver is on the phone, nodding at nothing, the way men nod when they want to look like they belong.
A second van idles at the hydrant with a city sticker peeling from the windshield.
I tell myself to look at the door, not the van.
Professional.
Normal.
Boring.
I call this the hospital face.
It keeps men with clipboards from giving me instructions I do not need.
“Morning,” a voice says, warm and casual.
The man who says it has a clipboard and a reflective vest and the kind of smile that sells memberships.
