The Christmas Orphans Club(75)
“What a cop-out!” Hannah goes on. “You deserve better, you know. You deserve everything.” Her hand finds mine in between us.
“Yeah . . .” I trail off, letting her think I’m dumping him because of yesterday and not because she was right about what she said when we fought: I don’t love him, and I’m not sure I ever did.
After that we go silent, Hannah makes no move to leave, and I don’t try to make her. A few minutes later her breathing slows. Even more than I relish being welcomed back into my childhood home and the nostalgic comfort of this room I grew up in, my true source of comfort is Hannah. The person that has stood by my side and witnessed my life when my biological family wouldn’t. And even though I didn’t think I could sleep, with her here, my eyes flutter closed, too.
twenty-one
Hannah
This year, December 25
“You sure you want to go to the hospital, lady? It’s a zoo over there today,” the barely legal paramedic teases Priya in a thick Long Island accent, like on second thought she might prefer to self-treat her leg, which is bent at an unnatural angle, with essential oils and prayer.
“Pretty sure,” she tells him, her voice dripping in sarcasm. At least the crowd of spectators has dissipated. For a while, a swarm of tourists watched on while a pair of paramedics strapped Priya to a gurney, like this was a vital part of the New York City tourism experience.
“Well, be prepared to wait is all I’m saying.” The paramedic offers his parting words before slamming shut the ambulance’s double doors and slapping a flat palm against the door twice to signal his partner in the driver’s seat.
Finn tried to ride with Priya, but she shut him down, so I’m in the back with her. “I’m not saying it’s your fault, Finn, but if you listened to me, this never would have happened,” Priya said skyward, her neck cradled in a head immobilizer in case of spinal injuries.
* * *
? ? ?
?The emergency room at NYU Langone is more crowded than a sold-out show at Irving Plaza and the door policy is twice as tight. After Priya’s X-rays a nurse deposits us in a curtained-off cubicle to wait for a doctor to tell us what we already know: her leg is broken.
“Does anyone want more coffee?” I ask from my perch at the foot of Priya’s bed. A graveyard of takeout coffee cups litters the C-shaped rolling table beside us. If I have any more coffee I might need a hospital bed of my own, but the act of getting it from the vending machine in the lobby is something to do to pass the time.
“Not unless you have a flask to spike it,” Theo replies. “2014 Finn would have had a flask.”
“2014 Finn also would’ve had a hangover,” I add. Theo gives a knowing laugh.
Finn ignores us, instead beginning what has become a familiar call-and-response over the past couple of hours. “Are you in pain?” he asks Priya.
“Yes,” she answers through gritted teeth, though I’m guessing her harsh tone is more annoyance than pain.
“Is there anything I can do?”
The first few times he asked, she simply said no, there was nothing he could do, but this time she snaps back at him: “Not unless you have a time machine and can go back in time and attend medical school.”
This is getting uncomfortable. I grapple for anything to say to lighten the mood. “Finn failed Biology 101 twice,” I offer. “He had to take geology for his science credit instead. They dumb it down so much they call it Rocks for Jocks. It’s the class all the football players take to fulfill their core requirement. Trust me, you would not want Finn as your doctor.”
Priya gives a grim nod. “Yeah, hard pass.”
“So I guess it’s gang-up-on-Finn day. I thought that’s usually in April.” Finn does not sound amused. He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Also, not to be a dick, but this was supposed to be one last special Christmas before I go to LA.”
“Do not make this about yourself,” Priya warns.
Before things can escalate, a staggeringly handsome doctor with a day’s worth of stubble and coif of messy brown hair pulls aside the curtain to our cubicle. He looks like he was plucked from central casting of a network medical drama.
“Priya Patel?” he reads off the chart in his hands.
Priya smooths a hand over her own hair. Paula used so much gel to set her finger curls that there’s not a single strand out of place despite a fall, an ambulance ride, and two hours in bed. I can’t fault her for the vanity, though—the doctor is easily six feet tall and is surveying the room with a pair of ice-blue eyes.
“Ben?” Priya asks, her kohl-rimmed eyes wide with shock.
Ben? Like Ben, Ben?
Priya’s Ben? Her ex-something, Ben?
It’s true what they say that sometimes New York is like a small town, but if there’s ever a time to run into an ex, doing it with professional hair and makeup might be the best possible option.
“Priya?” He looks down at his chart and then back up at her, equally shocked, like he’s waking up from autopilot mode and didn’t register her name when he read it.
“Erm . . .” He stumbles before stalling out.
The three of us swivel our heads back and forth between Ben and Priya.
“I can get you another doctor if you want,” he says eventually, “but you’d probably have to wait.”