“Aw, sweetie, someone sent you balloons,” Nurse Jarrika said. “Those from your sis?”
Roddy sat up straight. “How’d you—？”
“Downstairs, at the check-in desk . . . They only give info to family, but as I passed, I heard this woman say she was your sis,” Jarrika explained, circling to the other side of the bed, dragging her cart behind her. Along the wall, she gave a pump to the hand sanitizer, quickly cleaning her hands. “I gotta admit, she’s like a clone of you, sweetie.”
“W-Was she—？ What else did she say?”
“Typical sibling. Wanted to know how you were. When you’re getting out.”
“And this was just now?”
“An hour ago . . . maybe a little less. Call downstairs—Gino spoke to her. But take it from me, I’m fluent in pushy family. She’s worried about you,” Jarrika teased, sliding on latex gloves and letting them snap like she was ready for surgery. “C’mon, let’s get you clean.”
Lifting the side of his gown, Roddy revealed the beige plastic bag attached to his belly. There was a stab of pain as she pressed the skin around the stoma—the fresh, tender hole—and freed the current bag, which had a pungent smell. To reassure him, Nurse Jarrika gently put her palm on his forearm. But at that exact moment, if she looked up, she wouldn’t see pain or even embarrassment on Roddy’s face. Instead, she’d see a lopsided but unmistakably wide grin.
Nola was here. Only for a few minutes, but she was actually here. She’s worried about you.
That’s something, Roddy thought.
106
“I really have to ride in this?” Zig asked.
Hector the orderly nodded, pointing Zig to the wheelchair, in no mood for a fight. “Hospital policy.”
“What if I promise not to sue?”
“Those are always the people who sue,” said Hector, a burly man with a bushy beard and a rainbow-striped button on his lapel that read: Sounds Gay . . . I’m In! “Don’t worry—your manhood will survive.”
“It’s not my manhood I’m worried abou— Ahh . . . actually maybe it is,” Zig said, gingerly lowering himself into the wheelchair. Between the burns and the shrapnel, sitting wasn’t easy. “Just promise me there’re no potholes.”
“It’s Newark, sir. There’re always potholes,” the orderly said, pushing him up the hallway to the nearby elevator.
A minute later, there was a ping, the doors opening on the ground floor.
“You got a ride?” the orderly asked.
“Uber,” Zig said, pulling out his phone t—
“I got him,” a female voice announced.
Zig looked up. Halfway down the polished hallway, she stood there alone, near the wall, like the last stubborn bowling pin refusing to fall. In the fluorescent light, she looked washed out and tired. But even from here, her dark eyes were knives. Nola.
“That your daughter?” the orderly asked.
Zig shook his head, blinking, like he still wasn’t sure she was really there. What’re you doing? he asked with a glance.
“It’s a two-hour ride. Uber’s a rip-off,” Nola said. “Let’s go. I’m double-parked.”
“Not bad advice,” the orderly agreed. “Anyway, on behalf of the city of Newark and our general counsel, you are officially no longer our legal responsibility. Also don’t trip on the speed bumps outside.”
Standing from the wheelchair, Zig was working hard to hide how much it hurt, not that Nola was looking. She was already outside, the revolving door still spinning as he followed her to her car, a beat-up gray Dodge with a dented roof that looked like it’d been repainted by hand.