“Hello, ma’am, I’m Jessica, this is Mitty, we’re paramedics, and we’re going to have some questions for you. It’s very important that you answer truthfully.”
Jessica’s rattling off questions that she’s obviously asked a million times before: “Where does it hurt, ma’am?” “Well, mostly the hole in my back where the knife was.” “Are you on any drugs?” “No.” “Are you allergic to any drugs?” “No.” “Can we cut these very expensive clothes off of you?” “Well, I’ve already bled all over them anyway.” “Does this hurt?” “A bit.” “What about this?” “AAAAGGHGHHHH!!!”
During all this, Mitty’s laying me on my right side on the gurney, taking my blood pressure, shining a light in my eyes, asking me if I can feel and move my fingers and toes and then pinching my fingers and toes, after which he says, “Good cap refill in all extremities,” and I reply, “That sounds like good news!”
They both laugh.
In a matter of moments I am being loaded into the ambulance.
“Hey, can I have a second with my friend?” I ask Jessica.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Andy!” I call out.
He runs over from where he’s been talking to the cops. “Yeah?”
“Look, this is going to sound shitty and the first thing is making sure I’m OK, but I think I’m OK so . . .” And I was honestly embarrassed to say it, which I guess is good. “We need to get out in front of this. We need to be the bigger voice, the better voice, or else this will just be another thing they’ll blame Carl for.” And at that moment, I look over at Carl. Still standing impassive, regal, powerful, oblivious, and untouchable, even missing a hand.
“As soon as the cops are done with me, yeah, I’ll get on it.”
“No, the cops are going to take that footage and sit on it. You need to give me the card.”
He considers this for a moment and then realizes I am probably right. “Dang, girl, you are shockingly lucid for a person with a hole in them. What about the last line?”
“Let’s just do it now.”
He flips on the camera and pops out the mic cable since the EMTs removed my mic with the rest of my clothes. Andy hates using the built-in mic, but he hates accidentally recording something with no audio considerably more.
After locating a piece of clean shirt to wipe the lens clean, he squats down, only a foot or so away from my face, better for the built-in mic to pick up good audio. “Rolling.”
In the shot, you can see that I’m lying on my side on a gurney. The ambulance is in the background, and you can see Mitty and Jessica milling about. I’m a mess, and there are still streaks of the Bellacourt goop on my face. The only thing I’m wearing on my upper body is a blanket. It’s a pretty kick-ass shot.
I drop back into my presenting voice, strong and bold, even though it hurts. “As I was saying, even on this most terrible of days, even when the worst of us are all we can think of, I am proud to be a human.”
Andy popped out the card and handed it to me under the blanket. I slipped it in my pants pocket.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
We’re not supposed to be curious.” This was Jessica, in the ambulance on the six-minute drive to the hospital, talking loudly over the siren and the rumble of the road. I was on my side, facing Jessica. Apparently they didn’t want me lying on the wound.
“Explain,” I replied.
“Well, there are a lot of things paramedics aren’t supposed to do. One is wonder what happened. Mostly, I don’t care, but even when I do, I can’t. My job is to keep you as healthy as possible on the way to the hospital. And, well, we’re supposed to be extra uninterested if the person in the back is, um, recognizable.”
“Oh. Well, hello, I’m April May, you may have seen me in such YouTube videos as ‘April May and New York Carl.’” Talking hurt, but not that much more than breathing did.
“I figured as much.” I liked Jessica, with her big, thick-framed glasses and bright red lipstick. If I’d had to guess, I’d say she was maybe a couple of years older than me. She was checking my blood pressure and breathing constantly.
“Am I going to be OK?”
“Interestingly, that is another thing we’re not supposed to talk about. If I say you are, and then you aren’t, you could sue me.”
“Oh. Well . . .” I thought for a second. “If a person were in your ambulance with exactly my symptoms, would you be concerned about their future ability to be alive?”
She smiled. “I would not be.” The blood pressure cuff hissed out its air, but she left it velcroed on my arm.
“That is pleasant to hear.”
“Do you want anything for the pain?”
“No, it hurts, but I’m OK. Actually, if you want to do me a favor, could you look in my blazer pocket and see if my phone is in there?”
“Yeah, it was, I already got it. Do you want me to call someone?” she asked as she pulled it out. “Oh. Damn, girl, you have like eight billion text messages.”
“So, checking the phones of the patients in your ambulance is not on the list of things you’re not supposed to do?”
She made an endearing embarrassed face. “Now that you mention it . . .”
“Don’t worry. Uh, can you just text Robin? Just tell him that I have very minor injuries and what hospital I’m going to and to spread the word to friends and family. And tell him to bring a laptop.”
I gave her my passcode, and as she tapped out the text she said, “You’re going to Bellevue, by the way.”
“Oh, neat!”
“Neat?”
“Yeah, it’s such a pretty building, I’ve always wanted to check it out. Though maybe I could have found a less painful way of getting there.”
She finished the text, and I heard the little whoosh noise of it flying off to the nearest cell tower and relaxed a little.
“Bad news, though, you’re going to the ugly building.”
“Figures. I suppose now I should talk to my parents.”
“I mean, I don’t mean to pry, but you’ve also got quite a few texts from a Maya who seems extremely concerned.”
I let out a long, slow groan.
“Never mind! Sorry. None of my business.”
“No, it’s fine. Just text her that I’m fine, it looked worse than it was. Send the same to my parents, tell them I’m going to Bellevue.”
Two more whooshes.
I shifted slightly on my side. “Whoooooa,” I said, suddenly dizzy again.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t be having you talk so much,” she said as she started pumping up the blood pressure cuff again. “What are you feeling?”
“Just dizzy. Also my mouth feels like it’s packed with dryer lint, I feel a little like I might puke, and I’m suddenly very sweaty. But that might just be being half naked in the back of a truck with a cute paramedic girl.”
“Good lord, they’re going to put you on morphine just to keep you quiet. Your blood pressure is low, but not dangerously. The pain is probably what’s pushing you toward passing out. Do let me know if you’re really thinking about puking, though.”
“It does hurt quite a lot. More when I breathe.”
“Well, don’t stop breathing.”
“I like you, Jessica.”
“I like you too, April May. Now shut up.” She moved around to sit behind me, lifted up the blanket, and placed the cold circle of a stethoscope on the injured side of my back.
After a few seconds she said, “The main concern is that your lung might be punctured, but I’m seeing no signs of that.”
“What would that feel like?”
“I have no idea, no one’s ever stabbed me in the back. Now seriously, be quiet.”
I tried to work up some spit to lick my lips because they felt super dry. My tongue came away tasting sweet, like I’d been wearing grape-flavored lip gloss or something.
“Can I have some water?”