Only, it’s not Lolo. Nor is it my mother. Or anyone I have saved in my contacts.
Which normally would be a “straight to voicemail” kind of situation, but this one gives me pause because it’s area code 212. Manhattan.
Curiosity wins, and I pick up. “Hello?”
“Hi, um, is this Tom Walsh?” The feminine voice has a stressed quality to it, as though she didn’t want to be the one to make this call but lost a coin flip.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
There’s a sigh of relief. “This is Alicia Grant. I work in HR at Kaplan & Gosset.”
I sit up very straight. And very still.
There’s a company name I haven’t heard spoken in years. And one whose very office I passed by just minutes ago.
“Okay?” I say because honestly, I cannot think of a single reason why they’d be calling me now, after all this time.
“Mr. Walsh, I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, but . . . there’s been an accident.”
NINE
KATHERINE
December 23, 12:49 p.m.
Even before I open my eyes, I know where I am.
See, hospitals have this smell.
Hospital Smell likes to think it’s a clean scent. But it’s too clean. Suspiciously so, because it knows it has things to hide.
Like bacteria and sepsis and bad news and permanent goodbyes.
Slowly, reluctantly, I open my eyes to slits and immediately groan because the horrible neon green of the fluorescent lights sends a laser of pain straight back into my eye sockets.
I manage to keep my eyes open just long enough to look down and see that I’m wearing a horrible hospital gown. The kind that your ass hangs out of. There are clouds on it.
This tells me two things:
I’m the patient in the hospital.
And I’m in hell.
But the whole “how did I get to this hell?” That part eludes me.
I close my eyes again, trying to force my brain to sort through the muddiness. I remember talking to . . . Martin?
No. Marvin. No. Matthew? No.
That I have no idea the guy’s name is actually a relief because that’s normal for me.
Once again, I force my eyes open and call out into the empty room. “Um, hello?”
The only response is the monotonous beeping of machines. Slowly, I turn my head toward the source of the sound, alarmed to realize that I’m hooked up to one of the machines via an IV in the back of my hand.
Nope. Don’t like that one bit.
“Hello!” I try again, my voice a little louder this time. A bit impatient. Fine, a lot impatient. “Is there, like, a room service button I’m supposed to press?”
Room service probably isn’t the right phrasing, but maybe it’ll annoy someone enough to pay attention to me.
Alas. No response. I turn my head toward the door with the intent to better project my voice in the direction of people with answers.
The movement is a huge mistake. I feel a pain I can only describe as my skull caving in on itself, followed by a wave of nausea.
“Holy—”
I slam my eyes shut once more against the green light because I’m quite sure that the greenest thing in the room now is probably my face. I inhale deeply through my nose and pray that the nausea stays dormant rather than escalating to projection.
Thankfully, after what feels like forever, the queasiness recedes.
Lesson learned, I don’t move. Instead, I begin gently picking through my thoughts, trying to sort through my most recent memories.
Let’s see, we’ve got . . .
Slow-moving tourists.
Starbucks sprinkles.
“Silver Bells.”
Michael. Matt. Martin.
Mitch!
Rockettes.
The cab.
Crunching metal.
That’s where it all stops.
“Well, hell,” I mutter.
The only thing that makes sense is that I was in an accident. One that I can only assume is the fault of someone other than my driver because New York cabbies don’t do accidents.
My brain fuzziness must be receding a little because I finally think to fumble through the rough, paper-thin sheets of the hospital bed for a little remote thingy. I know from my dad’s extended hospital stays that there was always one near his hip when he needed help.
And I definitely need help. Help outta here.
I hate hospitals. I really hate hospitals at Christmas.
My fingers brush the cool, hard plastic, and I push the largest button rapid-fire until I hear the padding of footsteps. Even though the soles of the shoes sound like rubber, I can still sense the irritation in the gait.
Which seems unfounded. I’m the one tethered to the bed in a butt-baring gown; they are mobile and thus don’t get to sulk.
The footsteps stop by my bed, and I open my eyes.
“Finally,” I mutter, turning my head ever so slowly toward the nurse.
I inspect her carefully.
I have a lot of respect for all nurses, I really do. I met plenty over the course of my dad’s illness, and I know it can be a thankless, devastating job.
I also know that even the nicest nurses can be a little testy near the end of their shift. Very testy at the end of a double.
“When did you start work today?” I ask.
She stares at me. “I’m sorry?”
“Your shift. How far into it are you?”
She looks confused as she checks her watch. “I get off in just under an hour. Why?”
“Your first shift? Or second?”
“My first. Honey, do you need something?”
Oh, where to begin. I need an explanation. A cab ride home. My clothes.
My phone! Oh my God. What if I missed a call from Harry? The call from Harry?
“Can I have my phone? Please,” I add quickly to assert myself as one of the good patients.
Instead of answering, she studies her tablet, glancing between it and the machines attached to me. “How are you feeling? You thirsty? Hungry?”
Neither. But even though my nausea is still lurking, the headache is way, way worse, and in my experience, there’s no migraine that a solid, nutritious meal can’t make a dent in.
“I could eat. But no hospital food, please. Respectfully, it’s gross, which will just make the queasiness worse.”
She nods. “No hospital food, got it. Why don’t I just go ahead and order something in,” she says. “How about some Chinese? I could go for an egg roll.”
“Hmm.” I purse my lips. “Sushi? Some rice might help my stomach.”
“Sure, sure. Sashimi sampler okay?” she asks.
I shrug. “Great. But no eel. Oh, and can you make sure they don’t try to sneak in that low-sodium soy sauce? I like the high-voltage stuff.”
“Absolutely!” she says. “Why don’t I go ahead and just run out, get it myself,” she says. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”
I smile gratefully. “That’s so nice . . .”
Her droll expression finally registers, and my smile slips.
It finally clicks. “You’re being sarcastic.”
She smiles, not unkindly, and pats my shoulder. “How about we start with some nice Jell-O?”
I stare at her. There is nothing nice about Jell-O. “Please tell me that’s also a joke.”
“You have to admit, sashimi and Jell-O are basically the same texture.” Her smile is wider this time. More genuine.