Deb Hamata and I had gone to nursing school together and had the same hire date. We had been through a lot together in St. Ann’s ER. She was the only colleague I referred to by first name, and the only nurse I wouldn’t annihilate for calling me Avery.
Michaels leaned in to gently push back a stray hair from my face. I recoiled. “You don’t worry about a thing. I’ve got you covered, sister.”
I crossed my arms and huffed as she walked away. Michaels was usually a lazy, unprofessional brat. She was just a few years younger than me, but her parents still paid her bills, leaving her without motivation for a solid work ethic. If a Bruno Mars concert were within driving range, she would call in sick. I had been burned enough times to know not to like anyone. At the moment, Michaels was compassionate and patient with my foul mood, making it very hard, but not entirely impossible, for me to dislike her.
I ran my fingers over my teeth. Thank God. All present. Felt my face. Whoa. Better than I imagined. I wiggled my toes. Yes. I’m walking out of here.
Not long after I took stock of my injuries, Michaels gave me the green light along with the few pieces of personal property that had been gathered from the wreckage. I hobbled from the sterile C.-diff-and-bleach smell of the hospital to the sweaty mildew odor of a cab.
The driver looked unsure as I retied the second gown around me that I’d used as a robe. “You sure you can go home just yet?” he asked.
“That bad, huh?”
I tried to ignore his curious eyes in the rearview mirror as I struggled to secure my seatbelt.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“You sick? You’re not gonna puke in my cab, are ya?”
“Car accident. I feel fine, thank you.”
“Your family couldn’t pick you up?”
“No family,” I said. Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me to call anyone. I’d been alone for so long, family was a foreign concept to me. There was an aunt and a few cousins in Florida, but I didn’t know them. Certainly not enough to let them know I’d been in a minor accident.
I kept busy enough with work that I barely noticed I was alone, but family was good for situations like this. Family kept you from having to ride home in a cab wearing two hospital gowns and oatmeal-colored non-skid socks.
“Where’s your clothes, kid?” he asked.
“In my closet.”
“Don’tcha have someone to bring you some? Anyone?”
I shook my head, giving him the address of my building. The driver finally pulled away, and after he learned the answer to the expected what do you do, he talked over jazz radio about his bunions, a life-long aversion to raw vegetables, and his two-pack-a-day Pall Mall habit. For some reason, when people learned I was a nurse, they felt the urge to confess their health sins. I guessed it was so I would either absolve them or diagnose them, but I had yet to do either.
“Is this the one, sweetheart?” the driver asked, pointing with his fat, tar-stained finger. “I think one of my ex-girlfriends lived here once.”
“I thought everyone your age married the first person they dated?”
He made a face. “Nah. I would have, but she wouldn’t wait for me.” He pointed to his embroidered hat that read VETERAN. “Navy.”
“Thank you for your service.”
He nodded in acknowledgment. His yellowed nails were lined with grime, and he had at least a day’s worth of silver scruff on his weathered face. He’d served our country and, by the looks of his hands, had worked harder jobs than driving a cab, compelling me to give him an extra-nice tip. I had no purse or pockets, and definitely no money. I opened my hand, revealing a few wadded up dollar bills and my keys.
“Let me just run up to get some more cash,” I said, my sore muscles complaining as I pushed open the door.
He huffed. “The hospital fares never pay.”
“No, I’ll pay you. Please wait here. I’ll be right back. Keep the meter running. I’ll pay you for your time, too.”
His eyes softened and he smiled. “Pay me next time, kid. Most people don’t even offer.”
For half a second, I’d forgotten there would be a next time. No telling what salvage yard my poor little sea-green Prius was in. It had crumpled around me as we cartwheeled together across the intersection into a patch of grass on the other side. I had somehow made it out in one piece, but there would be many more taxi rides in my future. That thought made my heart hurt. The Prius had protected me, and now it was spare parts.
“Thanks,” I said, looking at his license on the dash. “Melvin.”
“It’s just Mel.” He handed me a bent, smudged card. “Call me if you need another ride, but no more freebies.”
“Of course. I will. Thank you.”
He left me standing on the curb in front of the stoop of my building. I waved and then padded up the steps and pulled open the door, glad my apartment was only on the second floor. After just half a flight, my body slowed, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. I slid the key into the lock and turned it, shoving open the door and then leaning back against the wood until it closed.
“TGIF,” I said with a sigh, sliding down to the floor.
Almost two years in the same apartment, and it still looked like something a property manager would use to entice a potential renter. Nailing holes into walls that didn’t belong to me just didn’t feel right, but that didn’t explain why I hadn’t bought real plates, either.
I looked over at the door-less kitchen cabinets, exposing my collection of paper plates and plastic cups to match the plastic cutlery in the drawers below. Just one glass casserole dish, a skillet, and one pot were sitting in the space beneath the countertop gathering dust. Eating out had been more of a pastime than a necessity until that moment.