She stares straight ahead, her voice almost inaudible over the growl of my big-block engine. “Look, I’m not just being contrary. I can’t go the ER. I don’t have insurance. I don’t have enough cash. I just ... I can’t. Not right now. I’ll be fine. Just take me back to Hope’s, and I can wait for her in my car.”
Is she fucking serious? She can’t mean that.I glance over at Ripley, her spine ramrod straight and shoulders back, her chin lifted.
I was wrong. It’s not stubbornness, it’s pride. My girl has it in spades.
“I’m covering the bill. We both know you’re working at the White Horse instead of the Fishbowl because of me.” I reach over and lay a hand on her thigh. “I’m sorry, Ripley. It wasn’t my intent to get you fired and kicked out of your apartment. I—”
She shifts toward me in the passenger seat. “I quit. He didn’t fire me until after I said I quit. So I’m going to stick to my story. And as for getting kicked out of the apartment, I’ll figure it out. It’s ... it’s been a long time coming, if you want to know the truth. It wasn’t your fault. Friday night might have been the last shove over the edge, but it’s certainly not the only reason. Don’t go feeling guilty because I’m homeless and jobless. I don’t need your pity.”
I squeeze her leg. “The last thing I feel toward you is pity. But I do feel responsible, and I’m not shirking that responsibility. You’re just gonna have to deal with that.”
I finally move my hand and make a right at the glowingEmergency Roomsign. Ripley looks at me, her face screwed up in irritation.
“I’m not going inside.”
“Then I’ll be carrying you again.”
“What part ofnodon’t you understand?”
“Any of it when it means you don’t take care of yourself. So, stop arguing with me and deal with it.”
Ripley keeps up with the protests as I park the car, when I open her door and lift her into my arms, and all the way through the sliding glass doors.
The woman at the triage desk looks up for a beat before going back to her paperwork. But inthree ... two ... one ...she jerks her gaze up again for a double-take and her eyes widen.
“Can you get us into a private room?”
Her mouth opens, but no words come out. She finds her voice a moment later. “Yes. Of course, Mr. Thrasher. Please come with me.” She glances to another woman working at the desk. “I’ll be right back.”
Within moments, we’re in an exam room, and I lower Ripley onto the hospital bed.
“Let me get Dr. Marks for you. I’ll be right back.” She closes the door behind her.
“This is seriously what it’s like to be you? I mean, you just walk in and people rush to do whatever you need? Wow. I took the wrong career path, because it might be worth it, if only to skip the lines everywhere you go.”
Heat flashes at the base of my neck because she’s right. Thisiswhat it’s like to be me. At least, now it is.
“It wasn’t always like this. Trust me. And I don’t feel bad about using it to my advantage when I need to, like right now.”
Ripley looks like she’s going to say something else, but there’s a knock on the door before it opens a crack. A woman in a white coat with a stethoscope around her neck steps inside.
She reaches out a hand. “Mr. Thrasher, I’m Dr. Marks. What can we do for you today?”
Ripley rolls her eyes at the deferential tone, and it occurs to me that I’ve gotten used to being treated like this. It’s not a surprise anymore. I’m not sure how I feel about the fact that I’ve been taking this kind of service for granted. My mama would kick my ass if she knew.
“Ms. Fischer sprained her ankle, or maybe broke it, we’re not sure. She needs an X-ray. Can you take a look?”
Dr. Marks smiles at both of us. “Of course, Mr. Thrasher. We’ll take great care of Ms. Fischer.”
* * *
The deferential treatmentcontinues for the entire sixty minutes we’re in the ER. We’re in and out of radiology in moments, and the X-ray reveals her ankle is sprained. Ripley is fitted with an Aircast and given a prescription for some painkillers. The hospital staff apologizes profusely for being out of crutches in Ripley’s size, for which I’m partially grateful because I know she’d overdo if she could get around.
Before we leave, I fill out a form to have the bill sent to my financial manager to be handled. Through all of this, Ripley stays quiet, only giving the information requested of her. At least until they bring the wheelchair to take her out.
“I’ll pass, thank you.”
The man who wheeled it into the room frowns. “Ma’am, I’m afraid we’ll have to insist.”