Few Kinds of Wrong (15 page)

On the drive to the Health Sciences Centre every pothole feels like a knife stabbing in my side. In St. John's this means my sides feel like they're stabbed every metre of the way. A muted grunt escapes my lips with every bump, and by the time Jamie turns onto Clinch Crescent my hands are wet from tears I keep trying to wipe away, turning my head toward the window and hoping he doesn't see. I look over and he averts his eyes.

The ride to the hospital seems like a leisurely stroll when it comes time for Jamie to help me out of the car. Nothing seems to work as we try a number of different ways to get me out, and the grunts are no longer muted as he tries to pull me. The smokers gathered around the ER entrance, standing under a cloud of nicotine fog, look at me with pity. A couple of them move forward tentatively, like they want to help but aren't sure if they should. Jamie says, “I'm sorry” after every second attempt to move me.

“If you say ‘I'm sorry' one more time, I'm going to punch you in the face. I could do it. My arms aren't hurt.”

“I know.” And Jamie hauls me right out of the car and onto the sidewalk. No counting, no warning, just rips me out.

My feet are on the sidewalk and I'm bent at the waist.

“I'll help you straighten up now.”

“No,” I shout. “I'm good this way. I need to stay this way. And preferably not move. Ever.”

“I think you have to move. And you'll look like you're searching for change if you walk like that.”

“I don't care what I look like.”

Walking, slow excruciating step by slow excruciating step, bent over and wincing, still fairly drunk and hungover all at once, I'm pretty sure I look about as pathetic as one can. This does not deter the ER nurse who makes me wait in line then asks me inane questions, takes my blood pressure, temperature, and pulse, then suggests I take a seat in the waiting room.

“I can't sit. I need to stay bent.”

“Okay, then lean against a wall in the waiting room,” she suggests.

I open my mouth but Jamie stands in front of me and tries to lead me away. “Don't piss off the nurses,” he whispers.

“I didn't say anything.” I walk, my body a right angle, to the waiting room.

“You were going to.”

“She told me to lean against the wall. Not overly helpful, was she? And she didn't look too pleased with you when I told her you kicked me.”

“You didn't need to say that. You could have said you fell against something.”

Jamie sits in a chair and I remain standing, bent. He looks at me then stands up. Looking up at him hurts my neck.

“Sit down. And the nurses will have to know what happened. They'll figure it out. Telling the truth will never cause any problems.”

Jamie raises an eyebrow. Can you rip off an eyebrow?

“Shut up,” I say.

As I wait, I memorize the patch of floor over which my head hangs. CSI forensics could not know more about what's on the floor: a brown, faded shoeprint I hope is mud; a gum wrapper; a piece of old, petrified gum; two deep scratches, one below the gum and one next to the footprint; a soggy band-aid; and a cotton thread I'd guess is from some gauze. It doesn't help that I've been standing close to the garbage can. Aim, it seems, is not the forte of those in the hospital ER.

When my name is called, Jamie helps me get back to the triage area but is intercepted by the nurse before he can step inside.

“Patients only,” says a tall, broad woman with a round face and porcelain skin. Her nametag says
Amy
. She helps me stand next to a seat and then notices Jamie hovering nearby. She stands up and marches over to him, with a firmness that makes her soft, white shoes thud on the floor. “Please wait in the waiting room,” she says loud enough to make a couple of heads turn.

“But I want to help her if she needs to get back to the waiting room. Or if she goes inside to another room.”

“What's your name?” she asks, picking up a pen and a piece of paper from the nearby desk.

“Jamie Flynn.”

“I'll call you if she needs you. Now please sit down.”

I don't see him once he moves beyond the counter and my much lower than usual line of sight.

The nurse touches my arm, bends down to face me and whispers, “You're safe now.”

“What?”

“You're safe now. You can get help. You don't have to stay with him.”

“With who? Can't you fix my ribs? I think they're broken.”

“Your husband. We've called the police. It's best if you talk to them and tell them exactly what happened.”

She is staring at me so intently that I don't quite know what's going on until it suddenly registers.

“Oh my God, no. He didn't abuse me or anything. We're not even together anymore. I mean we slept together last night but I was drunk and … I'll shut up now.”

“There's a shelter where you can stay. There's lots of help out there. You can't stay in that situation.”

“No. He's my ex-husband.Well, not yet. But soon. And he just kicked me because I opened the door when he was trying to kick it down. He was worried about me and thought maybe I'd done something stupid to myself, but I was just passed out and when I opened—”

The look on her face is changing with every word I speak. From concern to great concern to a coldness that comes across her face like a curtain.

“I know that sounds bad. But he's not abusive. He was only trying to help. And we're split up.” I try to straighten up, and howl. “Please help my ribs,” I say, voice breaking.

“We'll move you to an exam room,” she says.

The police come twenty minutes later while I'm awaiting the results of my x-rays in exam room 4. An intern with ridiculously bad breath has told me he thinks my ribs aren't broken but are badly bruised, which he tells me hurts worse than broken ribs. I believe him.

I start the whole who's on first routine with the two police officers — one female, looking compassionate, and one male, looking tough. Nothing I say seems to make them understand that my injury isn't because of anything intentional on Jamie's part. They ask me how much I had to drink today and I know I'm being judged as much as Jamie is. Misjudged.

“We are pressing charges, Mrs. Flynn,” the male officer says, despite the three times I have told him it's not Mrs. or Flynn. I just haven't gotten around to changing my MCP number or driver's license back to my maiden name. “Whether you cooperate or not.”

“What time is it?” I ask.

“8:57,” the male officer answers. “So will you cooperate or not?”

“Please give me a minute,” I say. “I need to make a phone call.” I'm lying flat on a stretcher, pushed back into a horizontal position by the intern who first examined me, and fully intending to stay there however long it takes to heal. “Could you pass me my jacket?”

I pull my cell phone out of my inside pocket and the female cop warns me not use it in the hospital.

“I have to,” I say. “I can't move. Just give me five minutes for a private call, please.”

The woman nods to the door and says, “You go check on him. I'll wait outside.”

“Him” I assume is Jamie and I suddenly realize that his evening might be worse than mine. I feel a twinge of sympathy amidst my pleasure.

When I'm alone I hold down the number one on the cell phone until I see the call has been made. In seconds I hear her voice. As I have so many times in my life I ask her for help.

“Where are you?”

“Health Sciences Centre. Exam room 4.”

“You okay?”

“I will be when you get here.”

“Be there in ten minutes.” I feel my shoulders relax a little.

The first time I used BJ was in downtown St. John's outside a coffee shop. I had been doing some early Christmas shopping and was to meet her at Auntie Crae's and was lucky enough to get a parking spot right in front of the store and coffee shop. By the time I made it back to the car to feed the meter before meeting BJ for lunch, time had run out. A Parking Enforcement Officer was writing a ticket.

“Wait, I'm here,” I shouted to him from fifteen feet away. “I'm going to put money in.”

He kept writing. “I already started the ticket. Too late now.”

“Stay here,” I said, pointing my finger at him. “I'll be right back.”

I ran into Auntie Crae's, found BJ reading a newspaper, every eye in the place either staring at her or trying not to look like they noticed her. I picked up her purse, grabbed her arm and dragged her out to the meter man.

“This is him. Now, tell him this is your car.”

“You're BJ Brown,” the man said.

“I am,” BJ said with a broad smile and a nod.

“Wow, I'm sorry. I had no idea it was your car.”

“Would you mind if we could forget about the ticket?” she asked. Broader smile and an arm touch.

“Already done.”

“Thanks so much. I really appreciate it.”

“I'm a big fan. I watch you every night.”

“Thank you. Hearing that is what I live for.” I stepped behind the guy and rolled my eyes at her.

“That last part was a little over the top,” I said once the guy had left, three autographs in hand—one for him, one for his daughter and one for his mother. “That's what I live for?”

“Shut up. I got you out of the ticket. You know, you've never done anything like that before. Never took advantage of me like that. I thought you were different.” She turned and walked away.

“I've gone to packed restaurants and sailed in with no reservation and no waiting,” I called after her. “I've skipped line-ups.”

She turned around. “But you've been with me. It just happened. You hauled me out here.” Her eyes betrayed how hurt she was and I knew I should just say I'm sorry.

“Come off it, BJ. It was a parking ticket. Big deal. Fair play for all the downsides of being your friend.”

“What downsides?”

“You're worth it. Don't get me wrong. But just like it's not always easy to be you, it's not always easy to hang out with you.”

“How?”

“It's being treated like a pimple on your arse, like I'm not a person when I'm with you. It's having every lunch interrupted by ‘Are you who I think you are?' And being the person who takes the picture of you and whoever owns the camera. It's being … invisible.”

BJ stared at me a long time and I watched her deciding what to say. “Must have been cold there in my shadow. To never have sunlight on your face,” she sang as I burst out laughing.

“You really are the wind beneath my wings,” she said and squeezed my arm.

At the hospital BJ arrives in my room with two nurses and a resident in tow. The two cops aren't far behind.

“I can vouch that she has never been abused by her husband.”

“Ex-husband,” I correct.

“Not yet. Not officially. Whatever. I've seen Jamie Flynn pick up a spider and set him free outside. And I can guarantee that he loves this woman with all his heart, even though they're not together.”

“A friend doesn't always know,” the female cop said.

“This one does,” BJ replied. “I know her and I know him.”

“We have his admission that he kicked her, and Mrs. Flynn verified it.”

“And we both say it was an accident,” I join in.

“And I can vouch for both of them.”

The officers leave with autographs and the promise that
BJ will show up at the next RNC Association banquet.

The police are barely gone when Jamie comes in the exam room.

“Was it bad?” I ask.

“Awful. They thought I was a wife-beater. It was the worst thing ever.”

“I have badly bruised ribs,” I say. “That's pretty bad too.”

They look at me in silence.

“What did they say in the end?” BJ asks Jamie.

“They said they were recording this and were keeping their eyes on me.” Jamie looks close to tears.

“Best not try to kick in any doors again,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

Silence again.

“So, can you go home?” Jamie asks me.

“I have to wait for a painkiller prescription.”

“Are they going to tape up your ribs or something?” Jamie asks.

“No, they don't tape ribs, especially if they're not broken,” I say. “The doctor just said I have to rest for a few days and put ice on them.”

“You're going to rest for a few days?” BJ says and laughs. “You'll be at work tomorrow, bruised ribs or no bruised ribs.”

“You didn't tell her?” Jamie looks at me.

I shake my head and shrug.

“Tell me what?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“What?” BJ turns to Jamie.

He starts to recount the morning at the garage and I feel like I'm sitting in the accused box at my own trial. Jamie is talking and BJ is shaking her head, saying things back to him, things I ignore because I can't hear any of them. Their noises fade into the background, becoming a carpet of sound that covers everything but doesn't resonate in any way. It's like they're the normal people and I'm on the outside. I'm the failure, the screw-up, the stick-in-the-mud. I'm bruised and broken, and all around me things and people seem intact.

The chatter in my room stops. I follow BJ's and Jamie's eyes to the doorway where Mom stands, her eyes full of something I can't identify. Maybe a mixture of fear or something else, maybe shame.

My ribs start to ache more and I notice the tension in my whole body. My jaw is clenched, my fists, even my legs are tense but I don't realize it until I will them to relax.

Without a word, BJ and Jamie walk out. Mom nods to them and mouths “thank you” to BJ.

“Are you okay?” Mom whispers to me, as if speaking loudly will hurt me. She touches my arm and I flinch. The act of pulling my hand away so quickly makes me cry out from the shot of pain in my side.