The Emergency by Taxi in the Morning
by Sarah Glen

After explaining to three different women in pastel cotton jumpsuits that I lived in BC was only travelling through had to take a taxi here (five minute ride cost me 7 dollars because the driver forgot where they'd last moved the hospital two years ago) I was told to sit on the crunchy white tissue paper and wait.

My curtains were open (broken fingers aren't a cause for privacy). Yours weren't. I could hear you the doctor the flip of switches the whir like my fridge from that white equipment lining the yellow wall between our cloth rooms. The man with the stainless steel clipboard and shoes that squeaked every time he moved closer asked when was the last time eating broccoli. You laughed. Can't remember. Like meat, the kind in the can. Buy it fresh when it's cheap. Good deal (half price because it's gray. Ketchup barely covers the vinegar taste).

He asked how long you'd been coughing peeing losing that much blood. Can't remember. For sometime. Goes away after a few cold beers left in the snow because there isn't any electricity out there past the hydro poles train tracks campsites where dogs are big half husky half everything else people don't lock their places live in wall tents come in for propane pasta toilet paper.

That's when he told you about the lumps in your stomach. Like cherries. A basketful (I wondered if they were as soft puffy purple like the ones sold bruised in the wholesale store because Mexico California is far away but closer than BC in agreements made years ago).

Could he call someone?

Nope.

That's when the nurse helped you out of your pants and into cotton pajamas the ones that tie up at the side (like hers, but different: convenience versus necessity). Gave you a pair of paper slippers to wear over your socks. Told you lunch would be up soon. You asked for a coffee with cream your dog at home the truck in the parking lot you're not supposed to drive because your license expired in February. She told you not to worry. The dog truck would be fine.

Please leave your license and keys at the desk.

Good it's summer.

More tests needed for number five (you).

I could hear the crunch of your slippers when you shuffled passed me. The nurse held your elbow when you walked up to a room with real walls where doors are shut and nobody can hear the machines prognosis the long explanations delivered in hushes simple sentences full of shoulder pats knee squeezes.

I kept my head down. Red swollen fingers up. Cloth room stiff surgical tape no baseball was all I needed.

They put you on the second floor: the B wing. Wrapped in their pajamas sheets tests slid under clips all with smudged name stamps on the bottom left corner (because your cherries can't be returned).

And people ask: what's my favourite fruit.

Sarah Glen has both hands laid flat against something. Right now.