On the way to the hospital… #2
“On the contrary,” says Jan. “Maria makes her own decisions regarding her life and does exactly what she should do with it.”
I raise my eyes to him, and he is staring at my family with such indifference, as if they were nothing.
“It’s not your business, mister… This is our family matter, and it shouldn’t concern you at all,” says father.
“But it concerns me, and I’m not going to listen to this nonsense,” Jan replies in a determined voice. “Maria is the most intelligent, hardworking and persistent woman I know. You are not worthy of her.”
What? I’m so stunned that my jaw drops and at the same moment we hear a woman calling from the hospital door, “Mrs. Gabara, you forgot your discharge papers!”
I glance at my parents, and they are standing there like a bunch of jackasses, still digesting what they just heard from Jan.
“Mrs. Gabara!!!” An aproned nurse in flip-flops and pantyhose is waving a piece of paper.
“I’ll go.” Arek’s spontaneous reaction immediately arouses my suspicions.
And that’s because my brother is so lazy that he won’t even pass you the sugar for tea that is on the table right next to him.
I was always the one who had to take out the garbage for him or wash the dishes when we were younger.
When he grew up and got married, he began to use his wife instead: “Paulinka, do this,” “Paulinka, get that.” But now he’s walking eagerly toward the nurse.
Something is not right here. What’s in this paper?
I hurry after him, and he speeds up. I start running, and he runs too. Well, something is really up. I catch up to him effortlessly because my brother is way more than eighty pounds overweight and moves as slow as molasses.
“And where are you going?” he gasps.
“To get the discharge papers.”
“It’s none of your business. Go back!” he yells as if I am a dog.
“Try to stop me.” I overtake him easily, leave him behind, then take the stairs and reach the nurse.
“I am the daughter. May I?” I take the paper from her hands, glance at the printout with my mother’s name on it, read it, and almost drop dead.
“Diagnosis: gastroesophageal reflux, recommendations: an easy-to-digest diet, omeprazole 10 mg once a day on an empty stomach, avoid physical exertion…”
Reflux?! This is it? Holy shit, what liars!
My mother stuffed herself with fried carp, a plate of cabbage pierogi and sipped wine, and these guys are trying to make me feel guilty that she ended up in the hospital because of me!
Well, of course, because of me—she probably also gobbled up my damn portion of Christmas Eve supper and got heartburn!
Enough is enough. I’m ending this toxic relationship. I’m cutting myself off from my screwball family.
*
After throwing the discharge papers in Arek’s face and leaving everyone in the hospital parking lot without a word, I charge off like an enraged bull toward the nearest bus stop.
I really don’t give a shit that I’m trekking around in the cold with bare legs and no panties on Christmas Eve and that I don’t have my cell phone, keys, or even money for a ticket. At least I have cigs.
After several unsuccessful attempts to fire up the lighter (fuck winter with its snow and wind!) I finally manage to take a drag on my cigarette.
Ohhh, how good… My thought process immediately improves.
A blissful stream of nicotine runs through my body, and a brilliant plan is already being conceived in my head: I’ll hitch a ride to Toska’s.
Surely, as tradition dictates, there will be a place left for an unexpected visitor at her table, with warm tea and kind words.
She’s probably sitting with her husband on the couch by the Christmas tree, watching Home Alone and eating traditional Christmas poppy seed cake, while their little one sleeps peacefully in the next room.
Not that I’m envious (especially of the kid), but I’d rather be sitting with someone in the warmth and watching something.
A chilly breeze takes my breath away. Snow blinds my eyes, and I instinctively curl up. God, how cold is it? I extinguish the half-soaked cigarette in the trash can, take a piece of gum, wrap my arms around my body and continue on my way. Just then, a familiar male voice reaches me…
“Maria!” I glance toward the street. A black BMW is moving slowly at the curb. Through the open window on the passenger side, I spot Jan sitting behind the wheel. “Get in.”
Oh boy, I had completely forgotten about him! What a sight for sore eyes… I come closer, and the car stops.
“Hi.” I get inside, close the door, and the window slides up, separating me from the snowstorm.
Oh God, how warm. I glance gratefully at Jan because, in addition to offering me a ride, he turned on the seat heater earlier. My ovaries, along with my bladder, sigh with relief.
“Thank you for picking me up.” I fasten my seat belt.
“Sure.” He turns on his indicator and pulls away up the road. “Why did you run away from the parking lot?”
“Because I couldn’t stand looking at my family for a second longer.”
“I conclude that there was something in the discharge papers that you did not expect?”
“Oh yeah.” I still can’t believe I have such a witless family. “Did you know it was just reflux? My mother got heartburn, and they were feeding me a lie that she ended up in the hospital because of me because her heart ached with despair over Maria.”
Jan shakes his head.
“I don’t understand people,” he states.
“My family are not people. They are vultures. Sometimes I wonder if someone accidentally switched me at birth in the hospital for their real child. That would be a nice surprise.” I shift my gaze outside the window and notice that we are heading back to the center. “Er, where are you going?”
“To my place. I have a good Scotch. You could use a strong drink.”
I look at him. He is so composed and calm, as if today did not happen at all.
While I am an emotional wreck. I guess it will do me good to down a nice shot of something.
At Toska’s, I wouldn’t drink alcohol. She doesn’t drink because she’s nursing, and her Radoslaw is a non-drinker since they diagnosed him with Hashimoto’s a year ago.
Apparently, he got this shit due to prolonged stress—the wonders of owning a real estate development company.
“OK, sure,” I reply. “But I don’t like Scotch. Do you have something else?”
“Vodka.”
“With juice?”
“Orange.”
“Great.”