On the Way to a Wedding

by Stengl, Suzanne

  “Right this way. Follow me,” the cheerful nurse said, taking Toria’s purse.

  They entered a large room with rows of stretchers on either side and a mission-control-style desk in the center. Beige curtains hung from the ceiling and divided the area into cubicles.

  Ryder pushed the wheelchair, following the orange nurse past the desk, to the last cubicle on the right, the only one without an occupant.

  “You can help her up here,” the nurse said, as she put Toria’s purse on the nearby table and began propping up the head of the stretcher.

  Ryder locked the brakes on the wheelchair, lifted Toria in his arms and set her on the stretcher.

  “Oh my,” the nurse said, looking like she hadn’t expected him to get Toria out of the wheelchair so quickly. She lifted the rails on her side, walked around to the other side and lifted those as well. “You can have a seat,” she said, as she whisked out of the curtained area. “The doctor will be right in.”

  Ryder pulled the beige chair away from the wall and positioned it so he could watch the central desk.

  Nurses—or doctors or whatever they were—flitted back and forth from the stretchers to the desk, sometimes sitting in one of the swivel chairs and sometimes hovering near the desk for a few seconds before buzzing back out of sight.

  The desk held racks of silver colored clipboards, piles of brown envelopes, clear bags of fluid labeled with red tape, three monitors beeping out wiggly patterns, and an empty clear plastic Starbucks cup with a green straw.

  “Why are you staying?”

  “She told me to have a seat.”

  “She offered you a seat. She didn’t tell you to do anything.”

  A short, tired looking doctor with shaggy brown hair and rumpled green scrubs hurried into the curtained area. The pockets of his long white lab coat bulged with two coil bound notebooks, four pens, a stethoscope, what looked like a small hammer and who knew what else. The doctor consulted his clipboard, glanced at Toria’s tensored ankle and looked at Ryder. “Take off the tensor?”

  Ryder stood up and took the clips off the bandage while the doctor scribbled on his clipboard. His name tag said Dr. B. Delanghe.

  “What happened?”

  “I guess I twisted my ankle getting out of the car.”

  “In a hurry?”

  “Well, the car was in the ditch. I thought I should get out.”

  Dr. Delanghe stared at the notes on the chart. Probably the nurse had already asked all these questions.

  “Seat belt,” Dr. Delanghe mumbled. “Good.” And then, “Air bag?” He lifted his eyebrows and looked at Toria. “The car must have been going fast.”

  “No. It just stopped quickly,” Toria told him.

  Ryder glanced at her. Was she toying with the doctor? She looked serious, but she always looked serious. And clued out. And kind of sad.

  “Are you finished?” the doctor asked him.

  Finished?

  Right, he thought. He’d been holding Toria’s foot in his hands. He let go and started rolling up the bandage.

  Dr. Delanghe set down his clipboard and picked up Toria’s ankle. Tensing, she drew a breath as he pushed and prodded. In a few minutes, he was finished.

  “Just a sprain,” he said. “Tell your mother not to worry. You’ll be fine in three weeks. You’ll be able to walk down the aisle.” He scribbled some notes, spending more time with the chart than Toria’s ankle. “Make sure she rests,” he said, speaking to Ryder. “Ice for comfort. Keep the tensor on as long as there’s swelling. And keep the extremity elevated. That should take care of it.”

  “What about her head?”

  The doctor stared at him. “What about her head?”

  “I think she hit her head.”

  “I didn’t hit my head.”

  Dr. Delanghe retrieved a small flashlight from one of the bulging pockets and flicked it at Toria’s eyes. “She’s alert, awake, oriented. No deficients.”

  He pulled out a pad of paper and looked at Toria. “Do you have any allergies?”

  She hesitated, and then, “None that I know of.”

  Dr. Delanghe scribbled on his pad, then handed the piece of paper to Ryder.

  It was a prescription for 292s. He’d had those before. They made him fall asleep.

  Then the doctor wrote something else on the chart and closed it.

  “Can she go now?”

  “Soon,” Dr. Delanghe said. “Put the tensor back on. Physio will be in to fit her for crutches. Then you can take her home.” With that, he was gone.

  Ryder set the prescription on the end of the stretcher and picked up the tensor. “You live in Dalhousie? The Towers?” He wove the bandage around and around.

  “Yes. But how―”

  “I’ve got your insurance card.” Almost done, just needed the clips.

  He looked at her. She had another question forming somewhere in that scatterbrained head of hers. “I’ve got your luggage.” He paused. “And a wedding dress.”

  She closed her eyes.

  He’d guessed right. She wasn’t supposed to be carting around her wedding dress.

  “I could give it all to your mother,” he said, making it sound like it wouldn’t make any difference. He attached the clips to the tensor and released her foot.

  “Uh . . .”

  “Or I could bring it by later.” He rested his hands on the edge of the stretcher. “Will your mother be taking you home? Or to her place?”

  “Home,” Toria said, firmly. “My apartment.”

  He picked up the prescription again. “Six. Tonight. Don’t do anything special. I’ll bring dinner.”

  “But―”

  “You like pizza?”

  Her mother fluttered into the room. “Victoria, I was looking for you. What did the doctor say? Will your ankle be all right?”

  Ryder looked at Toria, right into her deep green eyes. “Well?”

  She looked back at him, holding his gaze. He could see the struggle going on in her mind, the weighing of options. And then she nodded.

  “Victoria?” Her mother again, asking for attention. “Will it be all right?”

  Toria’s face showed doubt and wariness, and something he couldn’t name. She seemed to brace herself. “It’s a sprain,” she said. “It’ll be fine.”

  Her mother exhaled, like she’d had a close call. Finally, she looked at Ryder. “What are you doing here?”

  Oddly, it felt like an attack. He took a step back from the stretcher, set his stance and felt the need for discretion. “Toria forgot her purse in my truck.”

  Her mother rolled her eyes. “She’s so forgetful. And it’s Vic-toria. You don’t still use that nickname do you, Victoria?”

  With her mouth half open, Toria stared at her mother.

  “Let’s go then. I have to meet Geraldine. The chef at the Red and―”

  “She needs crutches first.” Somebody needed to stand up for Toria, since she didn’t seem to be standing up for herself. At least not with her mother.

  Mrs. Whitney stared at him. “Crutches?”

  “Yeah. They’re these stick-like things that you lean on. They help you to walk.”

  Mrs. Whitney watched him for a second longer. And then she laughed. “What a funny man. Yes. Well. Where do we get the crutches?”

  “Physiotherapy will bring them.” He handed Mrs. Whitney the prescription. “You’ll need to get this filled for her.”

  Mrs. Whitney glanced at the paper and then looked up at the ceiling. “Oh my. So many things to do.” She stared at her daughter on the stretcher and shook her head. “Victoria, you can be so much trouble.”

  · · · · ·

  Toria watched him leave, saw his tall dark form turn around the corner of the nursing station and disappear from sight.

  Why had she agreed to let him come over tonight?

  “How long will this take?” Her mother glanced at her watch. She was probably tapping her foot.

  But what was the alternative? If
she hadn’t agreed, he would have hauled in her luggage—and the infamous wedding dress. And―

  “Geraldine and I need to meet with the caterers at the Red & White club.”

  And if her mother saw the luggage, and especially the wedding dress―

  Might as well face it. She was afraid of what Mrs. Samantha Whitney would think of her ungrateful daughter. Her forever ungrateful daughter.

  What would her mother say if she knew Toria had packed, taken the wedding dress her father had spent so much money on, and left?

  And not only left, but gone to see Aunt Glenda. Her mother and Aunt Glenda might not be speaking to each other, but Toria liked Aunt Glenda. Aunt Glenda listened.

  “This Physiotherapy is taking forever.”

  Was she doing the right thing by ending this wedding? Maybe she should just postpone? In February, she’d said a year. They could get married next January. That might have worked.

  But Greg’s mother—the wedding planner—had said no one got married in January. It would have to be June. June was the month for weddings.

  And so Toria had agreed to June. But to the following June, not this June. Somewhere along the line, her mother and Geraldine had advanced the date.

  Behind the curtains, Toria could hear someone coughing—a young girl, trying to catch her breath.

  “I should go. I’ve called Greg. He can take you home.”

  A buzz of adrenaline flashed through her body and she stiffened. “You called Greg?”

  “Why, of course.” Her mother lifted her eyebrows. “He’s your fiancé. You’ve been in an accident. He’d want to―”

  “He has meetings in the afternoon.”

  “I know. I left a message for him.”

  “He never interrupts a meeting.”

  “Yes, of course, but he’ll see the message is from me. We need him to pick you up.”

  Why?

  The word was there, on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t let it out. Choking on words again, she had become a complication for Geraldine and Samantha as they tightened their hold on her.

  If only she could think. What would her father have said to all this?

  No. He would have said, no. “I can take a cab.”

  “Nonsense. Greg will be happy to get you. I wish these physiotherapy people would hurry up with your crutches.”

  “Just go. I’m fine.” She always felt fine.

  “Well, if you’re sure.”

  “I am.”

  Her mother checked her watch, turned and took two hurried steps away from the stretcher―

  Tell her. Say it now. Get it out in the open. “I was driving down to Kalispell,” Toria said, speaking to her mother’s back. “To see Aunt Glenda.”

  Panic threatened and Toria swallowed, dreading the next few moments. But the words were spoken, no turning back now.

  Her mother stopped mid step, slowly turned and lifted her hands to her heart. Her jaw fell open. A silent gasp.

  “You were what? What’s got into you? Glenda. Of all people. She just puts ideas in your head. That’s why you’re so distraught. What would people think if they knew you were acting like this?”

  “I can’t do it, Mom. I can’t marry him.”

  “But you have to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . . Because . . . he’s perfect. It’s the perfect solution.”

  “Not for me.”

  “How can you talk like that?”

  How? By opening my mouth, by letting the words out, letting them flow past my choking throat.

  A commotion near the entrance to the stretcher bay interrupted them. Toria could hear the nurses, several of them, speaking at once.

  “Sorry. This is not―”

  “Can I help you?”

  “Just a moment, sir. You can’t―”

  And she knew Greg had arrived.

  He swept past the nursing station, never pausing, wearing one of his black three-piece suits, and zeroing in on the last stretcher in the unit. Then he saw her.

  He glanced at her face, and at her bandaged foot. His expression clouded with anger. “What’s going on? What happened?”

  “Are you a relative?” The nurse in the orange uniform stood next to Greg.

  “I’m her fiancé,” he said, snapping the words as if they gave him some kind of special rights.

  The nurse frowned, then seemed to collect herself. A loud beeping from the nursing station summoned her and she quickly left.

  Samantha Whitney arranged a smile on her face but her lipstick looked crooked. “Victoria had a little accident. She tripped.”

  “I had a car accident.”

  “Car―” He paused for a single second. “That old Honda? Are you all right?” He looked at her tensored foot again. “Your ankle?”

  “It’s only a sprain.”

  Concern flooded over his face, and it looked real. The anger—if it was anger—was gone.

  “Only? You could have been hurt even worse than this.” He brushed his hand over his hair, messing the neat strands. “I never liked that car.”

  “I did.”

  “I know, I know. It was your car.”

  “It was paid for.”

  “Victoria.” Her mother was back by the stretcher, standing behind Greg. “You can afford a new car, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Anything else wrong?”

  “Not with me.”

  “How’s the car?”

  “It’s had a lot of damage. Probably totaled.”

  “Good.”

  “What do you mean, good?”

  “That car hasn’t been dependable. Not for a long time.” A slight smile touched his lips.

  Her mother laughed, an almost genuine laugh. “Remember at Christmas when it wouldn’t start?”

  That was the day she’d met Greg at her parents’ house for Christmas dinner. He drove her home because the Honda wouldn’t start.

  “Don’t worry about the car.” His voice had turned soothing. “The important thing is you’re all right.”

  At that moment, his phone rang and he checked the readout. Torn. “I have to take this.”

  Toria’s nurse, with the orange uniform, reappeared. “Turn off that cell. It interferes with our telemetry. Can’t you read the signs?”

  Greg looked at the nurse like he was ready to have her fired. But he clicked off his phone. And then he turned back to Toria, holding the phone between them. “I need to take this, darling.”

  “I have to go,” her mother said, checking her watch. “You’ll go home with Greg.”

  “I’ll take a cab.”

  “Victoria,” her mother said, simply, a warning in her voice.

  “Greg and I are no longer engaged.”

  Her mother opened her mouth and gaped. Behind the curtains, Toria could hear the young girl coughing, the monitors beeping, and the sound of the PA system asking for a French interpreter.

  “You don’t mean that,” her mother said.

  “Of course she doesn’t,” Greg confirmed. “But we’re entitled to the occasional lovers’ quarrel, aren’t we, Samantha?”

  The curtains fluttered and a short woman with long red hair and freckled skin moved past her mother and bumped into Greg, knocking his elbow with a pair of aluminum crutches.

  “I’ve got your crutches, dearie,” she said, without apologizing to Greg. “I need you to sign here.” She placed a clipboard in Toria’s hands.

  “How long will this take?” Greg asked, rubbing his elbow.

  “Too long,” her mother said, with arms folded.

  The physiotherapist handed a gold colored pen to Toria and showed her where to sign.

  Greg’s phone vibrated, a familiar buzz. He hadn’t turned it off. Behind the curtain, the monitor was making high pitched squeaking sounds.

  “Sit on the edge of the stretcher, dearie,” the physiotherapist said, as she adjusted little wing nuts on the crutches.

  Greg’s phone vibrated again, that buzzing sound like a
trapped hornet. “I have to take this.”

  “You always do.”

  His eyes met hers, uneasy. He glanced at her mother, put away the phone, and then looked at her hands. Finally.

  “Where’s your diamond?” A quiet voice now, as some of his confidence slipped.

  “On my dresser. Don’t worry. I’ll give it back to you.”

  “I don’t want it back. I know you were upset, and you’re just reacting. Everything will be all right.”

  “I’m not getting married, Greg.”

  “She’s shaken up from this accident,” her mother said, explaining.

  “It’s the china, isn’t it?” Greg nodded. “You wanted to be involved and they took over.”

  “We didn’t take over,” her mother said. “We had to―”

  “My mother thought you would love inheriting her pieces.” Greg ignored Samantha. “It meant a lot to her.”

  “She wants to run . . . everything.”

  “She’s a wedding planner. Most brides would love to have a wedding planner.” Greg was using his quiet, make-the-close voice. “She’s excited about this. So is your mother.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Greg.” This was pointless.

  “I’ll call a cab for you. I’ve got a deal closing right now, but I’ll see you tonight.”

  “No.”

  “We’ll talk about this, and if you want, we can postpone.”

  “But the invitations!”

  “Now, Samantha. They’re only pieces of paper.”

  “But . . . but . . .”

  The physiotherapist had been fiddling with the wing nuts on the crutches. Now she plunked them on the floor. “How tall are you, dearie?”

  “Five seven.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “We simply cannot postpone―” her mother started again. Greg took her arm and led her away.

  The nurse in the orange uniform poked her head around the curtain. “I liked the other one better,” she said.

  “The other one?”

  “The other fiancé.”

  “I―”

  Greg returned, whooshing open the curtains and pushing past the nurse. “Don’t worry, darling,” he said. “Just take care of that ankle.” He tried to step around the physiotherapist. “We can postpone,” he said, peering around her, “if that’s what you want.” He moved to the left. “I’ll come by tonight,” he said. “We’ll talk about it.”