When Your Ten Minutes Expire
We were rear-ended on the way home from a shopping trip. I dislocated my shoulder; Gina claimed she had a concussion.
When Eric arrived at the scene, he bolted straight to her side.
I sat on a folding chair by the ambulance, watching him kneel, cupping Gina's face, checking her pupils.
"Feeling nauseous? How bad is the headache?"
My shoulder throbbed with a pain so sharp I couldn't lift my arm.
It was a full ten minutes before he finally made his way over to me, handing me a bottle of water.
"I'm taking Gina to the ER first. She has a heart condition, and an impact like this could trigger complications. You wait another ten minutes, I'll have my assistant come get you."
In the end, I waited for thirty minutes.
Three selfies from Gina popped up on my phone:
"Eric's arranging for a car to pick you up right now!"
"Does your shoulder still hurt? I'm so worried about you."
"Eric is so thoughtful. You're so lucky to be married to him."
I stared at the three messages and laughed, a dry, humorless sound.
When it rained in our childhood, my father's raincoat always shielded her first.
The year she developed insomnia, my mother made me give up my room for her.
Every time, she would feign guilt. "I feel so bad."
But the guilt never prompted her to return the privileges she’d taken.
Eric's call finally came through.
"Wren, just go find a clinic and get yourself checked out."
I didn't move.
"Your ten minutes are up, Eric. I'm done waiting."