Boxcutter
For the next five hours, Georgy is questioned by a rotating cast of doctors and nurses, wheeled around to different wings of the hospital, loaded into imaging machines, and made to file a police report. He’s been given a generous round of painkillers and so throughout the whole ordeal he’s a little fuzzy on what exactly is being done with him. Finally, he’s wheeled back into his original room, where he’s visited a few minutes later by a woman named Nurse Jimenez. She’s young, kind, attentive, but buzzing with anxious energy—Georgy can tell she’s spread thin, has a lot of other stops to make. “How’re you feeling, Mr. Babayan?” she asks him.
“I feel good,” Georgy says. Whatever drugs he’s been given are working. Overperforming, even.
“We took a look at everything,” Nurse Jimenez says, “and it doesn’t look like there’s any major head trauma, which is great. But your nose is broken, and your arm was dislocated, and you do have a minor spinal contusion. All of these things should heal up on their own, but you’re going to need a lot of rest, okay?”
Georgy nods.
“Any other pains you’re feeling are probably just normal wear and tear. A bad fall can cause all sorts of things to flare up. But as far as we’re concerned, there’s nothing that requires immediate treatment. The doctor wants to keep you here for a few nights, but if everything looks okay after that, we’ll go ahead and discharge you. And we can send you home with something for the pain, if you’d like.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Do you have anyone you want to call?” Nurse Jimenez asks.
“Yes, thank you,” Georgy says.
Nurse Jimenez wheels him into the waiting area and parks him by the reception desk. The receptionist, a dour and harried man of about thirty-five, hands him a landline receiver and asks him, “Number?”
But then, Georgy isn’t sure who to call, if anyone. He doesn’t want to tell either of his children what happened, doesn’t want to worry them. He ought to call the bank, he thinks, to cancel his credit cards, but he hardly feels like tackling that chore right now. “Sir,” the receptionist prods, “is there a number I can dial for you or not?”
Georgy stares back blankly, mouth agape, eyes vacant. He’s still not sure who he wants to speak to in this moment, and in fact, he’s not even sure how he’s feeling. Excited to go home? Scared to go home? No, he thinks, nothing as dramatic as that. He’s not feeling much of anything at all. In a few days he’ll return to his normal daily routine, the one that keeps him occupied while he waits his turn, and that will be the end of all this. He has neither shrunk nor grown in the wake of his encounter with the young man, has learned nothing. Nothing has changed, and somehow this feels like a victory, and suddenly the one person in the world he wants to speak to is the young man who put him in the hospital.
He recites a number to the receptionist. It’s the number for his own cell phone. He figures the young man might still have it on him. As the receptionist dials the number, Georgy remembers he’s riding high on analgesics, is not quite himself. The call goes unanswered, but when prompted, he begins leaving a voicemail that he sincerely hopes the young man hears. He’s not sure if it’s him or the drugs talking, and he doesn’t care much either way. He’ll take the chemical courage. In the message, he tells the young man, in so many words: This is Georgy, you almost killed me last night, but you didn’t, and in fact I’ll be home very soon, and you may see me out there again someday, and if you feel like trying me again, then you’re going to have to hit much, much harder. Maybe you need to use the boxcutter next time? Do you hear me, young man?