Chapter 10

Monday afternoon, dazed and headache-y after sleeping post-call, I woke up in my bedroom to another barrage of text messages from Tucker.

I ignored them and called Ryan. He was at work, but he’d left a message saying that his grandmother would have hip surgery around this time, so I wanted to wish her well. No way I could drive down to hold her hand, or Ryan’s—I’d be a hazard on the highway post-call, and I had to round at 8:00 a.m. the next morning. But I could offer my words, however inadequate.

I just hoped Ryan didn’t get stuck on the irony of a doctor who couldn’t come see his sick grandmother. It was something I didn’t have to explain to Tucker.

Only Tucker was more annoying than toddler twins on a sugar high, even just through texting.

I’m coming with you!

Are you up yet?

Don’t you dare leave for Elvis without me.

I deleted them all without replying. He’d be stuck in his family medicine clinic until about 5:00 p.m. I could head out to the University College without him.

My home phone rang. I picked it up, assuming it was Ryan. Instead, Tucker’s voice poured out the receiver. “You are not going alone.”

“I think I’m pretty safe in the middle of one of Montreal’s main hospitals.”

“Yeah, but you’d be even safer with backup. Plus, Elvis is my hero!”

I paused. “You know, I bet so many people have said that over the past sixty years, but you’re one of the minority talking about the escape artist instead of Elvis Presley.”

He ignored me. “I’m finishing up my clinic right now. I’ll bike to your place.”

I checked my watch: 4:23 p.m. Time flies when you’re sleeping. “I don’t want to be mean, but Archer didn’t invite you, and I don’t want to call and ask permission. I’m just planning to go, say, ‘Sorry, can’t help you. Best of luck, Mr. Elvis’ and go home.”

“Right. Because you’re retired.”

“Right.” I yawned. If only I could retire from everything on the cusp of 27 years old, life would be pretty sweet.

“Have you ever been to the University College?”

“Well, no.”

“I can help direct you. I could just wait outside the room. I have a great sense of direction. I’ll be your Scooby. Okay, Buffy?”

Needless to say, he liked Buffy the Vampire Slayer and other obsolete TV shows. I yawned again. “I could just leave before you get here.”

“But you won’t. See you in fifteen.”

I pulled on a pair of brown corduroys and a teal turtleneck, figuring I wanted to look reasonably put-together, but not like I thought it was a job interview. I inserted contact lenses onto my tired eyes, slammed down a piece of toast with peanut butter and a glass of water, and brushed my teeth before the buzzer sounded and Tucker bounded up the hall, looking ridiculously fresh.

He regarded me with sympathy. “Tough night on call?”

I felt like hitting him. Instead, I locked my apartment door and sailed past him, toward the elevator. I tossed over my shoulder, “If you don’t behave, I’m leaving you and your bike behind.”

“You’d better not, because I’m going to take you to the hospital by bike. Is yours in storage downstairs?”

That stopped me in the middle of jamming my finger on the elevator button. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. It’s downhill most of the way there. You can even ride the métro back, if you want, but not during rush hour.”

I stared at him. “You’re serious.”

“I sure am. Is your bike stored in your apartment, or do you have a locker in the basement?”

“In my apartment.” Originally, I was stoked to have storage in the basement, something I never got at the hovel known as my former apartment, but I don’t have time to navigate sideways in a concrete bunker during my morning rush in order to grab my two-wheeler. “What if I insisted on driving, or taking the métro without you?”

He grinned. “You’d be at least $5.50 poorer, and so would I. It costs a ton to park around the hospitals. So what’s it gonna be?”

“You’re a pushy guy.” He shrugged, which made me up the ante. “You’re annoying. No, you’re, like, the Annoying Orange of residents.”

“That just means that millions of YouTubers love me.” He paused. “Hang on, if I’m an orange, that’s a citrus fruit, not a tuber. I’d have to be the Annoying Potato for real YouTubers…”

By the time he’d finished yammering on (uh oh, now he’d gotten me punning), I’d fetched my bike and gloves, donned my helmet, and started wheeling my transpo down to the elevators. We rode down in silence until the ground floor light binged and the door opened. I wheeled my bike out and said, “You really thought you’d be going with me today to see Elvis?”

“Baby, I wouldn’t let you go without me.” He exited the elevator and posed, swiveling his hips like Elvis had, and I belatedly realized that he was wearing tight-fitting black slacks not unlike Elvis’s black jeans, as well as a plain black jean jacket. At least he’d done his usual hair-spiking instead of trying out a pompadour.

I groaned. “Please tell me you’re not wearing the Elvis Lives T-shirt under that. Or the ‘Jailhouse Rocks’ striped shirt. You don’t want to be a total fanboy and creep him out.”

Tucker snorted and clicked his bike helmet strap under his chin. “Are you trying to give me fashion tips? Because it’s not working.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Like a fox.” He whistled a tune I didn’t recognize, and he said, “You never heard of that show?”

I left him to his pop culture obsession. He might beat me at Trivial Pursuit and drinking games, but he obviously hadn’t figured out that tight-fitting pants aren’t the best choice to bike in. Sure, the hems are less likely to get caught in the chain, but the pants seam can dig uncomfortably into delicate anatomy, especially on Montreal’s bumpy roads.

Tucker unlocked his bike and said, “Present for you.” He handed me a black lump. On closer inspection, it was a small bike light that clamped on to the handlebar. “Actually, it’s more like a loan. It’s from my sister’s bike, but she asked me to fix it, and I thought you might need one tonight.”

“Thanks.” Someone stole my last bike light after, silly me, I bolted it on to the handle and assumed it would be safe in the basement of Mimosa Manor. The loaner light shone dimly, but I figured it was more to alert cars than illuminate the way. The sun goes down before 6 p.m. in this part of the world as fall bleeds into winter. And once Daylight Savings Time ends this weekend, sun will set before 5 p.m.

I followed Tucker on to Côte-des-Neiges. The wind whipped into my face, we had to stop at multiple stop lights, and the bumpy road jarred my hands and my bum, but once we got coasting down the mountain, I felt myself grinning. No more métro, boulot, dodo. Just bicyclette et l’air frais.

All too soon, Tucker signaled that we’d be turning. The University College Hospital was built into the side of Mount Royal. The hospital appeared as row upon row of red brick and windows, not unlike St. Joe’s, except the UCH seemed about 20 times bigger and 400 times busier. I guess it had to be, since it was the one major anglophone trauma hospital, and St. Joe’s was…not. We locked up our bikes, and I was just as glad that Tucker could navigate me through the corridors to the correct wing and room, number 9020.

Just before we reached Elvis’s open doorway, I took a deep breath and raised my hand to stop Tucker from entering with me.

“Sure you don’t want backup inside?” Tucker asked softly.

I shook my head. “I’ll ask them if they want to see you first.” Then I knocked lightly on the door frame and poked my head into the room.

Elvis was sitting on the side of the bed, eating beef and potatoes off a white ceramic plate on a beige dinner tray. He held his knife and fork in his hands like he was comfortable with them, so he hadn’t lost fine motor control or his recognition of familiar objects. Or his ability to swallow.

As soon as I stepped into the room, his green pop eyes shot toward me. He tried to stand up, bumping his knees into the adjustable table he’d been using to rest his dinner tray on. His coffee spilled on to the tray.

Archer grabbed his wrist, steadying him, and sopped up the coffee with a paper napkin. He managed to sound casual as he said, “Glad you made it, Dr. Sze.”

I felt weird just standing in the doorway, so I advanced slowly into the room. I kind of wished I was wearing my lab coat and stethoscope. Or maybe I should have brought flowers or a card, like a normal person. “Hi. Um, thanks for inviting me. You look good,” I told Elvis.

He shook off Archer’s hand and shoved the wheeled side table away toward the wall. Then he sprang to his feet and walked toward me with silent, nimble steps.

I stood my ground, forcing myself not to look back at Tucker.

Elvis inspected my face closely, from my forehead and eyes to my chin, before dipping down to check out the rest of my body—not in a gross way, but in a quick and necessary survey before returning to my face.

His hair was still black and very glossy, but instead of making it into a pompadour, they’d combed it back. His black eyebrows matched his hair, which meant that either the colour was natural or they took the time to colour both. He was standing close enough for me to view the pores in his shaven cheeks and smell the hospital soap on his skin.

Elvis still hadn’t said a word.

I felt the hairs rising on my forearms. I licked my lips.

Could Elvis even talk? I belatedly realized that even at his show, he’d never spoken. Archer and the music had filled in the gaps. “Hi,” I said, trying not to squeak.

Elvis nodded and said, “Huh,” and shot me a significant look before his head dipped in a firm, approving nod.

Still not exactly words. I glanced at Archer, who strolled toward us with his hand outstretched. I shook his hand, giving it a light squeeze.

Archer said, “Thanks for coming. Elvis was looking forward to meeting you, Dr. Sze.”

“You’re welcome. Please, call me Hope.” My eyes darted left, to watch Elvis, who now stood between Archer and the table he’d pushed against the wall.

Elvis pointed both his thumbs and index fingers while curling his other towards his palms, like his hands were guns and he was pretending to shoot me. Guys do that to each other, but not usually to me. Then he said, very clearly, “It’s you.”

I recoiled. I remember my dad reading a book called How to Win Friends and Influence People. Off-stage and post-accident, Elvis was more like, How to Freak People Out and Make Them Run Away.

“This is the doctor who helped rescue you, Elvis,” said Archer, enunciating each word like Elvis was a little kid. Not a good sign.

I cleared my throat. “Uh, the other doctor who helped me is in the hallway. His name is John Tucker. Did you want to meet him, too?”

Elvis studied me carefully for a good ten seconds, long enough for Archer to say heartily, “Of course! He should get the hero’s welcome. John—”

“Call me Tucker, everyone does,” said Tucker, zipping into the room so fast, he’d obviously been eavesdropping and waiting for the perfect moment. “I’m a resident doctor like Hope, but not half as famous as her—or you,” said Tucker, holding out his hand to his idol.

Elvis glanced at him and nodded. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” said Tucker. He belatedly realized that Elvis wasn’t making any move to take his outstretched hand, so he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“You saved my life,” said Elvis to me.

I tried to smile. “Well, technically, we all did. Tucker, the paramedics, the staff at UC—”

Elvis didn’t even blink. “You did. I saw white lights and everything, but then you pulled me back.”

“Um, well, I was the first one to start CPR. But lots of other—”

“I saw you,” he said, which was bizarre, because I’d never witnessed him opening his eyes on the stretcher. He’d looked pretty unconscious when they were taking him away. I never got to see him in the emerg at UC. Earlier on, before they’d dropped him in the river, the only time I’d stepped out of the crowd was to nail him in his coffin. So unless he had X-ray vision, he couldn’t recognize me. Probably the lack of oxygen to his brain had affected his memory.

“You probably saw us when they were chaining you up. We were in the front row,” said Tucker.

I suppose Elvis might have noticed my rain-streaked face under my blue hood, but more likely, we were all blobs in the crowd while Elvis danced and donned his chains. I tried to lighten the mood. “That part was fun. You do a great Elvis Presley.”

“He’s a big ham,” said Archer affectionately. He moved to clap his brother on the shoulder, but Elvis moved forward, toward me, and said, “If you save someone’s life in China, doesn’t it mean that they owe you their life?”

I was taken aback, the way I always am whenever a stranger glances at my face and assumes that I am the master of all Oriental history and culture instead of treating me like a regular human being. “I don’t know. I’ve heard that, but I’ve never looked into it. Um, don’t worry about it.”

Elvis kept going like I hadn’t spoken. “I need you to save my life one more time.”

Not this again. I shook my head. “You’re going to be fine, Elvis. I know you’re probably not 100 percent”—part of me wondered what his baseline was, because his intensity was a bit scary and off-putting. Maybe he was like that pre-stunt—”but that’s what your medical team here is for. They’re going to take good care of you.”

Elvis said, “I don’t need that kind of help.”

Archer cleared his throat. “Sure you do, buddy.”

Elvis kept right on talking. “Someone tried to kill me.”