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“Finn, please,” I protest. “I’m fine. It’s just a sprained wrist.”
“You can’t know that yet,” he says, kicking the back door open and guiding me to the breakfast bar. “Sit down. I’m going to get some ice.”
I’m in too much pain to argue over whether I’ve sprained my wrist. But I’m pretty sure it isn’t broken. Would the pain not be worse? Would my hand not hang more limply if that were the case?
After sounds of rummaging through the chest freezer, Finn returns with an ice tray. He bangs on it to loosen the ice cubes and throws them into a towel. Then he takes a pestle and hammers the ice contained within the cloth.
“This is probably going to hurt,” he says, looking at me with a heavy expression of despair.
“Just do it,” I breathe, still panting through the pain.
“I’m sorry,” he says at the moment he places the crushed ice on my wrist.
A curse spills from my lips.
When I look at Finn, there’s a smile dancing at the corner of his mouth. “Is that one of those dreadful words in your vocabulary you were never going to say in front of me?”
I laugh and wince at the same time. I’m sure my face is contorted in all sorts of directions as my brain sees the humor and my body feels the agonizing, throbbing pain that shows no signs of relenting. The ice against my wrist is not particularly helpful. In fact, the cold is only causing me a different kind of discomfort.
“Let me see if Mom has anything I can give you for the pain.” Finn turns toward a larder cupboard and, upon opening it, pulls down a green first aid kit. He starts emptying bandages, solutions, and plasters, until he comes across a couple of pill bottles. I don’t recognize the names on them, but then, I wouldn’t, would I? The medication is all different here.
Choosing one of the bottles, Finn pops the lid and shakes two tablets out. He places them on the countertop beside me. “Here, take these. They’ll at least take the edge off.” Striding across the kitchen, he lifts a glass from another cupboard and fills it with water.
I don’t hesitate, because I definitely need something to take the edge off. Privately, I’m beginning to wish I’d just let the stupid bee sting me. The pain wouldn’t have been half as bad as this. After swallowing the tablets down, all I can do is wait for them to take effect.
I maneuver the ice into a different position, since my skin has now gone numb. My wrist still hurts, but my arm feels frozen.
“Is it helping?” Finn asks, his eyes now filled with worry again.
I shake my head.
“Right. I’m taking you to the hospital. Stay there. I’ll grab your jacket.”
“No!” I cry. “Finn, I can’t. I’ll be fine. I don’t need the hospital.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?” he says, halting mid-step.
While I’ve been here, I haven’t begun to organize the things one ordinarily needs to live in the States. Including insurance. I have no health insurance, because I thought it would be better to leave it until I had settled into my newly rented accommodation. Surely, it would save paperwork if I didn’t have to change my address. I actually don’t even know how it all works here, but in my head, that seemed like the better plan.
Before coming to the States, I had done my research. I’ve also heard the many horror stories of people having to pay thousands for procedures we get for free in England. Now, of course, I feel like a fool and realize that getting medical insurance ought to have been one of the first things I did when I arrived. But there’s no point regretting it now.
“I don’t have insurance,” I say. “If they do an x-ray, that alone will cost hundreds of dollars, not to mention whatever care they give me after that.”
“Listen, we’ll figure it out. I know a way we can get around it.”
“Really?” I cry.
“Sure. Now, come on.”
We travel in the truck. It’s a very repetitive journey, between me wincing every time we go over a bit of rough road, Finn apologizing every time I wince, and then me telling him not to worry about it. I’m still nervous about the insurance, but I trust Finn. He’s lived here all his life. If he says there’s a way around it, who am I to disbelieve him? Maybe they have some special clause for newly arrived people or something. My mind can’t concentrate too much on it, at any rate, because the pain is not easing at all. I’m beginning to wonder if I truly broke my wrist.
We fly past the signs for the hospital, and Finn carries on. I don’t say anything. I’m sure he knows what direction he ought to be going in. Eventually, he takes some turns in what appears to be a very well-to-do area. I don’t know where we are; I just know it isn’t Sharon Springs anymore.
What I do catch, as we pull into the car park, is the sign that says Epernay Private Clinic. Why is Finn bringing me to a private clinic? Was I not clear when I said I had no insurance? No. He did hear me. In fact, he even answered me.
“All right. We’re here. Stay there. I’ll come around to you.”
A few seconds later, Finn is at the passenger door. Slipping an arm around my waist, he carefully lowers me from the truck. We enter the clinic, and Finn shows me to a seat in a small waiting area. Inside, it’s white, with bright lights and extremely modern décor. While I’m admiring how much this place must have cost to build, Finn takes several long strides over to the desk and starts a conversation with a very pretty, very smiley receptionist.
