Which made me wonder how I would pay for any of this: the hospital stay, the dinner, the rice pudding. “How much is it?” I asked. “For, um, all of this?” I waved my hand around to indicate what I meant.
“You have travel insurance,” she explained. “We got your information from your passport. It covers emergency medical expenses.”
“Oh.”
“But not the phone call.”
“How much is that?”
“To the United States? I believe it’s seven U.S. dollars a minute. You will see the charge on your hospital bill.”
“I need to call my mom.”
“Of course. Here,” she said, rolling the nightstand closer to my bedside. “Dial 00 to call internationally, then hit 1 and the area code and number you wish to call.”
“Thank you.”
I dialed my mom’s landline in Floral Park, a number that was intrinsically part of me.
She picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Mom?”
“Sweetheart! I’ve been so worried about you. You were supposed to land hours ago. I called your cell, but it went straight to voicemail.”
“I’m sorry. I’m actually calling you from Aruba. I’m still here.”
“Why? Are you okay?”
“I, um…” I hadn’t considered how to go about sharing this development. Over the phone was probably not the right answer. “I fell. I hit my head. They had to take me to the hospital.”
“How did you fall? Do you have a concussion? Where are you now, honey?”
“I’m still at the hospital. I’m okay. They’re monitoring me. But I just wanted to tell you so you wouldn’t worry.”
“Where did you fall? What happened?”
“I, uh. I was in the airport.”
“And?” she pressed.
“I don’t know, Mom. I think I passed out.”
“Were you drinking?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“You’re not taking drugs, are you?”
“God, no.”
“Then what was it? You’re being weird. Tell me what happened.”
“I, just. I’m sorry, Mom. I gotta run. I’ll let you know when I have new flight information.”
“Wait—”
“Talk to you soon,” I said. “Love you.” I hung up before she could respond.
