There’s so much I want to say, but I spit out the first thing that pops into my head. “I shouldn’t have pushed you to play tennis.”
“No, it’s okay,” she says. “It’d been four years, it was time to stop avoiding it. I kind of liked it, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Before I can figure out what to say next, she changes the subject. “There’s a service station up ahead, with a Tim Hortons,” she says. “Do we have time to stop for a snack or something?”
I glance at the clock on the dash, then signal to pull off the highway. “Yeah, we’ve got time.” We both skipped breakfast this morning, so a snack’s a good idea.
We buy bagels to eat on the road, and make it to Toronto forty-five minutes later.
“I’ll probably be about two hours,” I tell Ally, as we walk from the parking lot to the hospital. “So if you want to go shopping, the Eaton Center’s a block away?—”
“No, I’m good,” Ally says. “I’ll wait in the waiting room.”
“Okay.”
I lead Ally through the lobby and up the stairs to the MRI department. I trained at this hospital, so I know it like the back of my hand, but it feels weird to be here as a patient. As I hand my health card to the woman at the desk, I wonder if she’ll recognize my name, but she doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t, I’m just a regular patient.
They’re running ahead of schedule, so they take me in right away. I leave Ally my wallet, keys, and phone, then follow a tech to a cubicle to change into a hospital gown.
The scan feels like it takes forever, even though I know it can’t be more than half an hour. My nose itches, and I start to wish I’d claimed claustrophobia and asked for an Ativan. But finally, mercifully, it ends. I resist the temptation to ask the tech to let me look at the images on the computer.
I quickly change back into my clothes, then find Ally in the waiting room.
“How was it?” she asks, as she hands me back my stuff.
“Fine.” I stuff my wallet and keys in my pocket but keep hold of my phone. “I’ll just text the neurologist and let him know we’re coming up to the clinic.” Unlike the MRI department, the neurology clinic isn’t usually open on Saturdays; Nilesh Patel came in especially to see me.
My phone beeps with a reply almost immediately; Nilesh isn’t ready for me yet. He probably knows I’m going to want to see the MRI, and he wants a chance to look at it without me breathing down his neck. It’s what I’d do, if I were him.
“He needs ten minutes,” I mutter to Ally. “He’s suggesting we go for coffee.” As though I’d drink coffee before being examined for a tremor.
“Oh,” she says. “Well, we could go get a drink.”
“I guess.” I lead her back down to the lobby coffee shop, where we buy two bottles of sparkling water.
“Do you know this neurologist well?” Ally asks, sipping her water.
“Just from residency,” I reply. “I had to do a neurology rotation, and he was the senior resident.”
“You didn’t like neurology?” Ally asks.
“Well, there was no surgery, Ally,” I reply, as though that says it all. “But I liked working with Nilesh. He’s a smart guy.”
Five minutes later, Nilesh texts to say he’s ready for me, and Ally and I take the elevator up to the neurology clinic.
Since the clinic’s technically closed, Nilesh is waiting at the door to let us in. I scan his face, trying to guess what he thought of my MRI, but I can’t tell.
“Hey, Nilesh,” I say. “Thanks again for doing this.”
“No problem, Drew,” he says, giving Ally a curious look.
“This is Ally Parker,” I say. “My girlfriend. Ally, this is Nilesh Patel.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Ally,” Nilesh says, shaking her hand. “Come on in, guys.”
