I should've learned how to say "please call an ambulance" before I went to Paris. Instead, the most I learned from the week I spent learning French was "Qu'est-ce que c'est? C'est une chaise!" The paramedic pushes needles into my arms and sticks circles onto my chest. I try to speak. I want ask him about Ellie. He smiles and he reassures me in a language I can't understand.

We were drinking on the balcony of her fifth-floor apartment just a few hours ago. Well, it was a fire escape she called a balcony. Ellie leaned against the railing and I sat in a little director's chair near the window we had to climb through. We drank cheap wine from coffee mugs.

"If we were on the other side of the building," she said and pushed a waft of hair behind her ear. "We could see the Seine and the Eiffel Tower. We could go tomorrow."

"I saw it on the way here, in the cab," I told her. "But yes, that sounds nice."

She smiled and lit a cigarette, took two puffs, set it in the ashtray, and picked up the bottle.

"Would you like another cup of wine?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, gulped down the remainder. "Please."

I looked up to the sky, wondered if the constellations looked the same here as in New Jersey. Ellie pushed off from the railing and knocked her ashtray over the edge. "Merde," she said as she leaned over the edge. I walked over and placed my hand between her shoulders.

The ambulance makes a sharp turn into the hospital parking lot. It stops short and quickly backs up. The back doors are flung open and they pull the gurney and I out. They rush and speak in rapid French. I can only pick out words. A doctor shines a light into my eyes. They push me into a room with pale green curtains and a large lamp that shines over my face. I count the number of light bulbs overhead while they exchange and rearrange needles. There are seven, no, nine bulbs.

I turn my head to the left and there is a girl at the other end of the room. A brunette with bruises covering her face. Blood is caked on her eyebrows and her bangs. A nurse turns my head, making me look up, and I hear the curtain being moved to hide the girl.

The doctors and nurses stick some needles into my arms and soon they are smiling. A nurse touches my shoulder and reassures me, just like the paramedic. A man's voice shouts from the hallway. Two orderlies enter the room as the doctors rush away. One watches the hallway while the other searches through the cabinets across the room from my feet. He steals a vial of pills and moves them to his pocket as he watches the entrance.

"Monsieur," I say. He looks towards me, surprised that he hadn't noticed me before. "Deux. S'il vous plait."

He looks to the other orderly who shrugs but looks frustrated. He spins one finger in the air quickly.

"Une," The orderly says, smiling as he drops a pill into my mouth. I wiggle my tongue in my mouth trying to find the pill and I notice a missing tooth.

"Merci." I say. He laughs and lightly slaps my shoulders. I flinch.

"Trés bien," he says.

The other orderly glances sharply down the hallway and they walk out together. If I asked for three, maybe he would've given me two. I count the light bulbs again, waiting for the pill to take effect.

The balcony collapsed under the weight of us together at the railing. We dropped into a flowerbed. Ellie was silent. I reached over and shook her shoulder. Her left leg was tangled with the metal bars. I managed to stand up and get to the back door of the first floor apartment. I banged on the window hard and left spatters of blood on the glass. I shouted every word I could think of in French, "Bonjour, bonjour! S'il vous plait!" I shouted curse words in English.

An elderly woman in a nightgown and clutching a cricket bat came to the door. Help, I told her. We are hurt. She didn't open the door but went to the phone. Hopefully, she has called an ambulance. I felt dizzy and took a few steps back towards Ellie. I woke up to flashing lights and paramedics.

The doctor stands near some beeping machines, presses buttons like they do on TV and jots notes on his metal clipboard. He hums to himself and nods. Mmhmm. He looks pleased. A nurses leans into the room with her hand against the doorframe, says a few things and the doctor responds affirmatively. He points to the cabinets and I feel a bit guilty.

"Ellie?" I ask.

"Oh," he says. "You're awake. How do you feel?"

"Fine," I say. I'm glad that he speaks English.

He laughs a little and writes some more on his clipboard.

"You are very lucky," he says. He leans against the wall. "At five stories and higher, the chance for survival drops significantly."

"Ellie," I say. "Is she okay?"

"I didn't...know that you came in with anyone," he says. "Was she the one with the pretty brown hair?"

"Was?" I ask.

He looks to the nurse. She looks at her shoes. He walks around my bed and sits down in a chair. It squeaks. He looks back at the nurse and motions to her to leave. He taps his pen on the clipboard as he sighs in one quick breath.

"Merde," he says.

 

Danny Barron lives in Philadelphia where he is a student at Temple University. He works for Hyphen, the student-run literary magazine and sometimes writes for the student newspaper.