[I hate hospitals. They have this oppressive atmosphere to them, a Damoclean sense of impending doom that might drop on you at any moment. The last time I was forced to sit around in a hospital for any extended length of time, my mind began giving this atmosphere a personality, and a rather familiar occupation. Paging Dr. Eaper, Dr. R.Eaper to the Emergency Room.]
There are two kinds of people in the waiting room, and it barely takes a passing glance to tell them apart. The first kind sit back, legs crossed, fingers drumming on that smoothly lacquered not-wood that can only be bought at Ikea. They read the out-of-date magazines, listen to music, send a text message. They have the gall to roll their eyes at the wait, expressions full of an apathetic indignation that the doctor should dare to cut such a swathe of time from their important days.
And then there’s the second kind. The frightened kind. They lean forwards in their chairs, hands clasped in their laps like small children in prayer, eyes downcast to gaze blindly at the anaesthetised blue linoleum floor. They don’t rock, or shake, or seem to move at all. A half dozen Pompeian statues frozen in an agonised tableau of doomed uncertainty: still, expressionless, unflinching as the nurse calls their name. They rise as if through water, their movements slow and somehow exaggeratedly understated. They don’t return the stares of the other kind: they’re not here at the request of a partner or out of some hypochondriacal sense of just-in-case, better-to-be-sure. They’re here because in the back of their heads echoes the steady tick tick ticking of a clock counting its way down to their date with the biological gallows. They don’t want to hear their sentence, but they no longer have a choice in the matter.
I watch as one walks past me. He’s uncomfortable in his own skin, a sort of writhing in his movements as if he’s trying to wriggle himself free from his body. Because it’s not his body, not any more. There’s a tenant in there now, a fetid squatter who isn’t going to leave until he’s trashed up the place. The man knows this, knows he’s inadvertently made the worst kind of deal by letting that little demon in. But the nurse greets him with an antiseptic smile that barely reaches her cheeks, let alone her eyes, and moves a hand up to his shoulder as she turns to guide him down the corridor. Her hand barely, just barely, makes contact. Silly little girl… don’t you know how cooties are caught?
I readjust myself in the chair, check my watch and sigh. The movements register in the peripheral of another a few seats down from me and she looks at me, mouth opening to say ‘yeah, tell me about it’ in the hopes that we might be self-righteous together. But I’m forgotten about before the words even form on her lips. I’m not offended; on the contrary, I prefer my privacy. She’s one of the first kind, and barely a minute after eye-contact she’s set down her newspaper with a huff and begun drumming out a beat on the armrest. She doesn’t look up a second time as I take the paper and leaf through. Honour killings here, gangland shoots there, fabric of society breaking down everywhere. Busy, busy, busy.
A shock of red hair bobs over the rim of the broadsheet. It’s him, and he’s late. I fold the paper closed and watch as he walks across the waiting room to the reception desk, planting his hands on the rim and leaning down to murmur that he has an appointment. The nurse’s reply masks my approach, feet making nary a sound on the cool plastic, clothes not daring to rustle under the motion. Only when I’m within a good two paces of the man do I let my presence be felt: a squeak on the linoleum floor, a faint cough. Just enough to draw his attention, to make him twist around and let me slip my hand into his. I squeeze. His hand is cold, but then again it’s winter and I’ve never exactly been the warmest person either. His eyebrows meet as he regards me with confusion. Have we met? Does he know me?
I shake my head. My face is set into that second kind of person: resigned, doomed to follow the motions, go through the procedure full well knowing how it will turn out. I meet his gaze as my free hand rises to clap him on the shoulder. None of this barely-touching the nurse pulled. I grip his shoulder good and hard; it’s the least I owe the guy. I half pull him close, half lean inwards. My lips brush against his ear, and my breath is a biting December breeze. I whisper three little words in his ear. The nurse looks up, confused at this sudden, awkward embrace, but the words aren’t meant for her. I squeeze his hand tighter.
He tries to pull himself from my grip, and I let him. With a half-step back, he looks at me, no more confusion left in eyes. For a moment, I see myself reflected in those two little panes of human glass: the damnation, the fatality, of prescience. And then it’s gone, pupils dilating as the fear takes over, the mind shuts itself off from raw, untainted fact. The human mind isn’t built to cope with a divine truth, but there you have it. Them’s the breaks.
I turn and leave. No other gaze follows me but the red haired man’s. No one else cares; I’m not their problem. Only he understands that, actually, I am. I’m everyone’s problem, sooner or later. Although it always seems to be sooner.
I keep my hands in my pockets as I step out of the hospital and onto the rain-cut street. The wet cobblestones are just what my skin asked for: the sensations are little sunburst in my nerve endings reminding me that, for everything else in the world, I’m still here. Alive? Well, that would be an ecumenical matter. But definitely still here.
As I cross the road, I turn and look back up at the hospital. I’m almost sure I can see a red flash of hair in one of the upper windows. Perhaps it’s one of my infrequent moments of whimsy, or that Serendipity that’s always following me around, little tease that she is. I shrug to myself. Either way, there’s nothing to be done about it. I’ve said my piece.
I put my back to the hospital and it’s doomed occupants and head down the street. For what it’s worth, I really was sorry.