Waiting for the Unknown

The hard tile floor beneath my feet is a mixture of moss green and mint, flecked with brown and white pockmarks. Its surface is glossy, reflecting the bright fluorescent lights and casting an eerie green glow on the stark, sterile white walls.

Paintings hang in uneven intervals along the wall. They look as though they have been here since the disco was still alive. None of the paintings are very good, and the years have not been kind to them. The colours have faded and the white border around the edges have yellowed—whether with age or with cigarette smoke when they still allowed it in hospitals; I am not sure.

The odour of antiseptic, attempting to cover the scent of death, lingers in the air.

I shift on the hard chair, its thin plastic cushions a tease of comfort but not enough to mask the rigidity of the wood and metal frame beneath. My joints creak and my muscles protest with the movement.

It feels as though days have passed since I settled into this seat. I push up from the chair and look for a clock.

There is one behind the nurses’ station just beyond the double doors I am not permitted beyond. I stand in front of the doors, peering through the high, narrow window and sneak a glimpse of the clock’s face.

I sigh and step away from the doors, pressing my hands to the small of my back and stretching the ache from my muscles. My mind will not stop racing and I pat my pockets, feeling the familiar lump of my wallet and phone. There is a crumpled package of cigarettes in my back pocket, with a handful of darts sitting crookedly in the corner. They are, thankfully, not damaged.

My eyes dart back to the doors. I wonder if anyone will notice my absence for a moment, but no one has bothered to check on me in over an hour.

One more lap around the waiting room, just in case, and I slip down the hall. They have turned the lights down at this hour, and a few of the fluorescent bulbs flicker in their yellowed sconces. The strobing light hurts my eyes, which already ache from the three hours I have sat.

Waiting.

I still am uncertain about what is going on. 

We had been doing our own things around the house, using or enjoying the few hours between dinner and bed. I was working on homework when my sister burst into my room, eyes wide.

“We gotta go,” she said, breathless.

My parents were waiting by the door when I hurried downstairs, and I knew my father was fighting the urge to run from the way he bounced on the balls of his feet. My mother had been crying. Her eyes are puffy and there are still streaks of mascara down her cheeks.

The entire car ride to my aunt’s had been in silence, broken only by the occasional stifled sob from my mother. They dropped my younger siblings off with my aunt but deemed me old enough to go with them to the hospital. When we got here, the doctors took one look at me and said, “It’s bad, it might be better--”

And so I waited.

I take in a deep breath as the automated doors hiss open, promising that I would never take natural, unfiltered air for granted again. There is a lingering taste of the cleaner at the back of my throat, and I duck into the smoker’s shelter.

My hands tremble as I try to light the end of the cigarette. The wavering tip does not make an easy target for my shaking hand to connect. After several unsuccessful attempts, the end flares with flame and I take a deep draw on the cigarette, filling my lungs with nicotine and chemicals.

“Young kid like you shouldn’t be smoking,” a voice says from behind me and I jump, startled that I had not noticed the old man bent in the corner before. “Take it from me, kid.” He inclines his head towards the tank of oxygen on a cart with wheels.

I watch in awe as he brings a cigarette to his mouth and takes a drag. His chest crinkles as his lungs expand, and he wheezes as he exhales. He chokes and sputters for several minutes and then spits a ball of phlegm onto the concrete floor of the smoke shack. I grimace in disgust and butt out my cigarette, though I place it back in the crumpled package.

The smell of tobacco is strong, and I wonder if anyone will notice it on my clothes.

“What are you in for,” the old man asks, taking another long pull from his cigarette. The end glows in the semi-darkness. There is a dim bulb hanging overhead, so dull it barely illuminates the inside of the shack. The streetlamp across the parking lot provides more light than the bulb overhead.

I shrug. “They won’t let me in, and my parents said nothing about it.”

The man nods and wipes spittle from his lips after his latest coughing fit. “Ah, well, probably better for it, in that case. I remember going to the hospital with my mother when I was about your age. My brother had been in a horrific car wreck, and I had nightmares for years afterwards.”

I thanked him for the conversation and slipped back outside. The night air felt colder, and I wrapped my arms around myself.

I made my way back down the hall of strobing lights and took a seat on the same hard chair and picked up one of the ancient magazines that littered the table. My hands were still trembling as I flipped through the pages, and my mind could not stop wandering back to the mental list of people who could be behind these doors.

At some point, I must have fallen asleep curled up in the uncomfortable chair because I woke stiff and aching when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” my dad says as I look groggily up at him. “We didn’t think it would take this long. I can drive you back to your aunt’s and you can get some rest.” I groan and rub my eyes as the fog of interrupted sleep lifts.

“No, I want to wait. I’ve been here all night and I don’t even know what’s going on. I want to see this through.”

Dad gives me a half-smile. He does not show emotions well, but I can tell well enough that things are not good. I pride myself in not pressing the issue further. He seems to relax at my silence and passes me the keys to the car. “Go catch yourself a nap, we’ll talk later.”