The Picture

After running up two flights of stairs and down a long hallway, she abruptly opened the light, wooden door into the dull waiting room. She was seven minutes late for her optometry appointment. The force with which she opened the door noticeably startled some of the people inside. She rushed to the receptionist's window in a hurried strut, thankful that nobody else was in line. As someone who meticulously made sure to always arrive either five minutes early or on-time, she was especially annoyed because only she was to blame for her tardiness.

The receptionist, a bespectacled middle-aged man on his computer, pretended not to notice her, which she found extremely irksome. After clicking his mouse a few more times and taking a sip of his iced coffee, he asked dryly,

"Name?"

"Carla Castillo," she responded a little too quickly, suddenly aware that she may be coming off as rude. In a softer tone, she added, "I'm sorry I'm late, I usually never am. Are there any forms I need to fill out?" 

She gave the man her insurance card and sat down in one of the old, uncomfortable wooden chairs, finally taking in her surroundings. The room was musty and warm, lit by only two out of the three fluorescent lightbulbs. There was nothing on the walls, except for a gold-rimmed clock. There were a few Us-Weekly magazines in a wicker basket, looking like they haven't been replaced in a year. A tissue box and a small bin for used glasses sat perched on a plastic side table.

Carla noticed that one of the other patients in the waiting room was eyeing her. It was an elderly woman, dressed in what looked like pajamas, complete with yellow slippers. Slightly uncomfortable with the staring, Carla gave the lady a weak half-smile, shrinking into her chair. 

Maybe she was overdressed, she thought, looking down at her power pantsuit that she usually saved for important meetings. Carla had a lunch with a prominent client after this and thought that she should save time in not having to go back home and change, just in case the appointment ran long. 

The woman broke into a mischievous grin, and with a bony finger motioned for her to come closer. Looking around, she saw that everyone else in the room was on their phones or reading a book, not paying attention to the exchange. Confused, Carla complied, and reluctantly sat next to her. 

"You remind me of my granddaughter," she said in a croaky voice. Carla didn't know how to respond to this, so the woman kept on talking, "She’s about your age, and looks like you too.”

“Can I see a picture?” she asked, suddenly curious. The old woman gingerly took out an old, mustard-yellow wallet, and flipped it open. A torrent of photos, some old and faded and others more recent, cascaded out. The woman adjusted her glasses and quickly perused the photos until she found the right one. 

“Ah, yes. Here she is, isn’t she beautiful?”

Carla took a look, and she felt her world shift. The walls started spinning, as if she were coming down from drinking too much. The temperature in the room instantly rose ten degrees. A high pitched ringing sound filled her ears, and suddenly everything went dark. 

Carla woke up to the feeling of a cool towel resting on her forehead. When she opened her eyes, she saw the receptionist, Dr. Lansing, and a man and a woman in paramedic’s uniforms standing over her. She was on the ground, and her fingers and toes felt like static. She suddenly remembered what she saw, and frantically looked around the room. The woman was nowhere to be found.

After being checked by the paramedics, she was admitted into the doctor’s office for her appointment. The nurse, a peppy blonde woman clad in light blue scrubs, strode in looking down at her chart this was Carla’s first time at this office, so she needed to confirm some details before sending in Dr. Lansing to do her vision check. 

“Hi Ms. Castillo, we noticed that you left your family’s medical history blank. Can you tell us any details we would need to know? For example, is there any history of glaucoma or general vision problems in your family?”

Carla was used to this question, because she got it every time she went to a doctor’s office. 

“I’m adopted, so unfortunately I don’t have any information on family medical history.” As the nurse was about to respond, there was a knock at the door and Dr. Lansing came in with a warm expression on her face, obviously still concerned about Carla. 

“Is everything okay in here? You gave us quite a scare earlier.” 

Carla blushed, still embarrassed about what had happened. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you so much for helping me.” Dr. Lansing then conducted her vision exam. Everything went well, but as more time passed, Carla became increasingly nervous that she would be late for her meeting. She knew that she should probably take the day off to rest after the day’s events, but she had worked so hard to get this meeting that she was not going to abandon it at the last minute. She forced herself to put the photo and the woman in the back of her mind so that she could mentally prepare; she would think about this later. However, she couldn’t shake this funny feeling in the pit of her stomach that meeting this woman was not a coincidence. 

As she walked through the waiting room again, this time to leave, she allowed herself to think of the picture and the woman one more time. The photo, slightly faded, was of a young woman in her late teens or early twenties, sitting casually on a picnic blanket and smiling at the camera. Her long, jet-black hair was in a braid, and she was wearing denim shorts with a red tank top. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the picture, except for the subject and the fact that Carla had seen the picture before. That picture the woman had in her wallet was of Carla.