Waiting Room

Waiting Room

By

Ted Harrison

It was the most recent periodical in the stack. Otherwise he wouldn't pick up an alumni review. Especially one from a college he hadn’t attended. A nurse called one of the other two people in the doctor’s waiting room.

He leaned back and thumbed through the journal and came to the announcement. Unlike the age of the review, her picture-image from a yearbook no doubt was from a time long past. The black and white on the page didn’t keep him from knowing those deep, brown, warm eyes. The text and picture composition on the page ushered in his memories. “I remember…” He glanced around to see if anyone noticed that he had spoken aloud.

It was a high school senior class outing. The setting was a lake. Clear water. You could see the bottom. Sand. A random fish swam by. Her name was Lucy. She wore a dark blue one-piece bathing suit. They floated, side by side and spoke of a water ballet. Their proximity was an accident, he was sure.

She could have created such a feat with ease. Her body was supple. Curvy Lithe. He was more walrus than any other water creature.

Even so, he was charmed by her attention to him and unable to comprehend anything but that moment. In the water that day they were closer than he might have expected. Random. He should not have felt so comfortable. Yet off-balanced.

But, Lucy was still Don’s girl. Don was a year ahead of them and already in college, and not that far away. He, himself, was going steady with another girl. The idea of cheating on her caused him regrets. Bother. 

Besides all that she was a textile mill executive’s daughter. He was a mill worker’s son. Even though she never acted high and mighty, he took the lower class mantle on himself. Even now that struck the sour chord of an excuse rather than a reason. An easy out? A place to hide? Even from her?

Nowadays, textile mills are in the Far East, not the United States South East. The remains of U. S. mills were more suited for archaeological digs than much else. Or high-priced decor in the oh-so-tasteful homes, like the wall sconce his father had made from an old cotton mill shuttle.

He took a millisecond to ponder a question: 

Did the labor/management canyon exist in India in addition to the caste system?

When his memory allowed him another jump, they were both college freshmen at different schools, twenty-five miles apart. Don was out of the picture. He contacted Lucy through friends and chatty letters. Finally, he borrowed a car to take her to dinner. He was still intimidated, even when she was warm and nice, even kind to him. She tried to make him relax despite his tendency to struggle with the necktie he wore. He relished her attention, but still not bold by any means.

Then there was the football game that pitted the two universities; a rivalry going back years. Their last meeting was played on the field at her school. There were few fans from his school in attendance. She sat with him on the Visitors side of the field. Her corsage of one white and one gold chrysanthemum shone in the Southern fall sunshine. His team was due to mop up the field with the home players. She stood with him when the band played his alma mater. He stood with her, two silent sentinels in the stands when her school song was played. He was proud to be seen standing by her even in such a solitary pose.

And to top it off her team pulled off an amazing upset.

He knew before the game that there was a fraternity dance to be held that evening, but she was unable to obtain bids to the event. Thus they said goodbye at game’s end.

He hitchhiked back to school. Even though she had been cordial and warm, he felt as deflated as his school’s football team. Something shifted in his psyche and a hole was left in his memory. He heard rumors she was dating a guy on her campus. He figured his heart would never win this fair lady and took no more chances.

The poet gave him an out with the saddest words of tongue or pen, but he knew he hadn’t really tried.

As the years went by, he thought of her from time to time. Always fondly, with curiosity and a great amount of wonder. 

The writing in the alumni book stated that she was survived by only one person, her husband an M.D. in California. She had succumbed to cancer after a long illness. Her graduation and sorority information were included. Memorials could be given to a cancer research firm.

“Mr. Gates. The doctor will see you now.”

He tossed the magazine back on the stack, and wondered why an oncologist wouldn’t have more up-to-date material in the waiting room.

Lying on an examination bench, he tried to absolve himself of the timid person he had been back then. He drifted into the land of 'woulda, coulda, shoulda'-second guessing it he had missed any signals she might have sent, but he didn't receive. This lasted through the blood pressure, pulse and oximeter. All this kept him in the moment preparing him for any future. At least in someone's mind, just not his. He blanked that and stared at the perforated ceiling. A pallet for memories until some words played out.

"Never look back, 'cause something might be gaining on you."

Something was gaining on him, but what?

The knock on the door signaled the doctor's arrival.

Memories fade, only to be resurrected. The future is there to be planned and dreamed of, forecast. All to be ignored by the the here. The now. The real.

"Mr. Gates. How are you today? Ready to go over these test results?"

"Doctor, where did you go to medical school? i'm wondering because of that alumni magazine, I saw in the waiting room."

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