Hello

The big hand hadn’t moved since the last time she looked at her watch. She rolls her eyes and blows air out over her top lip ruffling her bangs like a skirt over a subway grate.  It had felt as if at least five minutes had passed.

Ruthie sits in a red plastic chair, the one piece molded kind, with her handbag held tightly in her lap. Her legs are crossed at the ankles and tucked under her chair where one sneakered foot taps quietly against the grey commercial carpet. She feels warm in her fleece jacket but doesn’t remove or even unzip it. She needs to stay contained, hold on tight within herself for fear of what will be unleashed should she loosen the reins. She keeps herself still, only allowing her foot to tap, and her eyes to glance at the time. A bead of sweat tickles her back as it journeys down her spine to be absorbed by her underwear. Her scalp itches.

They said to be here at one o’clock. Ruthie arrived ten minutes early as is her way, but now it’s a quarter past. This is not right, she thinks to herself. Calling people early in the morning, telling them they have an urgent matter to discuss, that you need to come in today, and then making them sit out here, waiting, worrying, sweating. 

Ruthie’s foot taps faster. She reaches up and scratches the top of her head, her long, lacquered nails collecting crumbs of oily skin. Her agitation is gathering mass, growing beyond the borders of her control. She can feel it’s power taking over. Rivulets of sweat now meander around the moles of her neck, over the cliffs of her clavicle and down her chest to silently splash in the cotton of her bra. Peeking at her wrist she sees only one minute has passed, and that is her breaking point. She forcefully tosses her bag on the empty seat next to her startling the woman across from her. She uncrosses her ankles, and yanks at the zipper of her fleece before standing up, and freeing herself of it’s warmth. Throwing it down on top of her bag she begins pacing while rapidly pulling at the neck of her damp tee shirt to create some air flow. They’ve got some nerve treating me like this…

“Hot flashes?”

Ruthie stops and looks at the woman who she thinks just spoke to her. “Excuse me?”

“Hot flashes. I thought you might be having a hot flash. My mother gets them all the time.”

Ruthie looks at the woman sitting across from her. She’s pleasantly plump with a friendly face. Her highlighted hair is shaped in a sleek bob, and she has a full face of makeup, but she’s wearing a college sweatshirt with flannel pajama pants featuring polar bears. Instead of shoes she left her home for an appointment in slippers. Ruthie doesn’t understand people like this. Was she so exhausted by the energy spent on her hair and makeup that she couldn’t put on real clothes and shoes? And does she really think I look old enough to be her mother?

“I’m only forty-eight,” Ruthie replies coolly. Thoroughly annoyed, she shakes her head in dismissal of the notion of hot flashes as she continues to pace. Her tee shirt is clinging to her back and her skinny jeans feel like they have been painted on her legs. I’m just nervous and it’s too warm in here. What could be so urgent that I had to reschedule my whole day to be here at one o’clock? 

“Oh. My mom just turned fifty.”

Ruthie ignores her, afraid she might pummel her if she continues to engage.  Pajama Girl gets the hint and goes back to reading her magazine.

What could be taking so long? There’s no one else here. 

Ruthie extends her pacing path beyond three chair lengths to the full length of the waiting room. Every time she reaches the front desk she stares daggers at the elderly woman behind the  closed sliding glass window but the woman never looks up. She knows I’m here. I know she can feel my eyes on her. She knows I know that she knows, and she doesn’t care. Unbelievable!

There’s a large rectangular mirror at the far wall opposite the front desk, probably to make the small, depressing waiting room look bigger. Ruthie turns away from the pretending clueless receptionist and watches her reflection as she walks towards the mirror. With each step her figure grows until her legs and hands completely disappear from view. Standing right up against the reflecting glass, Ruthie takes a thorough look at herself. Fixing her eyes towards the bottom of her reflection she notes how her white tee shirt is puckered just below the v-neck where she had been grabbing it to fan herself. Moving upwards, the constellation of freckles, sun spots, and moles that dot her chest nag her to make a dermatologist appointment. Next, she inventories the face she doesn’t give more than a cursory glance most days. Her lips look dry and punctuated with deep parentheses. Her still smooth cheeks and turned up nose are flushed while her brown eyes shine bright with frustration, but carry baggage. A sheen of sweat covers her forehead where parallel lines race each other from temple to temple. The nearly black hair, that has always been a thing of pride, being so thick with a natural curvaceous wave, and had just recently been invaded by a vanguard of geriatric strands, looks frizzy and disheveled. 

Ruthie blows raspberries at her reflection watching the vibration of her tongue and enjoying the splatter of spittle she rains on the mirror. Serves them right. The small action releases tension and brings a smile to her face. She turns away from the mirror and settles back in her chair. Avoiding her watch, she rummages through her handbag for a piece of gum, and finds a lone foil wrapped stick made soft from the warm climate of her bag. Popping it in her mouth she settles back into her earlier position of ankles crossed and tucked under her chair, her bag held tightly in her lap. They could at least have a tv in here if they’re going to keep people waiting like this. 

The room is completely silent except for the wet sound of Ruthie chewing her gum. Still avoiding her watch she peripherally checks out her fellow waiter. Pajama Girl seems completely engrossed in her magazine that features some guy with a tattooed face on the cover. Yuck. Ruthie’s foot starts tapping again. She chews her gum with more vigor and blows a little bubble. Her skin starts to feel prickly and she feels her body temperature rising back up. She looks at her watch. One-thirty.

“What time was your appointment,” Ruthie blurts out sharply at Pajama Girl.

Startled, Pajama looks up at Ruthie with wide eyes, and says her appointment was for one-fifteen before immediately looking back down at her magazine. The sound of glass reluctantly sliding along an aluminum track interrupts Ruthie’s response.

“Ruth Branden? You can go in now, dear.”

Ruthie doesn’t jump right up. At the sound of her name, her body went cold. The moment of truth has come and she no longer is in a rush to hear what the doctor has to say. Slowly she picks up her jacket, she grips her bag tighter, and walks unhurried to the door a nurse in pink scrubs is holding open for her.

The nurse directs Ruthie to Dr. Hatcher’s office. She tells her to have a seat, and that the doctor will be with her in a moment. Ruthie sits down in a blue leather, tufted chair still holding her belongings tightly. There was a time in her life when she spent a lot of time in these chairs, waiting. She’s read everything hanging on the walls several times over. Every degree, every article of praise, every thank you letter from grateful new parents.

Dr. Hatcher joins her taking his place behind his big, messy, cherry wood desk. The overhead lighting reflects off his shiny bald pate and rimless glasses. He’s without his lab coat and his red striped shirt makes him look like a member of a barbershop quartet.

“Forgive the mess,” He starts. It’s..”

“Organized chaos. I know.”

“Yeah, I guess you’ve heard that before.” 

Dr. Hatcher chuckles before telling Ruthie that he wanted to see her today because after reviewing her test results he has some shocking news.

Ruthie remains silent and takes in the doctor’s facial expression. He’s happy. He’s smiling. What the hell is going on?

“Ruthie, you’re pregnant.”

“What?”

“You’re pregnant,” he exclaims with wide arms and a wide smile.

“That’s not funny.”

“No it’s not, but it’s true.”

The words don’t penetrate. The coat of armor woven with nerves, agitation, and frustration that Ruthie has worn since receiving the early morning call is still intact and now fortified with doubt.

“That doesn’t make sense. We were never able to. Nothing worked. We gave up trying five years ago.”

“Did you give up sex?”

“Well, no,” Ruthie says embarrassed, “but we gave up hope, the expectation…”

“Well, you’re expecting now!”

“Wait.”

Ruthie, still disbelieving, holds up a hand to slow Dr. Hatcher down. 

“Are you sure? I thought I was coming here for you to tell me I have cancer. I don’t have cancer?”

“Nope. Come. Let me show you.”

Dr. Hatcher pops up from behind his desk and helps Ruthie stand on shaky legs. She takes deep breaths as he guides her to the room where they perform ultrasounds and he asks the nurse to set her up. Her hands shake as she peels her jeans from her still sticky legs. She lays down on the table, her breaths coming quickly, her heart racing, that old feeling of hope she trained herself no longer to feel, returning. 

Dr.Hatcher returns to perform the exam. He adjusts the monitor so she has a good view then puts on gloves and readies the wand. Within moments, a bean shaped being appears on the screen and the room fills with the sound of a beating heart. Tears stream down Ruthie’s face. She reaches out to touch the screen that shows the answer to her prayers long gone silent.

Through sobs of joy, Ruthie greets her miracle.

“Hello, baby. I’ve waited for you for such a long time.”