Keeping Time

She waited. Hung on to each second as the clock ticked and tocked. Her heart beat along with it. But the time didn’t make a difference. Fidgeting against the vinyl of the red plastic chair, it squeaked. the tick-tock stopped. She knew they were looking at her. The man next to her wanted to know if she was crying too or if this was the best moment of her life. A soon to be sister or orphan. Whipping away the salt from her eyes with the back of her sleeve, the clock began ticking again and the wondering looks had drawn their conclusions. They didn’t want to see.

The tocks weren’t enough anymore. Instead, to fill the room, she began to tap her feet. When that did nothing, she let the rubber of her shoes scrape against the tile. Magazines flipped their pages and children mashed their wooden blocks together. The crying man gifted her an understanding glance but he found his muddy boots were more interesting. A woman with a checking bored and a blank expression called another name and pulled the grey man by the desk away through the windowless doors. 

The air became jagged. Her throat rejected it like poison and she grumbling and croaked it down. Her stomach twitched and her skin turned ridged. 

The silent news on the television by the play centre was reporting the faces she loved and the children below it were without mothers. The growing list of names droned out in drab tones by weary workers. They didn’t care. They got to go home. 

She clenched the bottom of her seat until it pinched. Shutting her eyes, she begged for the time skip or stop or end. But the time was there. 7:51 pm. 

“So what are you in for?” quivered the fragile man beside her. Considering an answer, she came to none. A highly inappropriate question didn’t deserve an answer. “I get it. Not supposed to ask,” He pushed away a tear and invited to her conversation with a neighbourly smirk.

A short turn his way shoved off his concern and she resumed to look blankly at the clocks inching hand. 

“It’s my wife,” he said evenly, tucking the laces of his shoes into his boots and chipping away at the dried mud. “This room’s practically our living room,” he chuckled to reassure himself but the gloom cut in before he could smile. 

she relinquished the anger and rewarded him with a sympathetic nod. The clock stopped as she shrugged away its noise. 

“My Mum,” she said. Nothing stronger than a whisper wanted to come out but the room tilted an ear to the two and shuffled in close for the story. “It’s my first time here,” 

He sighed in unison with her and they fell deeper into their chairs. Her fidgeting taps settled into a rhythm slower than the clock. 

“First time’s easy,” he said, resting his head back until it seemed about to break. “It’s the last time we gotta watch out for,” 

The words shot through her head and burrowed a hole into the back of her chair. But there was no room for kindness, the sympathetic maybes or the concerned frowns. It was as friendly as the truth could be. And the truth was important. All there was going to be right now was that waiting room and the strike to her name each time she would be called. 

“So what am I supposed to do while I wait?” she asked frankly, resisting the urge to argue in favour of the man’s glum face not sinking any deeper.

The room died and the people froze. Even her. She wondered if his silence could be the answer and what about his boot kept him so preoccupied. Another chipping of mud from the toe triggered a small, reluctant groan from behind his scraggly beard. His boot hand clawed through the grease in his hair and drew five long streaks. 

“Well…,” he began. “You find people that are waiting like you are,” He inhaled ruggedly, inflating his posture and squaring his shoulders to her. ”And you stop watching the clock,” He chuckled softly again, but this time it was sincere. 

“you don't watch,” she bit back. A wifes time was just as valuable as a mother but he didn’t care enough to watch. Documenting the time was a tick she couldn’t shake. She shouldn’t shake.  

“At first, all the time,” his voice lost it’s sadness and was calm. “But I needed to spend that time with my woman,” His words were as close to a pat on the back as could get. They were remorseful but closer to a eulogy than a pep talk. Returning to the clock and then to the reception desk, she swallowed thoughts of the impending day and drew an answer out of a hat. 

“Good for you and your wife, I guess,” she grumbled and turned away. Respectfully departing the conversation, he returned to the picking of his boots and they were strangers again.

The printers etched and the tapping of mouses and keyboards were a badly timed orchestra. Hushed voices grumbled words like “serious” and “critical”. Who were they for? She returned to the clock. 8:03 pm. It was marked in her memory just in case she needed it. Footsteps began clacking.

It was the lady with the red leather checking board. She wasn’t as worn out as before. With her posture stiff and a different blue jacket hung from her shoulders like a hanger. Perhaps it had gotten messy during an operation or a patient had been sick on it. The dulled expression she’d sported was more exaggerated. Her cheeks were hollow and her brows melted into a frown over her eyes. Strangers in the room trailed her stare to the man with the mucky boots. 

“James Sutton?” the woman inquired, her voice sodden with regret. 

Hands gripping his jeans at the knee, he examined her face, looking for a hopeful resolution. Nodding turned into a flustered shake as she approached him. He didn’t get up. 

“I’m afraid we have some bad news. If you could follow me?” 

His chin dangled from his face and quivered. And faces turned away in a mix of soberness and embarrassment. The room didn’t watch. They didn’t want to.

Pushing against His knees and leaving two dampened patches of sweat, he lifted to a rocking stand and shied his face away to his boots. The clock ticked and tocked, resonating louder. it knew. He surrendered to it edging his sight in its direction. 8:05 pm. This was his last day.

she sent them off with a grimace and a nod. A blinded, cupboard-like room set them apart from the rest of the world. She took note. A visual to prepare herself with. The door closed and a cool light peeped from inside. Polished air wafted as the door swung shut, becoming rotten and unclean in her lungs. She willed herself not to breath. But with a sharp gasp, its taste prickled on her tongue and scraped down to her stomach as she swallowed. 

“Alice Shepard?” an old woman sounded from behind the reception desk. she didn’t answer. “Room B125,” she continued without a glance above her computer. It was 8:09. 

Without hesitation, she lugged her feet past the cupboard room, down the isle of curious eyes and halted at the windowless doors. Day one, she thought.