Call on Monday

TW: suicidal/violent ideation, illness

“We just shifted all the appointments over to the other doctor. All patients kept the same appointment day and time. You missed yours on…” Silence and clicking. “Wednesday.”

“No. You called me and said you were rescheduling me with Gary on Friday, today. You told me not to come in on Wednesday. I only called because I never got a confirmation text.”

“That isn’t what it says here. There must have been a miscommunication.”

“A miscommunication? YOU told me on the phone on Monday not to come in and YOU rescheduled me. How is that a miscommunication?”

“We told all the patients to keep their same appointments. You must have misunderstood.”

“I would have come in at my regular time if you hadn’t called me.” Silence. “Fine. Never mind. Can Gary still see me today?”

“I’m sorry, but we're all booked. You can call next week and see if anything opened up. Things are really busy right now with Abraham out.”

“I can’t wait another week for an appointment. I was told to get my second scan in three weeks and I have to see the doctor first. It’s already been almost four weeks.”

“I’m afraid I don't have that information.”

“I could just come and wait in the lobby. Then when there’s a break…”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that. We limit patients in the lobby due to Covid. Patients have to wait in their cars until called in. There are no walk-in appointments.”

“What am I supposed to do? I was told that waiting too long would be a problem.”

“I understand. I can put you on a cancellation list and you can call Monday. The earliest opening right now is December 20^th.”

“That’s over a month from now!"

“Well, that’s the earliest we have right now. It might change.”

“Fine. Okay. Yes. Schedule the 20th. But I want to leave a message for Gary. I'm really concerned.”

“You can message him through the portal. That might be more direct.”

“Sure. Okay.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No. Thanks.”

“Have a great rest of your day.”

Robert did not reply. He pushed the "End Call" button fiercely and threw his phone on the couch.

Robert looked out the window. Waves were crashing into clouds of angry grey foam on the rocks. He walked to the window and opened it. The smell of dead fish and salt rode in on the breeze. There were the faint calls of birds, honking and screaming and preening. Maybe geese. Maybe not. Seagulls?

Robert ran his hands through his hair.

“AAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!”

The harsh sound of his scream was swallowed by the soft tomb of the shadowy living room. Stifled by the dusty shelves filled with books.

Robert had waited two months to see the specialist the first time. That appointment had given him innumerable questions but no answers. He had been told that they would know more with a second scan in three weeks. Would know if it was going in the wrong direction. If time was of the essence.

Abraham had told him that. Abraham. He was "out of office" on "family leave". A dead father? A new baby? A sick wife? Who cared. Whatever it was had been more important.

Time seemed to be working its poison on Robert. The vision disturbances had gotten worse. Spiral colors. Dark shapes. Rooms spinning.

Robert had also swung heavily from mood to mood. He sometimes hated everyone and everything. He plotted acts of violence. He obsessed over the details of carrying them out. In-the-moment insanities. A butter knife to the carotid. A car veering into oncoming traffic.

The next day he would be happy and riding the wave. He would buy book after book on Facebook marketplace. He shopped for electronics on Amazon. He went to the small bar in town and played darts, pool, hit on the bartender. He got home at 4 a.m.

The next day he would be handling knives in the kitchen. He would feel the points on his wrists. He would be sobbing over a memory of childhood.

His mother pale, running to grab a towel when his father cut his finger off on a bandsaw. Robert had looked for the finger on the floor. It had fallen into a pile of sawdust. His father terrified. He had never seen his father terrified before. Nothing scared Robert more than the fear of people who normally never seemed afraid.

The memory of the chickens kept coming back. These were the chickens his father had butchered. In the yard. Hot sun, dust. Roosters in fact, not chickens.

The stump of a tree. Each bird bent and held in place, hard and struggling. Robert didn’t recall the moment of head separation, but the chicken with no head ran for a few seconds before falling over. Did the head keep working for a few seconds too? What was the chicken thinking? Do chickens think?

They had done an MRI. They were concerned. They were tracking symptoms. They would do another scan. Three weeks they had said. Now it would be two months. Another scan and then the biopsy. If they were concerned.

Robert walked to the cottage door. One of his legs ached as if it had fallen asleep. He stumbled and fell against the door frame.

He opened the door. He saw sand dunes and grasses, blazing under the midday sun. The call of the birds was louder. The boom of the surf, coming now in time with the white plume over the big rock at the base of his trail.

This house had been his only inheritance from his father. It was silent and blissfully lonely. You needed a ferry to get to the closest grocery store. This island had a watering hole, a post office, and a library. The gas station was the biggest deal in town. It also had frozen meals, lottery tickets, VHS tapes for rent, and fish tackle.

Live worms and hunting knives. You wanted fresh fruit, you went to the next island over. It was bigger and had a tourist season. No tourist season here.

When Robert had first gotten the news, it had taken him just two days to escape to the island. He had told Susan and the boys that he needed a few days to clear his head. But he knew it wouldn’t be just a few days. He had lied.

He thought he might write, but he couldn’t actually put his fears into words. He felt that naming them might enthrone them. Sometimes writing took the power out of fears. But sometimes it gave them form. Substance. Turned them into mighty giants with faces. He didn’t want to take the risk.

Robert walked from his house to the rocks without real intention. His feet moved and he rode with them. He felt surprise when he arrived. He recognized a loss of time.

Where the sand ended, the water became the only force of note. The large rocks were slippery. A sheen of slick black. He stepped onto the first one. The sand on his shoes dusted the wetness like flour on a ball of dough. He slipped once and caught himself on his hands.

He made it out to the next rock, arms stretched out, balanced. The spray hissed at his soles, once striking his right calf.

The next rock was the farthest out that would hold him. It was shaped like a fist. Ahead of it was nothing but the steady roll of dense water. Moving and crashing and rolling back and crashing forward.

Robert imagined laying under the waves. They would roll over his body endlessly. He imagined calm.

He felt a sharp pain and held his right hand in front of his face. There was a cut on the palm. Likely gashed on the rocks when he had slipped. He rubbed the wound on his pants.

A large crash at his feet startled him. His right leg jerked down suddenly, losing its foothold as the spray hit the canvas of his shoe.

His body followed the sliding foot down to the right. There was nothing to grab onto. Only ocean.

He fell.

The water stung his surprised eyes. He flapped his arms sharply, pushing his head back above the liquid solidity of the sea. A kicking leg hit rock and shot pain up to his hip. That would be a bad bruise.

Robert put his head down and started to swim.

He choked and sputtered as water got into his nose and down his throat. It was a fury of pushing forces. His shoes weighed down his legs. He continued to kick and pull roughly with his arms. It was only 20 feet or so to the shore, but it was a sandless beach where the water met it. Only rocks and a sudden drop off into the deep.

Robert kicked and pushed. One rock passed. A second rock passed.

Then the third and final rock before the end of the drop off. Before the safe sand.

Robert grabbed the jagged edge closest to him, and tried to pull himself up. He couldn’t see clearly. His world was a blur.

His arms finally won. He sat down hard on top of the rock. He breathed fast and roughly. He rubbed at his eyes.

“Robert?”

It was his wife’s voice behind him. He heard sand shifting as she walked. She had found him. Like this. Sobs spilled from Robert like air from an overfilled balloon.

“I’m here,” Susan said as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m here.”

She squeezed tightly. After a while, Robert’s breathing slowed. He felt a floating calm press at him from all sides, like the embrace of water.

“Let’s go back to the house,” she said.

I’ll call on Monday, Robert thought.

He let Susan drag him back across the sand.

Monday.