Waiting Room

Gene Kelly

Here’s what I am: a man, retired, cancer, 3 years, lung. That’s the gist. People ask how I’m doing and a part of me thinks, would you like to know the truth? But I’m not going there. I want to keep it simple. Today I’m at the doctor’s office --my home/church/prison of the last 4 months. She’s going to tell me how the chemo went. Maybe extend my sentence. I’m the only one in here. Just me and the dent on the couch cushion. It’s the dent of a thousand people waiting. There’s a room full of cushions just like it in the Smithsonian. That dent right here? That’s me. I’m next.

“Mr. Simonetti?” this from the receptionist. 

“Hm?”

“Did you say something?”

“Did I what?”

“I thought you said something,”

“Nope.”

“You know, I was just looking at the book. We have your appointment down for 3 this afternoon. Do you--”

“I thought I’d just wait here.”

“-- want to go to the cafeteria for a while. Or--”

“I’m good.”

“--you can hang out in the tranquility room.” she says. And then, “Okay.” And then, “How’re you doing?”

There it is. People ask when they’re concerned you might be about to cross a line of some sort. “Oh, I’m doing.” She side-eyes me, but she is smiling. I like that. That’s good. No time for the sad man today. I have no idea who she is. “Where’s Mrs. Rutherford?”

“She’s out this week,” she says

“Hm.” 

“She’s studying for her horsely acrobatics certification.” Or that’s what I think she says. She turns to the cabinets afterwards so I don’t ask. God, I’m losing so many of my senses. Hearing: muffled, sight: not great, taste: gone, smell: gone. Hm. Those last ones, possibly the greatest and longest lasting loves of my life if you want to know the truth. So giving. Dependable. Taken by the chemicals. Let’s see: Sight, Sound, Taste, Smell, what else, what’s the–

“--Did you already fill out the questionnaire Mr. Simonetti?” She calls out to me from across the office like we’re roommates.

“Huh?”

“It was your last treatment on Tuesday, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” I keep it curt. She’s perfectly nice but that doesn’t mean I want to talk about chemotherapy. She gets it. No need to excuse myself.

She’s busy back there putting files away, reaching, bending, doing her thing. It’s amazing where your mind goes watching that kind of behavior. Is that wrong? I’m 65. I haven’t had sex in 10 years. Not with anyone that mattered. That’s just a fact. Sometimes I am devastated by it and sometimes I think all roads lead to this, what did I expect? All the years I wasted. All that time I wasn’t paying attention to the right things. It is what it is. I’m not going to kick myself.

“I bet it felt good.”

“Huh?”

“When you finished the chemo.”

“Oh… yeah.” Women: psychic, mysterious, frightening. Even when they don’t know, they know.

She walks around to the area I’m in and hands me a packet of papers.

“What’s this?”

“Just some information about what happens next.”

“I think I have a good idea.”

“Right,” she’s just standing there. “You can fill out that questionnaire. That’s in there too.”

I put the packet on the table next to me, “I think I just want to sit if that’s okay.”

“Oh,” she says, and then, “Yeah, sure.” And then, “Of course, if you--.”

“Is today your first day?” I interrupt before she gets too far.

“Ha, well no, I’ve been volunteering here for 5 years.”

“Volunteering as a receptionist?”

“Yes,” she looks at me and then shrugs, “My husband was a patient here and I just really liked Dr. Levine and told her I could fill in when she needed me. So that’s what I do.”

“Gotcha.”

She walks over to the window and looks out. There’s a school next to the medical building and if you come here at noon you can usually hear the kids in the yard. It always reminds me of growing up when we lived near Greenfield Elementary and then years later my office was right next to a Catholic school. Even as just a background noise, I liked it. Alive! That and the church bells on Pine Street do something to my insides. It’s quiet right now though. The receptionist looks like she’s watching something moving, I can tell by the way she lifts her chin. I look at the line of her jaw, her neck, her shoulder. She turns and looks at me, “Do you ever pray?”

“Your what now?”

She starts to laugh. “Oh my god--” It’s a good laugh, “I’m so --” it’s a little out of left field, but not insane, “You must just--”

“Okay,” what else can I say?

“I’m sorry it’s--it’s ridic--” she shakes her head.

I can’t help it, now I’m smiling too. Watching her and her… oddness, “Do I ever pray?” I chuckle. “Do you ever pray?” That gets her going again. She tries to say no, but her mouth is going in the opposite direction.

Finally she bows her head and pulls herself together, whispers, “Enough,” and then, “No, I don’t,” and then, “I mean, I tried to when my husband was going through everything. I tried, but it felt bullshit. It felt like I was talking to Santa.”

“Santa’s not real?” I say.

She chuckles once and then lets out a deep breath.

“It feels bullshit,” I say.

“Right? It feels bullshit!”

“Amen.”

“Yeah,” she looks at me like we’re allies, “Still… I mean, I know it's presumptuous to ask, but you know, because I work here, and because of Eric and everything, and you’re so early, it's just something I was thinking. I talk to my son about it now and then and he asks me questions I don’t really know the answer to, like how do we know when anyone hears the prayers?”

"I'd like to know the answer to that one myself.”

"And I said you'll know it because afterwards something good will happen.”

"Like what?" 

She looks right at me and smiles, "That's exactly what he said. And he's ten." 

"He's obviously a genius,” I lean forward, as she turns back to the desk, “Let me ask you something.” I call out to her, “What are the five senses: sight, sound--”

“Five? You mean 12?”

“What?”

“Yeah they added more like balance, and that sense that something is wrong or good or makes you feel some kind of way. I don’t know all of them,” the phone rings and she holds up a finger and walks back to the desk, “You can google it.”

“Google it,” I say to myself, “there’s a prayer.” I walk to the window just as the back door of the school is opening. Kids are running out screaming and calling and doing the things they do. They make sound the same way as birds. Without thought or fear or effort even. I like that. That’s good. I want some of that.

“Mr. Simonetti? I’ll be right back.”

“Yep.”

She heads for the door and then turns and takes a step towards me, “Mr. Simonetti? You good?”

I say, “Sure,” and then “Beautiful day,” and then, “Would you like to know the truth?”