The Waiting Room
by Victoria Van Every
State University of New York at Cortland
by Victoria Van Every
State University of New York at Cortland
The air was cold, pumped out of a gently humming A/C unit. The news quietly spoke from a single TV sticking out of the cream-white wall. The windows stretched from floor to ceiling, letting the light glide in, but as the sun set, the ice white replaced the gold warmth. That same ice settled in Nat’s blood, spreading chills across her body. She rolled her shoulders, shifted in her seat, anything to push the ice out. She was alone in the corner by the outlet, sitting in a chair that was comfortable but not, cushioned but stiff. It creaked every time she moved, the noise so loud that she had to glance around to make sure she wasn’t disturbing anyone. At her feet sat her homework, untouched. She expected it to be a long night, but she was at peace with that. She would sit there for days if she had to. Her head turned at every movement by the door, expecting him to come back to her, healthy and whole.
Her phone felt heavy, loaded as it was with the Facebook memories, the videos on Snapchat where she laughed like a goat at something funny he said or did. At least she would always have those.
Nat fidgeted with her phone, plucking it from her lap only to put it down again. Would it be rude to be on her phone in the waiting room? Were all those people judging her? They were all grandparents, parents, friends, all people anxiously waiting to hear news of their loved ones. What would they think of her if she sat staring at her phone screen for hours and hours? Nat didn’t want to hide, didn’t want to run from what surrounded her. But what else was she to do?
A man about her father’s age looked at his phone over his glasses, muttering to himself. A woman spoke another language into her phone, her wheelchair backed into the opposite corner. Nat flipped her phone over to glance at the screen. There were no notifications, but her watch gently pulsed against her wrist, telling her it was time to stand. Nat wasn’t sure she could manage that. Her legs weren’t guaranteed to hold her up, not with how prickly and heavy they felt. Her left knee felt hot from how long her right leg had rested across it, from the hours she had spent waiting for him to come back to her.
The father on his phone responded to the next name called out, shattering the silence. Nat went to uncross her legs, bracing her hands against the armrests, and then stopped herself. What was she doing? That wasn’t his name. The chair croaked as she lowered herself back, tipping her head back against the cold wall. Heat sprouted behind her eyes, so she closed them and bit the inside of her lip. She couldn’t fall apart now. It meant nothing that a different name had been called. It didn’t mean that he wasn’t coming back.
Screw it, she thought. Nat unlocked her phone and went to Facebook. She needed to distract herself before she got upset. Their album of photos from the summer before was her go-to when she was having a bad day. She wanted to watch the video of the llama spitting at him at the state fair. She always belly laughed at the video, especially the look of slack-jawed shock on his face when the camera panned to him.
Barely a second after it loaded, her screen went white, and her time was up for social media. She wanted to ignore it, to give herself a fifteen-minute diversion from everything around her, but with a sigh she clicked her phone off and set it on the table beside her. At least she didn’t have to sit there and worry about being judged.
Nat’s stomach growled quietly. She folded her hands over it and pursed her lips. If she was hungry, then he had to be hungry, too, sitting in that cold and sterile room. A delivery driver rushed in and passed off a smiling bag full of Styrofoam boxes—Chinese food, Nat guessed—to the receptionist. Maybe she should order Chinese food for them to eat later at his apartment. She didn’t care for Chinese food, but he loved it. Yesterday, the memory had popped up on her Facebook feed from their first date to the place on Seventh. That was Nat’s first and last experience with it. He took her to get ice cream afterwards as an “apology.”
Ice cream sounded good. Something cold or vaguely liquid would soothe the achy dryness taking hold of Nat’s throat. A vending machine quietly hummed around the corner. It probably had water or something. That would do in place of ice cream. Nat shifted forward, testing herself. Her legs still felt prickly. She didn’t trust them to carry her even a few feet and resigned herself to her seat with a sigh.
Another name sounded from the door. The older couple across the room got up. The wife helped the husband, steadying him with a hand on his back all the way to the door. It swung shut behind them. The woman in the wheelchair muttered to herself, her husband wheeling her towards the bathroom.
That left Nat and the middle-aged guy in the wheelchair, his buddy cracking jokes about how he broke his leg. Somewhere, deep in her Snapchat memories, she had a video of him doing a mock stand-up show for her friends back in August. He made similarly cheesy jokes, the ones that made her laugh no matter what.
The clouds looked like his favorite ice cream, orange creamsicles. Nat bit her lip. Before long, it would be dark. Someone would come along to tell her that he needed to stay overnight, and Nat would have to go home. She would return to his apartment without him. She knew she wouldn’t have the strength to do that. He had always been her strength. If Nat left, what little strength she had would stay in the waiting room, in that croaking chair. It would dissipate into the air under the coldness of the lights. She couldn’t leave her strength like that. She wouldn’t.
The clouds were the pink cotton candy from the state fair. He kissed Nat with his sticky mouth and posted that picture. Nat’s mom shared it for all her mom friends to like and comment on how cute they were.
More people piled into the waiting room. The cotton candy went away to let the sky blush, lavender clouds puffing along like a train’s smoky trail. They shared a couple of Nat’s senior pictures together on the train tracks back home, smiling even as Nat worried that a train would show up. Her mom hung one of those pictures on the living room wall, where everyone could see it and gush over the young couple.
The colors of the sky would intensify before giving in to the black night. They were supposed to look at the stars tonight. Nat was going to show him Orion and Ursa Major, at his request. They were the only constellations—aside from the Little and Big Dippers—that he could name without looking up. Nat had taken an astronomy course once, so that made her the expert.
Nat heard his name. The sky was blue-gray by then, still on its way to black. She didn’t react at first, didn’t want to react. He had a common name. So many people had gathered in this room, so many guys had been taken back, one of them had to have the same name. Nat had been there for so long that it couldn’t be her turn.
His name bounced off the wall beside her. Nat stood and hauled her backpack onto her shoulders, plucking her phone from the table. No one else moved, except for a couple of heads that turned to offer reassuring smiles. Nat’s legs stayed under her, somehow. These people were offering their strength to her, and perhaps it was some of her own. Perhaps it was his, pulsing out to her from his cold room.
A nurse wasn’t waiting for her at the door. It was a doctor, complete with stethoscope and clipboard. His hand fell on Nat’s shoulder to guide her through the door. She forced more strength into her legs while the weight of the world fell on top of her.
Her phone felt heavy, loaded as it was with the Facebook memories, the videos on Snapchat where she laughed like a goat at something funny he said or did. At least she would always have those.
Nat fidgeted with her phone, plucking it from her lap only to put it down again. Would it be rude to be on her phone in the waiting room? Were all those people judging her? They were all grandparents, parents, friends, all people anxiously waiting to hear news of their loved ones. What would they think of her if she sat staring at her phone screen for hours and hours? Nat didn’t want to hide, didn’t want to run from what surrounded her. But what else was she to do?
A man about her father’s age looked at his phone over his glasses, muttering to himself. A woman spoke another language into her phone, her wheelchair backed into the opposite corner. Nat flipped her phone over to glance at the screen. There were no notifications, but her watch gently pulsed against her wrist, telling her it was time to stand. Nat wasn’t sure she could manage that. Her legs weren’t guaranteed to hold her up, not with how prickly and heavy they felt. Her left knee felt hot from how long her right leg had rested across it, from the hours she had spent waiting for him to come back to her.
The father on his phone responded to the next name called out, shattering the silence. Nat went to uncross her legs, bracing her hands against the armrests, and then stopped herself. What was she doing? That wasn’t his name. The chair croaked as she lowered herself back, tipping her head back against the cold wall. Heat sprouted behind her eyes, so she closed them and bit the inside of her lip. She couldn’t fall apart now. It meant nothing that a different name had been called. It didn’t mean that he wasn’t coming back.
Screw it, she thought. Nat unlocked her phone and went to Facebook. She needed to distract herself before she got upset. Their album of photos from the summer before was her go-to when she was having a bad day. She wanted to watch the video of the llama spitting at him at the state fair. She always belly laughed at the video, especially the look of slack-jawed shock on his face when the camera panned to him.
Barely a second after it loaded, her screen went white, and her time was up for social media. She wanted to ignore it, to give herself a fifteen-minute diversion from everything around her, but with a sigh she clicked her phone off and set it on the table beside her. At least she didn’t have to sit there and worry about being judged.
Nat’s stomach growled quietly. She folded her hands over it and pursed her lips. If she was hungry, then he had to be hungry, too, sitting in that cold and sterile room. A delivery driver rushed in and passed off a smiling bag full of Styrofoam boxes—Chinese food, Nat guessed—to the receptionist. Maybe she should order Chinese food for them to eat later at his apartment. She didn’t care for Chinese food, but he loved it. Yesterday, the memory had popped up on her Facebook feed from their first date to the place on Seventh. That was Nat’s first and last experience with it. He took her to get ice cream afterwards as an “apology.”
Ice cream sounded good. Something cold or vaguely liquid would soothe the achy dryness taking hold of Nat’s throat. A vending machine quietly hummed around the corner. It probably had water or something. That would do in place of ice cream. Nat shifted forward, testing herself. Her legs still felt prickly. She didn’t trust them to carry her even a few feet and resigned herself to her seat with a sigh.
Another name sounded from the door. The older couple across the room got up. The wife helped the husband, steadying him with a hand on his back all the way to the door. It swung shut behind them. The woman in the wheelchair muttered to herself, her husband wheeling her towards the bathroom.
That left Nat and the middle-aged guy in the wheelchair, his buddy cracking jokes about how he broke his leg. Somewhere, deep in her Snapchat memories, she had a video of him doing a mock stand-up show for her friends back in August. He made similarly cheesy jokes, the ones that made her laugh no matter what.
The clouds looked like his favorite ice cream, orange creamsicles. Nat bit her lip. Before long, it would be dark. Someone would come along to tell her that he needed to stay overnight, and Nat would have to go home. She would return to his apartment without him. She knew she wouldn’t have the strength to do that. He had always been her strength. If Nat left, what little strength she had would stay in the waiting room, in that croaking chair. It would dissipate into the air under the coldness of the lights. She couldn’t leave her strength like that. She wouldn’t.
The clouds were the pink cotton candy from the state fair. He kissed Nat with his sticky mouth and posted that picture. Nat’s mom shared it for all her mom friends to like and comment on how cute they were.
More people piled into the waiting room. The cotton candy went away to let the sky blush, lavender clouds puffing along like a train’s smoky trail. They shared a couple of Nat’s senior pictures together on the train tracks back home, smiling even as Nat worried that a train would show up. Her mom hung one of those pictures on the living room wall, where everyone could see it and gush over the young couple.
The colors of the sky would intensify before giving in to the black night. They were supposed to look at the stars tonight. Nat was going to show him Orion and Ursa Major, at his request. They were the only constellations—aside from the Little and Big Dippers—that he could name without looking up. Nat had taken an astronomy course once, so that made her the expert.
Nat heard his name. The sky was blue-gray by then, still on its way to black. She didn’t react at first, didn’t want to react. He had a common name. So many people had gathered in this room, so many guys had been taken back, one of them had to have the same name. Nat had been there for so long that it couldn’t be her turn.
His name bounced off the wall beside her. Nat stood and hauled her backpack onto her shoulders, plucking her phone from the table. No one else moved, except for a couple of heads that turned to offer reassuring smiles. Nat’s legs stayed under her, somehow. These people were offering their strength to her, and perhaps it was some of her own. Perhaps it was his, pulsing out to her from his cold room.
A nurse wasn’t waiting for her at the door. It was a doctor, complete with stethoscope and clipboard. His hand fell on Nat’s shoulder to guide her through the door. She forced more strength into her legs while the weight of the world fell on top of her.
Victoria Van Every studies professional writing at the State University of New York at Cortland. She has been published in The Cortland Writer and has received the Collin Anderson Memorial Award in Digital/Multimodal Writing.