Scarecrow and Mrs. King
“Waiting”
Written by Anne Riener
“Waiting”
Written by Anne Riener
Glancing at my timepiece, I become conscious of the fact I have been sitting in the same spot for over two hours. Inside I feel hollow and cold, and I am more than aware of my heart pounding against my rib cage, keeping time with my watch. I soon feel the sudden urge to scream. Don’t these doctors realize the waiting is tearing me up? God, I have grown to hate these places. I hate the smell of disinfectant and rubbing alcohol and . . . death.
Waiting has never been my strong suit. I am a man of action. Loosening the tie around my neck, I recline back in my chair, resting my head against the brick wall and close my eyes. What is taking so long? I should have heard something—anything by now.
Opening my eyes, I take notice of my surroundings for the hundredth time. Everything in the room is white and cold. The fluorescent lights, the glistening tiles, the trim around the windows, the nurse’s uniforms . . . it’s almost too much. Even the plastic chairs are cold and impersonal.
I gaze at the stoned-faced people sitting in the same waiting room and briefly make eye contact with an elderly woman. She gives me a timid smile and I nod back. I can’t help but notice she has kind eyes, compassionate eyes—she reminds me of my wife.
Leaning forward, I press the palms of my hands against my face. I think back to the first time I had met her—I was in trouble, I was desperate, and I had relied on a stranger to help me. However, there was something about her eyes which led me to believe I could trust her. And trust her I did. She helped me grow not only as an agent, but also as a man. This time she is the one in trouble and it was because of me. Me! Angrily, I grip the edge of the chair so tightly my knuckles turn white. If I had never given her that damn package, she would not be in this position.
Why didn’t she ever listen to me? I had told her at the beginning I was poison. I tried to push her away. Nevertheless, I had never met a more stubborn woman. Picking up my cup of coffee from the end table, I take a sip and almost choke on the bitter, cold liquid. I toss the cup into the wastepaper basket, then reach for a magazine and begin to thumb through the pages.
A few minutes later, I toss down the gardening magazine out of frustration, stand up, and walk toward the window. I rock back on my heels and rake my fingers through my unruly hair, blow out a deep, shaky breath, and stare out over the parking lot. I witness a car coming to a squeaking halt and the driver hop out, running toward the entrance. Only seconds later, an orderly comes out with a gurney and quickly carries a young child through the double doors. I offer up a silent prayer for the family and hope the child is all right, because that is what my wife would have done.
Involuntary, I shudder. I just can’t shake this feeling of dread. Suddenly, I feel the urge to flee; I have to get out of there. I quickly leave the room and walk down the corridor, and enter through the restroom door. Stopping in front of the sink, I bow my head. Stop Stetson, I chastise myself. Calm down! After all, you’re a highly trained intelligence operative. I turn the knob above the sink, dip my hands under the faucet, splashing cold water on my face. Then racket the towel down from the towel dispenser and wipe my face, then head back toward the nurse's station. Surely, they know something by now. "Excuse me, Nurse, I need to know about my wife. Is she okay?”
Without looking up, she answered, “The doctor will be out to see you soon.”
That’s code—doctor’s code. I’m a spy, I recognize code when I hear it!
I throw my arms up in exasperation, then slam my fists down on the counter. “Dammit! I need to know how she is!”
“Keep your voice down, Sir,” the nurse berated me. “Or I will forcefully remove you from this hospital.”
Dejected, I clench my teeth, feeling the muscles in my jaw twitch rhythmically. I growl in aggravation, nod ever so slowly, then walk back to the waiting room to sit down in that cold, hard chair again.
I must have dozed off for a moment, because the next thing I am aware of is gentle pressure on my shoulder and someone softly speaking my name. I quickly open my eyes, only to have to shut them again. Still too bright, I blink a couple of times trying to get my bearings. Dazed and confused I stare at the face of the nurse and swallow a few times trying to find my voice. “How is she?” I finally managed to choke out.
“Mr. Stetson, right this way.”
I try to stand, but my body fails me. I feel heavy, like I’ve been glued to the chair. Mustering all the strength I have left in me, I stand and shoulder my way past the nurse and run down the corridor toward my wife’s room.
I stop short; my hands brace either side of the door frame while I quickly school my features before opening the door. My eyes sweep the room and I gaze at the bed seeing the smiling face of my wife look up at me. She appears tired and her hair is a mess, but her eyes are shining. In her arms a tiny bundle moves, I then look to her for clarification.
“Hello Matthew, I would like to introduce you to your son Lee.”
Waiting has never been my strong suit. I am a man of action. Loosening the tie around my neck, I recline back in my chair, resting my head against the brick wall and close my eyes. What is taking so long? I should have heard something—anything by now.
Opening my eyes, I take notice of my surroundings for the hundredth time. Everything in the room is white and cold. The fluorescent lights, the glistening tiles, the trim around the windows, the nurse’s uniforms . . . it’s almost too much. Even the plastic chairs are cold and impersonal.
I gaze at the stoned-faced people sitting in the same waiting room and briefly make eye contact with an elderly woman. She gives me a timid smile and I nod back. I can’t help but notice she has kind eyes, compassionate eyes—she reminds me of my wife.
Leaning forward, I press the palms of my hands against my face. I think back to the first time I had met her—I was in trouble, I was desperate, and I had relied on a stranger to help me. However, there was something about her eyes which led me to believe I could trust her. And trust her I did. She helped me grow not only as an agent, but also as a man. This time she is the one in trouble and it was because of me. Me! Angrily, I grip the edge of the chair so tightly my knuckles turn white. If I had never given her that damn package, she would not be in this position.
Why didn’t she ever listen to me? I had told her at the beginning I was poison. I tried to push her away. Nevertheless, I had never met a more stubborn woman. Picking up my cup of coffee from the end table, I take a sip and almost choke on the bitter, cold liquid. I toss the cup into the wastepaper basket, then reach for a magazine and begin to thumb through the pages.
A few minutes later, I toss down the gardening magazine out of frustration, stand up, and walk toward the window. I rock back on my heels and rake my fingers through my unruly hair, blow out a deep, shaky breath, and stare out over the parking lot. I witness a car coming to a squeaking halt and the driver hop out, running toward the entrance. Only seconds later, an orderly comes out with a gurney and quickly carries a young child through the double doors. I offer up a silent prayer for the family and hope the child is all right, because that is what my wife would have done.
Involuntary, I shudder. I just can’t shake this feeling of dread. Suddenly, I feel the urge to flee; I have to get out of there. I quickly leave the room and walk down the corridor, and enter through the restroom door. Stopping in front of the sink, I bow my head. Stop Stetson, I chastise myself. Calm down! After all, you’re a highly trained intelligence operative. I turn the knob above the sink, dip my hands under the faucet, splashing cold water on my face. Then racket the towel down from the towel dispenser and wipe my face, then head back toward the nurse's station. Surely, they know something by now. "Excuse me, Nurse, I need to know about my wife. Is she okay?”
Without looking up, she answered, “The doctor will be out to see you soon.”
That’s code—doctor’s code. I’m a spy, I recognize code when I hear it!
I throw my arms up in exasperation, then slam my fists down on the counter. “Dammit! I need to know how she is!”
“Keep your voice down, Sir,” the nurse berated me. “Or I will forcefully remove you from this hospital.”
Dejected, I clench my teeth, feeling the muscles in my jaw twitch rhythmically. I growl in aggravation, nod ever so slowly, then walk back to the waiting room to sit down in that cold, hard chair again.
I must have dozed off for a moment, because the next thing I am aware of is gentle pressure on my shoulder and someone softly speaking my name. I quickly open my eyes, only to have to shut them again. Still too bright, I blink a couple of times trying to get my bearings. Dazed and confused I stare at the face of the nurse and swallow a few times trying to find my voice. “How is she?” I finally managed to choke out.
“Mr. Stetson, right this way.”
I try to stand, but my body fails me. I feel heavy, like I’ve been glued to the chair. Mustering all the strength I have left in me, I stand and shoulder my way past the nurse and run down the corridor toward my wife’s room.
I stop short; my hands brace either side of the door frame while I quickly school my features before opening the door. My eyes sweep the room and I gaze at the bed seeing the smiling face of my wife look up at me. She appears tired and her hair is a mess, but her eyes are shining. In her arms a tiny bundle moves, I then look to her for clarification.
“Hello Matthew, I would like to introduce you to your son Lee.”
