Ting-a-ling. The room smells like a hospital–like the desperate attempt to cover up birth, death, and all the pain in between with cleaning supplies. A cactus, a certificate, and a poster about cannabis adorn an otherwise minimalist space. A receptionist, thick purple glasses perched on her nose, types loudly. She looks up only briefly, still typing, to wordlessly point the boy toward the seats.
The metal armrests are icy. The boy (or is he a man now?) misses the pediatrician’s welcoming cushions. Next to him, a very pregnant woman taps her foot aggressively. Her phone pings, and she curses what he presumes to be her spouse under her breath. A nurse calls for her, his voice adrift. When the woman pushes herself up from her chair, her breath is frail and frayed around the edges. The boy considers offering her help. He doesn’t. The nurse takes her by the arm.
The boy turns to the receptionist, her typing a furious storm. He doubts she’s taken a second to breathe since he entered. She certainly hasn’t looked up.
Ting-a-ling. After a blast of balmy air, the door clicks back into place. The receptionist points wordlessly in the direction of the seats. A girl (or is she a woman now?) locks eyes with the boy for a slice of a second. At once, the room seems very small.
The boy resists the urge to sneak a glance at the girl for six long seconds. When he looks, she’s reading a crassly colored pamphlet, her fingers tracing the words with care. Her face, eyebrows furrowed, jaw clenched, has become cryptic to him. Just nine months ago, it felt like home. The girl has lost weight, and her fingernails are bitten short. The boy yearns to reach over and hold her hand safe in his. Instead, he counts the tiles above the receptionist’s desk.
The girl reads a pamphlet about burping babies. She does not have a baby. She reads it through six times, pausing to examine each diagram. She would have given birth a week ago. She does not have a baby.
The boy’s black eye seems misplaced on his face. It takes a second for the weight of it to sink in, settling in the pit of the girl’s stomach. She thought those days were behind him. She pulls out her phone, feigning interest in an Instagram post about pasta. What has the boy endured since they last talked? How come she feels such a need to know?
Ting-a-ling. After a blast of balmy air, the door clicks back into place. The receptionist points wordlessly in the direction of the seats. A man staggers over and lowers himself to sit between the two teenagers (or are they now adults?). His alcohol-rotten breath makes the boy shudder. The man laughs. He grumbles something about his neighbor’s dog but is interrupted by the nurse. When the man pushes himself up from his chair, he sways. The nurse takes him by the arm. The moment stretches and thrums between the two remaining patients. Boy and girl. Woman and man.
The girl parts her lips as if to speak but coughs instead. Her coughs echo in the airless room, building upon each other like waves. They hit the shore with force, yellowish gunk landing on the girl’s palm. She reaches for a tissue, the boy’s gaze burning holes in her composure. A part of her wishes that the boy would reach over and squeeze her hand. Another part of her wishes she could forget she ever knew how reassuring his rough hands could be. She grasps the cold armrests as if that might do.
Words dance on the tip of the boy’s tongue. The AC drones, as if jeering at him. He clears his throat. The nurse calls the boy’s name, and the boy follows. There are twenty-three tiles above the receptionist’s desk.