Twenty Two

Grays and blues and warmer hues

Linger in the west,

As bitter sunset silhouettes

An unattended nest.

Andrea felt invisible sitting on the edge of the blue vinyl sofa, her body shaking with fear. She'd filled out the forms and delivered them to the admitting counter. Her health insurance had lapsed; but it was a minor concern compared with the terror that gripped her; and all Andrea could do was wait.

She searched the faces of every person that walked down the gray hallway toward the waiting room; but men and women came and went for nearly ten minutes without an eye meeting hers. She strained to hear their whispered voices, convinced they were discussing her child. Each moment of not knowing how seriously Robin was injured became more unbearable. Andrea walked up to the nurse's station.

"Could I please see my daughter?" she asked the attendant. "I'm so frightened. I don't know what's going on." She put her hand over her heart. "I won't get in the way, I promise."

"That's up to the doctors, dear," the nurse said, calmly, "Dr. Lindstrom is with her now. I'm sure he will let you know as soon as he can."

The woman's tone was patronizing, Andrea thought. She wondered if she was being discounted because of her blue jeans and sloppy pullover.

As she sat down again, a colder thought clutched Andrea's throat. Could she have misread the woman's manner? Had it been sympathy, not condescension? Maybe Robin had died and the nurse knew. Perhaps they all knew, and that's why they wouldn't look her in the eye: no one wanted to break the news. They could be waiting for the somber chaplain who had been summoned when her dying husband was brought to the same hospital two years before.