THE WAITING ROOM
 

    The waiting room is cold, not only from the air con
er, but by the way it’s furnished; white walls with no pictures, cheap metal frame chairs and a card table covered with old magazines in the cor
ner. Mostly I sit with my head down, face towards the floor. I don’t want to look at the other girls, to see their eyes and know what they’re feeling. I stare at their feet instead, trying to imagine what kind of person each one is by the qual
ty of her shoes. I don’t have to look at my own feet to know what I am. I am shame, weakness, stupidity and wasted youth all rolled into one.
     I hate myself for being here, and I hate my boy
friend for not coming with me. His stepfather sits be
side me, flipping through a three month old Cos
tan. I try again to wipe the sweat off my hands by dragging them across the legs of my jeans, and he leans over and asks me if I feel all right. I simply nod my head yes, and think what a stupid question to ask. My head hurts and I feel dizzy, like I’m go
ing to fall out of the chair, and then I remember to breath.
     My mind is like a VCR, playing back the re
ed scenes of the last week. It plays and rewinds, and plays and rewinds. I wish I could forget his reaction when I told him. Maybe if he had said something different, it wouldn’t have been so bad. But instead, he jumped out of the bed and yelled, “Fuck that! Man, I don’t need this shit! Man, you gotta’ get rid of it!” That’s when I started to hate him. All I could do was cry.
     I had hoped that the test was wrong, and went to the Health Department to have another one. It was pos
tive, too. When I told the woman I didn’t think I want
ed to have it, she said I was so small that I probably wasn’t that far along, and that it shouldn’t be difficult to have it taken care of. I convinced myself it was the best thing to do, but couldn’t fig
ure out why it felt so wrong.
     The door opens and a nurse walks out and calls my name, along with three others. I never hated the sound of my name as much as I do now. She tells us to follow her, and we walk single file down a hall to another waiting room. There are five beds in the room, each with a gown on it. The nurse says to undress and put the gowns on, and then wait to be called.
     This room is darker than the first, dimly lit with wood paneling. We change silently, and sit on our beds, wait
ing. I feel sick, and try to swallow the sour taste in my mouth. The room smells clean and med
cal, like the disinfectant smell of a hospital. Two of the girls are talking to each other. They act as if noth
ing is going on, like they just met at a party and are getting to know each other. I can’t understand how they do it; I couldn’t speak now if I had to. The third girl sits on the bed next to mine. I notice she has bruises on her arms and her eyes are red and swol
len. I wonder if her boyfriend or husband did it to her, and if he’s waiting outside. She’s small and qui
et and stares at the wall. Her shoes are on the floor, under her feet. They’re old and dirty, with holes above the toe area. She has pale, dainty feet and I think how nice they would look in a pair of pretty sandals.
     A different nurse comes through the door this time, and calls my name. My legs shake as I stand and walk to the door. We cross the hall and enter another room. It’s very bright and professional. The nurse asks me to sit on a metal examining table, and as I do, the doctor comes in. He’s not what I ex
ed. He looks about sixty, with grey hair and a slight stoop in his posture. He tells me to lie down, and sits on the stool next to me. His eyes are pale green and he smells like Polo, but when he talks I can smell the coffee on his breath. His voice is soft and kind and I picture him as some
one’s grand
ther. He picks up my hand gently and reassures me that he will make it as painless as possible, and will give me Valium and painkillers. He pulls a light blan
ket over the lower half of my body and raises the gown above my stomach. Spreading a clear, cold gel over my lower abdomen, he explains that first he will do a sonogram. He turns what looks like a small TV closer to him and begins. I watch the screen, but can’t see anything but shades of black and grey swirl
ing to
er. Then he stops and begins to type on a keyboard, stop
ping now and then to look back at the screen.
     I notice on the screen a small spot that seems to be moving, pulsing. I ask him what it is. He tells me with
out looking that it’s the baby’s heart. I feel like I’m choking, like a rock is stuck in my throat. I can’t swal
low. I can’t breath. My body feels numb and heavy at the same time. I begin to feel like I’m float
ing, the way it feels at the dentist when they give you the nitrogen gas. I stare at the picture on the screen, at the little heart beating so strongly. I didn’t want to see this; it makes it all seem so suddenly real. I keep thinking, that’s my baby, that’s my baby.
     I can’t take my eyes off the screen. My head is pound
ing and my eyes burn as tears start falling down the side of my face. My mind races as I begin to think of how I can support a baby, what kind of name I will give it. I make promises that I won’t drink anymore, I won’t get high anymore. I can’t believe it looks so healthy, and I want it so bad. I take a deep breath, try
ing to find my voice to tell him I changed my mind. Before I say anything, he turns the little TV off and places his hand softly on my shoulder.
     “I’m sorry, honey,” he says. “I can’t help you. You’re too far along for me to do anything. You’re five months pregnant.” My ears start ringing as I look down at my flat stomach, disbelieving what he said.
     “But I saw it....”
     “The baby is small, very small. I’m sorry.” He wipes the gel off, and helps me up from the table. I can’t speak, I can’t feel. All I can do is think of my baby inside me, and how I have poisoned it. The nurse gives me a small cup of water, then walks me back to the room with the beds. She tells me to take my time, and that she’ll let my ride know I’ll be out in a little while.
     The girl with the bruises watches me, but I don’t care. Suddenly, I don’t care about anything. I hard
ly notice when she creeps over to sit next to me. She slow
ly puts her arm across my shoulders. I know she is more nervous and scared for herself than she is worried about me when she asks, “Did it hurt?”
     I wipe the tears from my face and say, “More than I ever thought it would.”
 

Bobbie James