Excerpt from new thriller - My Grandfather's Eyes
I have had enough of this
hospital waiting room. I have been here for hours and yet nothing has
happened. The nurse who deposited me
here, with her tight bun and disinterested manner has not returned and I am
left in the dark, not knowing and tired of surmising the fate of my
husband.
This place is claustrophobic and
the inadequate chair has turned my legs to jelly. I feel as though I have been
shut away in a giant glass box, like a creature in a medical experiment or at
an exhibition, although of what I do not know. I get up carefully, like an old
woman. I am thirty-two years old, not yet past my prime and yet no longer
young. I open the door and look towards
the double doors that lead to the front entrance of the hospital, where there
will be a coffee machine. It is enough
of a lure, although I don’t expect much. Anything is better than waiting here
in this desolate forgotten corner.
The linoleum floor is thick and
smooth, it muffles the sound of my footfalls so that when I swing the door
open, I am hit by the echoing sound of people talking quietly in a large
space. I have been sitting on my own
for too long and it is difficult to turn my thoughts outwards. I stand for a moment and get my bearings,
looking for a vending machine and somewhere to sit. I pull out my purse to
look for some change.
I settle in a padded chair
outside the hospital crèche. The
brightly coloured pictures are out of place without electric light and
children’s voices. It is late and the building seems to sleep. There are hospital staff chatting in
murmurs. I catch odd words. They are
people with nothing to do, who should be doing something. They eye me suspiciously and I ignore
them. I insert coins and push buttons
and soon have a cup of hot liquid that gives off an aroma of chicken soup. I sit and watch the receptionist who is
talking to a woman in a white coat. Her
legs are muscular and her shoes practical.
She puts a hand in a pocket and takes out a pen, glancing in my
direction. Then she puts the pen back
in her pocket. It is a strange place to work, I imagine. You would always be dealing with pettiness
or tragedy. It would be depressing.
Also, I decide that the atmosphere is wrong.
It is too officious. It reminds
me, inexplicably, of bad science fiction films.
I have a yearning to be
entertained. I want to watch people. I
want them to be unpredictable. I want
Lizzy to walk in and throw her arms around me. None of this will happen.
The bad coffee is strong and
hot. It revives me a little and gives
me a chance to review my situation. Now
I think about it, it seems that I have been foolish to wait. There is so much I could have been sorting
out at home to make things easier on myself later. I wonder why I had wanted to stay and realise that there are two
reasons: firstly, it is easier not to
go home, where other people will be arriving, and secondly, I have no idea what
Richard has told the doctors.
Until I can speak to him
there is no point in making any plans.
That is why I have to stay. I
look for a telephone and dial my home number. I do not use my mobile phone. I do not know why. Instead, it plays dead in my pocket. The large grey and black public phone rings twice and is
answered. It is Lizzy.
Time advances slowly. I wade through a present thick
and sticky with chaos and I wonder how to extricate myself from a growing sense
of inertia. I glance back at the
telephone remembering the feel of the receiver in my hand and the sensation of
the vibrations travelling down the line, miraculously translated into
words. I wish I had not called home.
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