She was quiet then. I was quiet too. I didn’t know what to say. Her right hand went to her neck, and her fingers clasped the cross that lay there. “The hardest part is telling my Vonne,” she said. “He loves me so and will miss me so. It is going to be hard for him.”
I finally found my voice. “I admire you, Marcia,” I said. “I admire that—with all your pain, and facing death—you have the combination of strength and grace to think of somebody else.”
I thought I saw her wince in pain, but then she seemed to collect herself again to fight off whatever agony she was in. She shifted in her chair and looked at me. She was smiling.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “It’s just that mean cancer reminding me that it’s still inside me.”
I paused a moment.
“That’s a beautiful cross you’re wearing,” I commented.
“And?” She twinkled. “How about the wearer of the necklace? Is she not beautiful?”
I laughed. “Radiant; glorious; beauty nearly indescribable!”
“Oh, you must be a poet or a writer with such words!” She beamed. “It’s good my Vonne is not here to hear you. He might be jealous!” And she giggled.
We both breathed in the now relaxed silence between us. Then Marcia pointed at the television and laughed. “Look at that!”
America’s Funniest Home Videos was on. A young couple—she in her wedding dress and he in his tux—had just placed a knife on the tall wedding cake when it proceeded to collapse and cascade to the floor. “And here is a best man that may have partied a little too much the night before the wedding,” the show’s emcee said as they showed a film clip of a man standing behind the groom at the altar, fainting and falling to the floor.
We both laughed.
“And I guess these two damsels really want to get hitched,” the emcee continued, as the screen showed two women crashing into each other as they raced to catch the bride’s bouquet, both of them ending up on the floor.
It was in that moment, when my guard was down, that I heard a voice behind the sofa. “Are you visiting someone here, sir?”
I turned to see a big man dressed all in black, with a huge protruding stomach and a gleaming silver badge that said security pinned to his chest.
“He’s visiting me,” Marcia jumped right in. “He’s my best friend.”
“Okay. Sorry to bother you,” the guard said. He turned and walked away.
“Thank you, Marcia,” I said. She just smiled.
“You know, I am getting a little hungry. Are you hungry?” she asked.
“A little,” I replied. I was famished.
“Richard, would you be kind enough to walk down to the café and get me a cheeseburger and fries? I would be happy to treat you as well.”
“Well sure,” I responded. “I can hardly turn down an offer like that.”
She held out a twenty-dollar bill and said, “Get whatever you like. Oh, and get me a big Pepsi, too, please.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied cheerily, heading off on the café run. As I set out to procure our dinner, I thought how lucky I was to meet a lady who was so kind and gracious. Here was a woman facing death, and she wanted to help a stranger in a waiting room. Once our order had been filled and I had paid for our dinner, I gathered everything together and slowly walked back to the waiting area, trying not to spill the drinks.
As I got closer, Marcia was laughing at me. “You look like a high-wire walker juggling that tray,” she said.
I grinned and set the tray on the coffee table. I opened her box and placed it on her lap. “When you need a sip of Pepsi, just ask and I’ll hand it to you,” I said, sitting down and plowing into my own box.
“I’m not supposed to eat this, either,” Marcia commented. “But I’m going to! Please don’t tell on me.”
It didn’t take me long to eat most of the burger. I saved a piece of the meat for Willow, setting it aside on the napkin. “What’s that for?” she asked.
“It’s for my dog,” I said. “She’s in the van in the garage, and she loves hamburger.”
“What’s her name?” Marcia asked.
“Willow!” I replied. “Willow, like the tree. She is a little white dog. My best friend.”
Then Marcia took the top bun from her burger and pulled off a big piece of the meat. “Here, give this to her, too.” She held it out toward me.
I gratefully received her offering and added it to Willow’s dinner stash.
“Oh my goodness, I forgot to give you back your change.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the six dollars and change that I had left.
“Please keep it,” Marcia said. “You earned it getting the sandwich for me.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, holding out the money.
“Would you pass me that Pepsi?” Marcia said, ignoring my question. I put the money back in my pocket and handed her the drink. She sipped her soda and looked toward the window. “Oh, here comes my darling Vonne now,” she said, nodding toward the entrance. Marcia’s husband was walking up to the automatic glass doors. “Richard, would you take this food and my drink away?” She quickly reached for her purse and pulled out lipstick and a small mirror. She applied the lipstick with a well-practiced hand and adjusted her headscarf.
Vonne broke into a beatific smile as he rounded the corner of the room and saw his treasured partner. He came straight to her side and bent to receive a kiss. “Hello, sweetie.”
“Hello, my darling,” Marcia said.
“Sorry I am so late, but they kept me over again,” he apologized.
“That’s okay, honey,” she assured him. “My friend, Richard, has been keeping me company.” She nodded and smiled in my direction.
Vonne took a step in my direction and extended his hand. I stood up and extended mine in return. “Nice to meet you, Richard,” he said. “And thank you for keeping my Marcia company.”
“It was my pleasure,” I replied.
Then Vonne turned to Marcia and softly asked in his native Tagalog, “Anong sinabi ng doctor?”
Marcia clasped her hands in her lap as she replied, “Kailangan kong pumunta sa ibang hospital, Fred Hutchison in Seattle.”
Vonne’s shoulders slumped. He bit his lip, and his eyes watered as he looked to the floor. I didn’t understand the language, but I could tell he had asked his wife what the doctor had said and she told him she was going to Seattle.
Marcia then unclasped her hands and reached out to Vonne. Her husband gladly held them. “Pero okay lang ako,” she said smiling. Vonne squeezed her hands tightly and smiled back. I knew she had reassured him that she was going to be okay. Then she glanced toward me. “Richard was telling me Fred Hutchison is a great place. Right, Richard?”
“I’ve heard it’s among the best in the world,” I replied.
Marcia continued, “The doctor said they have experimental drugs there that could kill the cancer. Then we can take that vacation to Guam this fall.”
“Good,” Vonne said, putting his hands on his wife’s shoulders. “Whatever we have to do, we will do it.”
“IT IS NOW EIGHT O’CLOCK AND VISITING HOURS ARE OVER,” bellowed the intercom.
Marcia turned to me again and said, “Richard, I will be praying for you.”
“And I will pray for you,” I said.
I watched as Vonne pushed his darling Marcia down the hall toward the elevator. I knew I would never see her again.
I had the waiting room to myself with Marcia and Vonne gone. The Swan was on TV. A woman named Becky was getting her nose broken and reshaped, and she planned to have her tummy tucked and her breasts re-sculpted. I thought to myself that she would never be as beautiful as Marcia, and I got up to change the channel.
I crouched down to press the tuner button on the Magnavox. The next scene I saw was Donald Trump calling a group into his boardroom so he could fire someone. I pushed the button again. People were eating dead bugs of some kind from a bowl, try
ing not to throw up. I pushed the button again. PBS had a program on gorillas in captivity. Finally, something civilized. I returned to the sofa.
The narrator was explaining how Snowflake, the only white gorilla ever discovered, was captured and sold to a zoo in Barcelona, Spain, where he was placed in a barren enclosure with no trees for shade and no other gorillas for company. The big hospital security guard passed through the room. “How’s your friend?” he asked, looking at me.
“Having a tough time,” I replied. “They’re sending her to Fred Hutch tomorrow.”
“Well, if you need to stay, I can get you a blanket,” he offered.
“No, that’s okay. But thanks,” I responded. The guard walked off, and I was relieved to know I had more time of sanctuary on the sofa.
As soon as he left, two women and a man came down the hall that led to the elevators. One woman was crying and the other woman had her arms around her shoulders. They walked slowly together to the back of the room. “He’s going to be okay,” I heard one woman saying. “He’s a strong man, and he has a lot to live for.”
I could hear them talking in hushed voices in the background as I watched the gorillas on TV.
The man walked to the side of the sofa where I was sitting and looked briefly at the TV. He had his cell phone in his right hand. We exchanged brief hellos, and he dialed a number on his phone. “Hello, Marion? Marion, can you hear me?” he asked, then paced off. “Yeah, we are still at the hospital; we’re going to be here awhile. So please put the kids to bed at ten. Don’t let them talk you into any later. We’ll be home as soon as we can. Okay. Thanks. Bye.”
He closed his phone and walked back toward the women. I heard one ask, “Ron, do you think it would be possible for you to go over to my dad’s house later and feed Shorty?” Ron assured her he would do that. “Dad always takes him for a walk around the block when it’s not raining. But if it’s raining, he just takes Shorty out to the front yard so he can go potty.”
“Don’t worry,” Ron responded. “I’ll do that in a little while.”
I was near tears as Snowflake, now a massive, full-grown, powerful gorilla was playing with one of the babies he had fathered. He leaned over the baby, gently pulling on one arm, and then playfully pushed it from side to side. The baby wrapped its arm around Snowflake’s neck and swung into his arms. Snowflake gracefully put the baby down on the ground and rolled it over on its stomach.
A car pulling into the circular drive caught my attention. A man got out. I could tell by the exhaust fumes coming from the back of the car that he had left the motor running. He was well dressed, in pressed khaki pants, tasseled black-and-brown loafers, a white dress shirt, and a red power tie. He talked on his cell phone as he walked briskly into the waiting room, but finished his call as he approached the small group in the waiting area. “Well, what’s up?” he asked.
“He’s in the ICU, Martin,” one of the women said in a trembling voice. “He’s stable now. He had a major attack. He fell down the stairs and cut his head. But he was able to crawl to the phone and call 911.” Then she broke into tears. It was quiet again for a few seconds, except for her crying.
“Well, I had a house closing at five, a city council meeting at seven, and I’m already late for an eight o’clock staff meeting back at the office.” His cell phone rang again. He checked the number before answering. “Martin here,” he said. “Yeah, I’m running late. My dad had a heart attack and I’m at the hospital now. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He put the phone back in his pocket.
“Can’t you stay a little bit longer, Martin?” the tearful woman asked.
“No, I can’t,” he said. “I don’t have the time. If he hadn’t smoked all those cigarettes, he wouldn’t be in here now. And I’ll bet he doesn’t have enough insurance to cover all this, and I’m going to get stuck with the bill!”
“For God’s sake, Martin! He’s your father!” the woman flashed back.
“He’s seventy-two years old!” Martin snapped, and his phone rang again. “Hey, I’ve got to go,” he said, checking the number of the new caller. “Call me if anything happens,” he called over his shoulder, rushing back to his car.
“I hate my brother,” the woman said, coldly.
“Why don’t you sit down, Nancy,” the man suggested.
I needed to go to the bathroom. I picked up the AA pin to drop off at the reception desk and then headed down the hall. I passed the elevator Marcia and Vonne had taken to go back to their room. I saw a small sign marked Chapel just across from the men’s room. I peeked in. It was a small, dimly lit room with an altar and a cross stationed in the middle. A large Bible was placed on a stand next to it. The book was closed, but a piece of paper was sticking out of the pages. I moved forward and opened the Bible, taking the note out and reading it. “Dear Lord, I ask you to take this pain away from me, or please take me in my sleep this night. The burden has become too great, and I pray for your peace. Please send your angels to carry me away.”
As I put the note back, I noticed it had been placed right beside Psalm 23, a Psalm of David. I began reading: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me...”
I put the note back in between the pages and closed the book. I backed away from the book and the altar and sat down in a chair in the front row of the chapel. Since my night on the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, I simply didn’t believe in God anymore. I felt sad for these believers who expected some help and relief from some invisible holy one for whom they could only leave notes. Maybe their God was “online” by now, with an e-mail address, a modem, a ThinkPad, and a server.
I laughed. I laughed at God as I sat there looking at the cross and His big book. The irony was that I had nothing to live for, except Willow. I had no family to care for me, nothing to hope for. I wanted to die and could not, but Marcia wanted to live—had so much to live for—but the cancer was slowly, painfully ravaging her body. And then there was my mother; she was a believer, too, and she died of cancer. Her God let her suffer and die in agony when she was not yet sixty years old.
As I sat there, the anger at their God began to well up in me, until I began to shake. I wondered if I might strike a deal with their God. I would be an agent, a broker, a dealmaker. It would be a simple trade: my worthless stock for Marcia.
So I got slowly down on my knees and began to pray. “Dear God, this is Richard. Do you remember me? You are the God my mother and father believed in so deeply. Remember them? They are the ones who had their baby daughter kidnapped when she was just seven months old in Chicago. They never saw their child again. They were the ones whom the police came to tell that their son had drowned in the Chicago River when he was twelve. And their next child, another daughter, died from diabetes when she was thirteen.
“I am offering you a simple deal tonight. Upstairs in this hospital is a woman named Marcia who is dying of cancer. She’s a wonderful person who wants to live for her husband, children, and grandchildren. How’s this for a deal? You take me instead of Marcia, and you cure her cancer?”
I waited for a moment and then slowly got to my feet. I sat down in the front row of the tiny chapel. My mind drank in the silence of the room. Then it began constructing ways to consider the moment. Was this to be my new life—meeting others briefly, looking at their pictures, sharing their secrets, peering in the windows of their lives, overhearing tearful conversations of those overcome with fear and worry? Had some devils, spirits, or ghosts been given my soul after my failed suicide attempt? Were they toying with me like Scrooge—parading me around for their enjoyment in some fourth dimension?
Then I recalled a character my father used to draw over and over again on scrap paper. It was a cat, facing away from the v
iewer on a picket fence, with its tail hanging down. Sometimes he would make the ears round, other times pointed. Sometimes the tail would be curled at the tip. I learned as a child that he drew that cat often, whenever he was tired; he called it “the Observer.”
When I would ask what it was, he would always say the same thing. “It’s a cat, son... a cat sitting on a picket fence, just watching the world pass by.”
My father’s Observer was always facing away from him, looking out at the world. Was it just watching the world go by? Or was it waiting for something?
It was time to take Willow for a walk. I could feel her calling me. I stood up and walked out of the chapel, down the hall, and through the big automatic doors at the entrance to the hospital. The rain had slowed to a cold drizzle.
I got Willow out of the van and took her for a brief walk near the bushes beside the garage. I gave her the hamburger Marcia had given me for her. She gobbled it down. When we climbed back into the van, I moved the clothes around to make room for our sleeping bag and we nestled in, pulling the top of the bag over our heads so the security guards couldn’t see us. We were a little damp, but it could have been much worse.
As we snuggled down, I told Willow about Marcia and her seven children and twelve grandchildren and about Marcia’s cancer.
Then I thought of all the family pictures I had once had of my mother, my father, and my own children. I had left them behind over eight months ago, in a storage unit in a nearby town. When I couldn’t pay the bill, those pictures were undoubtedly thrown in a dumpster and my last valuable possessions auctioned off to the highest bidder.
And I remembered the last time I saw my mother. It was in a hospital. She had colon cancer; she’d had an operation months before, but, like Marcia’s, her cancer had come back. My father called and asked that I stop in at the hospital on the way to work, because my mom wanted to talk to me. “She’s in room 202,” he’d said. I remembered pulling into the parking lot of the single-story Mercy Hospital in my hometown of Urbana. I pulled one of the front doors open and walked into the lobby. There was no television or sofa, and no coffee shop. I walked down the hall to room 202 and peeked in. It was a small room. No TV—just a picture of Jesus on the wall above my mother’s small bed. Dad was there, too, sitting on the side of the bed, talking softly. My mother smiled as I entered the room. “Hi, honey,” she said, reaching out her hand to me.
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