Darkness (2)

This was another class write. It surprised me and choked me up as I read it. It is what it is.


Incredible (Darkness, Part 2)

I stepped into the cold, wet sleet, the ground silvery, slushy gray, pulling my scarf tighter as I followed first a pair of footprints, followed by another and another, as a crowd of a hundred mixed and mingled, until I lost my first friend. That cement and steel structure brewed, breathing and beckoning me, asking me to face the reality, the verdict, of what lay dormant, for now, in that vanilla envelope at my appointed time, the first appointment of the day. Nine a.m. – the first damned appointment of the day. There was a disconnect, an incredible floating sensation, where you view your body from above, much like an astronaut looking down upon the Earth (poor souls), as you observe your breathing, the pounding heart as it thump, thump, thumped against your ribcage, the bully bruising internal organs recklessly. I didn't feel it so much as understood and watched.

As I opened the door, I walked from the frigid ice into Hansel and Gretel's oven, the witch at reception, cold, unblinking, dismissive, not even acknowledging me except for this:

"Your name please?"

The anxiety began in the pit of my stomach, the acid forming, flowing into my veins, seizing my heart and eclipsing my shallow breath as I opened my mouth, no words forming. Finally I swallowed and told her that I had an appointment. She averted her gaze.

"Incredible," I thought. "That little brat."

My seething was a way to avoid the daunting task of sitting and waiting, my skin fleeing my body like a mouse scurrying from a cat, but immediately she motioned me with her index finger into an empty board room, that suddenly felt deathly cool compared to the waiting room just outside. There was a long table with a telephone in the center, one used for conference calls I thought, and about twenty chairs surrounding it, the ghosts about to conduct a group interview. I wondered who the applicant was. I tried to breathe, but couldn't find any air, the dichotomy between cold, hot and cold damaging my fragile lungs.

Then she came in, the middle aged woman, hair permed, dyed red, with a squeegee holding somewhat in place. She smiled, but it was a weak attempt at being approachable. I remember her telling me her name, but it went in one ear and out the other, the roadrunner outrunning the coyote. In my mine I called her Tess the mess, but it was me who felt messed up. She briefed me on her experience – she returned school at the age of forty-one to pursue her MSW after her some went to college, and she immediately was hired by the County's Health Department.

Tess then abruptly stopped talking, paused, and produced the envelope with the test results, test results that would alter my immediate and future plans. She handed the me the index card which displayed a confidential identification number that was meant to be me. Underneath this code were two words in all caps, red, the same word stamped twice on top of the other, a benign ledger that was only used to display data.

POSITIVE
POSITIVE

The repetition of the word confirmed what I already knew, that the second lab had verified the fist test for accuracy.

I no longer felt cold, nor warmth, or anything else that produced a sensation. I'd expected this. I had expected it, especially when my ex-boyfriend had received his news over the telephone. I had expected it, but still felt shock. "Incredible," I thought.

She began to cry as I stared dumbly at the card. She cried, and then I looked over at her, my face pale. I thought I might puke if I thought I could move from that chair to the bathroom.

"I'm new," she said, 'and I have never had to deliver news like this before." She paused before beginning again. "You look just like my son."

And then incredibly, I stood up and walked over to her as she wept, and hugged her, telling her that I was sorry.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

It was the only thing I knew to do, and inside a door slammed shut, locked itself. No dreams. No future. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I hugged her and in my head, I felt and saw nothing. Incredible. It was 1987. I would die within the year, and that was that. There was no prognosis, no treatment, and people were dying, those sweet men who had no idea of what had hit them. Incredible, just incredible. I hugged her as she cried until I finally sighed, allowing myself to emit a tight breath of air, trying to ignore the panic as it washed over me like the tide robbing sand from the shore.