A Book of American Martyrs(50)

Fluorescent lights in the ceiling were over-bright, blinding. My mother’s raised voice was all we could hear.

“What has happened? Why are you all standing around? Where is my husband?”

We were in a waiting room where indeed people were standing indecisively as in the aftermath of a crisis. No one was sitting: all of the vinyl seats lining the walls were empty. We did not see our father, we did not see any man at all. There were nurses here, or nurses’ aides; there were several women and girls in street clothes, presumably patients and/or their mothers—“clients.” One of the girls, who might have been as young as sixteen, was visibly trembling; another young woman was being comforted by an older woman, possibly her mother. The waiting room was like any other waiting room and yet—no one was sitting down. Our mother asked one of the women in street clothes (the one who looked as if she were a mother) what had happened and was told breathlessly—“We don’t know. They won’t tell us. Maybe somebody has died . . .”

These words so bluntly spoken by a stranger. Only just overheard, utterly by chance. Maybe somebody has died . . .

It was that kind of place—was it? A smell of disinfectant, a surgery. We knew that our father was a surgeon.

You could not imagine what a surgeon did. You did not want to imagine.

If the surgeon is your father, particularly you do not want to imagine.

In this room, in this waiting room, no one seemed to know what had happened, not yet. If the staff knew, the staff did not say. The staff was concerned with calming the visitors to the Center—that was the task. There must not be hysteria!

Our mother had other intentions. Our mother pulled us—literally, gripping our arms—gripping Darren’s arm, and Naomi’s, and so positioning the smaller Melissa that she was made to come with us, forced forward at a quick march—out of the waiting room and into a corridor, and along the corridor—blindly (it seemed)—or (possibly) our mother was being led by the older nurse, who had taken responsibility for her, and for us; for our mother had a way of demanding attention, despite her anxiety, and confusion, that made others defer to her. And now, suddenly we saw our father, who had not yet seen us: Dr. Voorhees in white cord physician’s coat, and clean creased khaki pants, standing at a waist-high Formica-topped counter where a package that had been wrapped in plain brown paper lay partially opened. Our father was trying to comfort a middle-aged woman, one of the nursing staff, who looked as if she’d had a shock of some kind, who had slumped in a chair behind the counter.

The woman was ashen-faced, shaken. She was pressing a hand against her bosomy chest as if her heart pained her and she was breathing rapidly, and shallowly. In this emergency situation (it seemed) our father Dr. Voorhees was providing comfort to the stricken woman. He was speaking reasonably to her—he was calling her “Ellen.” Telling “Ellen” it was all right.

Everything all right. No danger.

False alarm. All clear!

Whatever had happened, had happened within minutes of our arrival: now was the aftermath.

Our mother had not dared call to him. Almost shyly she hesitated, and held us back as well.

Seeing that others were glancing at us, our father turned to see us, and the expression in his face changed: surprise, and more than surprise.

“Jenna! Jesus! What are you doing here?”

“What happened? Is there—danger?

“No! Not at all. It was nothing.”

“Was it—is that—a bomb?”

“No. It is not a bomb.”

Yet there was the package, partly unwrapped. It was the center of attention, on the Formica-topped counter. Presumably, the woman named Ellen had opened the package. Or had almost opened it.

(Had someone stopped Ellen? Shouted at her? Shoved her away from the counter? There was an air of heightened vigilance in the room as of disaster deflected.)

The mysterious package measured approximately twelve by eighteen inches. It appeared to be ordinary—of course. Yet its presence had badly frightened a number of individuals.

Our father came to us, and roughly hugged us, each in turn. He appeared dazed. He was trying to smile. What we heard from him sounded like You kids! Jesus! He gripped us very tight, and then released us. Though his manner was meant to be casual, and not agitated, it was clear that our father was agitated; it was clear that he didn’t realize how hard he squeezed us, causing Melissa to whimper. We could not respond to his embrace, for it was too tight, and then it was too fleeting; we could not breathe for to breathe in this place was to breathe in the sharp medicinal odor, which was repulsive to us. Even Darren was frightened, and Naomi was terrified that she would gag and vomit. Melissa whimpered with fear, so that our mother had to kneel beside her, and comfort her—“Melissa, honey! Nothing has happened, you’re all right. We are all perfectly—all right!”

Our mother laughed breathlessly as if this was a way to convince the panicked child.

Melissa whispered in our mother’s ear Did somebody die? and our mother replied with her startled breathless laugh Of course not, silly. Absolutely not.

It was a scene of confusion. Badly Naomi wanted to be elsewhere to suck her fingers, and be still.

Yet our father Dr. Voorhees was in charge here. There was comfort, there was solace, in the fact of Dr. Voorhees.

Our father had positioned himself to block our view of the counter as he seemed to be trying to block a clear view of us, his distraught family, from his staff. With what startled and alert eyes, the nurses stared at our mother, and at us.