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The End of the Line
by Dan Leach Waco couldn’t believe it. “So it’s me then?” he asked the doctor, so as to be perfectly clear on the matter. “Mr. Enders,” the doctor said, resting his tanned forearms on the mahogany desk and turning on the sympathy in his blue eyes. “It’s best not to view things in those terms.” “That’s what it is, though,” Waco said, slapping his hands down on his meaty thighs and standing up. “I’m the end of the line.” Waco’s wife, a timid woman, anemic in appearance but with a certain tenderness that people warmed to, had always experienced embarrassment for others more than she had for herself. It pained her to see her husband take the news in such a personal way and after assuring the Doctor with a quick flicking gesture of her hand, she stood up and tried to comfort him. Waco was at the window, staring at the people outside, strangers who, because they were still walking around and still talking on their phones, still getting into their cars and still going places, seemed callous and hateful. It did not seem right that he should be inside receiving such news and that they, no more or less worthy in the sight of God, should be out there carrying on like everything was okay. Everything was not okay and he wanted them to pause and acknowledge it. He wanted the whole world to stop and mourn. He balled his fists, grinded his teeth, and willed it. “We’ve always talked about adoption,” she whispered, laying her head against his venous bicep. Waco did not acknowledge his wife’s attempt at encouragement. He could not tear himself away from the window. Mesmerized, he watched a Mexican man and his wife walk across the parking lot, clutching their children in their arms. They had a girl and a boy. He watched as the father brought the little girl’s head to his face and kissed her on the forehead. “Children are children,” his wife said and squeezed his arm. “Easy for you to say,” he muttered. For several seconds no one said anything. Waco remained at the window and continued following the family. His wife hooked her arm in his and with her free hand rubbed his back. The Doctor, who had clasped his hands together and rested them on the desk’s surface, stared at some indeterminable point in the wood. Eventually the Mexican family reached their car, secured the children in the backseat, and drove away. “Mr. Enders,” the doctor said. “If you’d like, I can give you some information to review with your wife.” “No thank you,” Waco said, finding his voice again. He swallowed hard, crossed the room in two strong, clean strides, and thrust out his hand in front of the Doctor’s face. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said and squeezed the Doctor’s flabby, hand until he heard a muffled pop. “You’re welcome,” the Doctor said, retracting his hand. “And feel free to contact me if you have any further questions.” “Will do,” Waco muttered, arm around his wife, walked out of the office. Three months later, when his wife emerged from the bathroom, tears in her eyes, pregnancy test in her hand, a thought occurred to Waco, the sheer impact of which forced him to the couch. "It's a miracle," his wife continued to repeat. “This is what we prayed for.” He apologized for his shock and she buried her face in his chest and he held her tightly and did not say what he was thinking. Later, he dug up the hospital’s number and spoke frankly with the doctor. “I never said it was impossible,” the Doctor countered after Waco’s first round of accusations. “I might have said unlikely. But I never said impossible. Nothing is impossible.” The Doctor proceeded to congratulate him in such a sincere and gushing way that Waco had no choice but to bracket his remaining concerns and accept the man’s encouragement. “This is what you wanted,” the doctor said, right before they got off the phone. “Go celebrate.” They did celebrate. Two steak dinners at Applebee’s with a beer for him and a pina coloda for her, virgin, of course. And later, in bed, they held each other in the darkness and talked about the future. They predicted genders and tried out names, hoped for features and debated paints for the nursery. Even though they both worked the next morning, they stayed up well past mid-night and reveled in what would soon become, and what already was, a new chapter in their lives. “It’s a miracle,” she said, one last time before drifting off to sleep. He kissed her on the mouth and rolled over to his side of the bed. He listened to her soft and steady breathing. She was asleep and he was alone with his question-- that, and the doctor’s reminder that nothing, absolutely nothing, was impossible. |
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