Marie Cavanaugh sat in the hospital waiting room glancing at the clock. Four hours, three minutes, and twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three seconds since she kissed her husband’s sweaty forehead. The surgery, a double bypass, should have been done an hour ago. Yet no one had come to retrieve her.
She grew claustrophobic in the close quarters of the waiting room. Small children with sniffling noses left their winter coats partially unzipped, pressing their faces against the fish tank. Their mothers sat thumbing their phones. One heavy push and the fish tank would be shattered on the floor.
Hand sanitizers and purple latex gloves mixed for a nauseating scent. She pulled out a travel size bottle of coconut hand lotion.
Patients came and went, some clutching purses in their laps, others working away on their tablets, paperwork in hand. Nervous eyes glanced at every swing of the emergency doors.
Marie sat waiting, her face masked with patience.
The two-month-old magazines lay spread out on the tables around her, their covers bent. She’d been tempted to busy herself with reading, but realized how many sick people had handled them. Then she spotted the morning newspaper, untouched at the front desk.
“Mind if I borrow this?” she asked the nurse who frowned over her paperwork.
She nodded without as much as a glance.
Before she could settle into reading, however, a surgical nurse approached her.
“Mrs. Cavanaugh, your husband is out of surgery and in recovery. If you’d follow me please.”
“Actually,” Marie said, the paper twisting in her hands, uneasy at the thought of seeing her husband in overly sterile recovery ward. “Would it be alright if I waited in his room?”
She followed the nurse’s lead to her husband’s room.
A bouquet of flowers from the university sat along the window sill, the largest of the bunch. Balloons stretched above, trying to reach the ceiling. Cards were stacked in every available sliver of space. An oversized stuffed bear in a football uniform sat on the table next to the bed.
She plopped down on the chair. The paper flattened in her hand.
The coverage of the winning sweep the university had during homecoming took over the entire metro city paper. The volleyball, rugby, and soccer teams had fought hard and won by a few points. But the Division I football team had dominated, winning 57 to 5.
The journalists filled the pages with photos from all the events. The players were photographed in mid battle cry. One player had his tongue sticking halfway out of his mouth. On the bottom corner of the last page, Marie spotted one of the cheerleaders. Moving her thumb, Marie’s heart sank.
The girl was wrapped in Marie’s husband’s arm, both all smiles. Her long dark hair was in curls, tied back behind an oversized bow. Pom-poms sat crunched in the crook of her elbow, their stubby streaks of metallic paper stuck to her uniform. A flawless smile, her hands perched on Coach Cavanaugh’s chest, enough to take the breath from Marie’s lungs. It’d been after the melee out on the field, the coach’s smile spread wide across his face, his arm wrapped tight around the cheerleader’s tiny waist. Her stomach lurched.
The edge of the hospital bed appeared in the doorway, and a nurse wheeled in Tom Cavanaugh, his eyes closed. She situated him along the wall, next to monitors that beeped and whirred, tracking vitals. The sheet was pulled up to his elbow, covering his barrel chest, which rose and fell almost imperceptibly. In forty-five years Marie had never seen her husband look so pale.
“Nurse?” Marie rushed out into the hall. The nurse stopped a look of worry on her face. “Could you please make sure my husband doesn’t see the paper?”
The nurse gave her an odd look.
“Too much excitement in the sports section,” she added. The nurse nodded in agreement, and tucked the paper under her arm.
Marie returned to the room. Tom’s eyes were still shut, resting.
Inspecting each bouquet, she read the attached cards. Wishes of a speedy recovery and bright future left her feeling broken. A small box of chocolates in the shape of a football rested at the end of the sill. The envelope was signed to Coach Cavanaugh in a girlish script. Marie picked at the corner, bending its perfect lines. The card was stamped with a loving but generic phrase on it. She lifted the card, greeted by a scent of jasmine and mandarin. A young, perky perfume. Inside, ‘B,’ signed in a loopy, clean handwriting. Out slid a color print of Tom with the cheerleader.
Flexing his hands above the stiff sheets, Tom blinked his eyes open. A small, barely audible cough escaped his lips.
“Tom,” she whispered, slipping the card into the wastebasket.
She grew claustrophobic in the close quarters of the waiting room. Small children with sniffling noses left their winter coats partially unzipped, pressing their faces against the fish tank. Their mothers sat thumbing their phones. One heavy push and the fish tank would be shattered on the floor.
Hand sanitizers and purple latex gloves mixed for a nauseating scent. She pulled out a travel size bottle of coconut hand lotion.
Patients came and went, some clutching purses in their laps, others working away on their tablets, paperwork in hand. Nervous eyes glanced at every swing of the emergency doors.
Marie sat waiting, her face masked with patience.
The two-month-old magazines lay spread out on the tables around her, their covers bent. She’d been tempted to busy herself with reading, but realized how many sick people had handled them. Then she spotted the morning newspaper, untouched at the front desk.
“Mind if I borrow this?” she asked the nurse who frowned over her paperwork.
She nodded without as much as a glance.
Before she could settle into reading, however, a surgical nurse approached her.
“Mrs. Cavanaugh, your husband is out of surgery and in recovery. If you’d follow me please.”
“Actually,” Marie said, the paper twisting in her hands, uneasy at the thought of seeing her husband in overly sterile recovery ward. “Would it be alright if I waited in his room?”
She followed the nurse’s lead to her husband’s room.
A bouquet of flowers from the university sat along the window sill, the largest of the bunch. Balloons stretched above, trying to reach the ceiling. Cards were stacked in every available sliver of space. An oversized stuffed bear in a football uniform sat on the table next to the bed.
She plopped down on the chair. The paper flattened in her hand.
The coverage of the winning sweep the university had during homecoming took over the entire metro city paper. The volleyball, rugby, and soccer teams had fought hard and won by a few points. But the Division I football team had dominated, winning 57 to 5.
The journalists filled the pages with photos from all the events. The players were photographed in mid battle cry. One player had his tongue sticking halfway out of his mouth. On the bottom corner of the last page, Marie spotted one of the cheerleaders. Moving her thumb, Marie’s heart sank.
The girl was wrapped in Marie’s husband’s arm, both all smiles. Her long dark hair was in curls, tied back behind an oversized bow. Pom-poms sat crunched in the crook of her elbow, their stubby streaks of metallic paper stuck to her uniform. A flawless smile, her hands perched on Coach Cavanaugh’s chest, enough to take the breath from Marie’s lungs. It’d been after the melee out on the field, the coach’s smile spread wide across his face, his arm wrapped tight around the cheerleader’s tiny waist. Her stomach lurched.
The edge of the hospital bed appeared in the doorway, and a nurse wheeled in Tom Cavanaugh, his eyes closed. She situated him along the wall, next to monitors that beeped and whirred, tracking vitals. The sheet was pulled up to his elbow, covering his barrel chest, which rose and fell almost imperceptibly. In forty-five years Marie had never seen her husband look so pale.
“Nurse?” Marie rushed out into the hall. The nurse stopped a look of worry on her face. “Could you please make sure my husband doesn’t see the paper?”
The nurse gave her an odd look.
“Too much excitement in the sports section,” she added. The nurse nodded in agreement, and tucked the paper under her arm.
Marie returned to the room. Tom’s eyes were still shut, resting.
Inspecting each bouquet, she read the attached cards. Wishes of a speedy recovery and bright future left her feeling broken. A small box of chocolates in the shape of a football rested at the end of the sill. The envelope was signed to Coach Cavanaugh in a girlish script. Marie picked at the corner, bending its perfect lines. The card was stamped with a loving but generic phrase on it. She lifted the card, greeted by a scent of jasmine and mandarin. A young, perky perfume. Inside, ‘B,’ signed in a loopy, clean handwriting. Out slid a color print of Tom with the cheerleader.
Flexing his hands above the stiff sheets, Tom blinked his eyes open. A small, barely audible cough escaped his lips.
“Tom,” she whispered, slipping the card into the wastebasket.
