One Shots & Contest Entries

The Waiting Room (one shot)

The worst experience of a lifetime is when you sit for hours at the doctor's office until it's your turn. The much worse experience is when you realize you forgot to bring your phone. The much much worse experience is having a blinding headache on top of that.

The Optometrist office is packed with patients - all came before me, because I'm a tardy, lazy bum - and there's nothing to do to pass the time, except for some lousy, dusty medical magazines. For God's sake, why would a patient with bad eyes ever want to read medical magazines? Beats me!

I pick the largest magazine on the table and stretch my legs in an attempt to reduce the pain in my butt, while my eyes scan the room from behind the spread pages.

Chaos is an understatement compared to the circus show around me. I mean people who come to see the doctor in groups with a bunch of kids. Why? I don't get It. It's a waste of space and extremely annoying to get the whole family to applaud you when you're checking your eyes. It just doesn't make sense to me, but people-watching and eavesdropping are the only entertainment I have for now. The magazine is just a disguise.

A bell rings somewhere and the door of the examination room opens, spilling up a young couple holding hands. Wow! Now I'm beginning to think I made a mistake and came to the gynecologist instead of the eye doctor.

The nurse enters the doctor's room and comes back to call out " Mr. and Mrs. Hassan."

A family with three children stand up and walk into the doctor's office.

The examination takes at least thirty minutes each, until the bell rings for the next patient. Two more gangs get into the examination room and leave. I count fifteen people in the waiting room, beside the old lady with a walking stick who is sitting opposite me.

I'm doomed!

Putting the magazine down, I huff and stroke my temples after another hour of boredom and stiffness. My eyes are shut as I try to rub the headache away, but when I open them, I find the old lady watching me. She smiles kindly, beady eyes squinting at me from behind her thick glasses. She's wearing a black gown, a white scarf and has delicate features that look terribly familiar. Her face brings back memories of being a five year old boy and I remember my grandmother. She used to bake cookies for me and she always told me to be patient. I've always been an impatient kid. Not that I'm any better now, except that I'm nearly nineteen.

A speck of embarrassment stirs up inside me and I look away, busying myself with the stupid magazine. I conceal my face behind it, but I still feel the piercing look affecting me.

"Excuse me, dear," a soft, yet weak voice murmurs. Oddly, even her voice sounds familiar to my ears.

With the corner of my eye, I peek at the old lady to realize she's speaking to the receptionist. The lady is bracing her fingers together, her forehead creased and her lips tight in distress.

"Yes, ma'am. How can I help you?" The receptionist answers from across the room and the old lady blushes all over her wrinkled face.

" I'm sorry to bother you, but I have arthritis and I need help to get up and go to the ladies room." The old lady blushes deeper and presses her lips.

"Oh! Sure, the nurse will help you right away," The receptionist says. In a few seconds, I glimpse extended hands helping the old lady, who groans in pain as she gets up and grasps her cane.

"Thank you, dear. I'm sorry for being such a nuisance."

"Not at all ma'am. You came all the way alone?"

"Yes, alone. My son is in New Jersey and my husband died years ago." I hear her voice break in the middle of the sentence, but the sound is lower as they walk farther away. It's interesting, because my parents live in New Jersey too. I'm dying to hear more of the conversation for some curious reason.

Something about this old lady squeezes my heart and I can't stop thinking about her. I've always loved my grandma as a kid, before she passed away. Although I don't remember much, but she looked a lot like this woman, except she died younger when I was only five. Had she been alive, She would've aged to look exactly like her now.

I fidget on my seat, eager for her return. To avoid being caught staring, I take cover behind the safety of the magazine, when she opens the restroom door and shambles closer with her walking stick.

She looks so fragile as she stoops from age and yet she's apparently the only one, besides me, who came here alone.

The nurse comes to help her and I crane my neck to hear the conversation.

"Ma'am, you look tired. I can talk to the doctor to let you in next."

"No, thank you, dear. I'll wait for my turn. There are children here and I can't let them wait."

"Are you sure? Can I get you anything?"

"Well, I'm sorry, but I need to take my medicine and I'm a bit dizzy... I-I haven't eaten this morning."

"Oh!" The nurse exclaims. "Let me get you something from the cafeteria."

" Just some juice or crackers, please. I...I don't have enough cash." The lady says weakly while sitting back in her seat.

"It's OK. Don't worry, ma'am." The nurse assures her and walks away.

I almost feel pain in my chest. What a worthless piece of trash her son is, leaving his sick, poor mother like that! And what a shameless jerk I am to whine about waiting when someone like her is so gracious about it.

As if on cue, I hear faint clicking sounds and her soft and shaky voice starts.

"Hello. How are you, son?"

Pause...

" Sorry, I know you're busy, but I missed you. I'm at the doctor's office and someone reminded me of you, so..."

She pauses again, and I realize she's on the phone.

"I know. I won't take much of your time. But..."

pause...

"Salim, please. I need to see my grandson before I die." She pleads in a whisper.

One more pause and my eyes widen. Salim! That's my father's name!

"I know you're still mad at me, but I don't have much time left. Please, tell Adam the truth. Ple---hello? Salim? "

I squeeze my eyes shut. A deafening storm blows inside my head. The headache intensifies when I try to make sense of the madness I'm listening to.

I'm Adam...

My father is Salim...

This means she is...

How...?!

Is it just a coincidence? Am I losing my mind, or is this stupid headache making me delusional?

The electric bell buzzes again. I hear the door open, footsteps stomping the floor, people murmuring around me, and my head spins.

"Mrs. Aida Soliman." A voice rang in the room and the old magazine drops from my sweaty hands.

For a long moment, my mind freezes, staring at the old lady while she slowly attempts to get up on her feet.

I glimpse the nurse walking to her, holding something in her hand, but then I jerk up, without a word, to hold the lady's thin, wrinkly hand.

No! To hold grandma's hand. I don't care how, but I know it's her.

She's alive.

*****

This contest entry was inspired by a true story. Please share your thoughts and vote if you like the story. Thank you. Always.❤❤