Author: Marisa Chen
The fluorescent lights never dimmed, not even at 3 a.m., when everyone else in the waiting room was half-asleep, faces slumped against their palms. I sat there counting the seconds between each automatic door opening, the way some people count heartbeats. My grandmother had fallen again.
When the nurse called her name, my mother went with her, leaving me with the sound of distant beeping and the hum of the vending machine. A little boy in Spider-Man pajamas asked his dad for chips, and for some reason that made me want to cry.
I thought about all the stories that start in rooms like this — babies born, accidents, endings, recoveries. I’d spent so much time here lately that I could predict when someone was about to cry before they did. There was always a silence before the sob.
By dawn, the nurse returned with a clipboard and a smile. “She’s okay,” she said. “A mild concussion.”
Relief hit me so hard my knees shook. My mother’s eyes were swollen, but she smiled, too.
As we walked out, the automatic doors opened once more, and the morning light spilled in. For the first time in weeks, I didn’t mind the waiting.
