“That Day”

Seattle Washington 

The white lights of the streetlamps safeguarding the parking lot reflect off the wet pavement. A mammoth of stone and steel stands tall at the center of this dark sea, a refuge for the feeble, the poor, and the broken. Tonight, the windows of Harbor View Medical Center are dark and foreboding. Hiding behind thick earth-toned curtains, the sick and dying lie in rooms stacked eight stories high, lauding the somberness of Seattle.

Turning the ignition key, the rhythmic drone of the wiper blades ends abruptly. The twin metal arms stop in the middle of the glass as if the man behind the wheel has stolen their sole purpose. The day-long October rains have become a nighttime drizzle. Three hours too late, he thinks, tossing the pocket-sized umbrella to the floorboard of the rented Chevy pickup truck, adding it to the empty water bottles, a half-eaten bag of pork rinds, and a wadded-up bag from McDonald’s (home of the golden arches and too hot coffee). His exhaustion is palpable; a heavy weight rests on his shoulders.

Hampered by the rain and three accidents on the highway, the drive from Olympia to Seattle took longer than it should have. Couple that with two unscheduled bathroom stops because he drank too much coffee (burning his tongue three times) and his arrival was much later than desired. When he flew out of Dallas that morning, Olympia had not been part of his travel plans. This was his first experience booking a flight online. It was more straightforward than what he had thought it might be; thankful for that, at least. He doesn’t like computers, never has, never will. But they are a significant necessity twenty-five years into the new century. Why the online booking service had not anticipated the bad weather in Seattle was a mystery to him; it had been on the morning news every day this week. You would think a computer would be aware of such things. Aboard the non-stop flight (costing twice as much as the others), he read an article about artificial intelligence. AI is creating friendlier, faster skies. Bullcrap! Mister AI doesn’t know how to read a simple weather map. The layover in Olympia would mean another four-hour delay before he touched down in Seattle. Driving would be faster. He found the Hertz counter empty, but in this post-pandemic era, who needs people? A kiosk with a computer screen, a credit card slot, and, just like that, a mysteriously appearing key negated the need for human intervention.

Kemper hadn’t told him what the hospital visiting hours were. What if they don’t let him in? What if he can’t see Grayson? What if he is too late? What if, what if, what if? It was typical of his daughter to omit such menial details as visiting hours. Could you get to the point, her often repeated intonation? She must have inherited that from her mother’s side of the family; it certainly wasn’t from him. Details are important. Often critical. The difference between success and failure. Winning and losing. Winning isn’t everything but losing sucks. His motto. 

Talking to the man in the rearview mirror, “So, why are you still sitting in the truck, old man? Worrying like a mother hen about being late and not just walking into the hospital to see your grandson?” He adjusts the mirror, “Worrying about worrying. Get a move on, Tom.”. Opening the door, he steps out into the damp night.

Tom Britton tapped on the glass of the locked doors. A security guard, dressed in dark blue trousers and a matching shirt, looks up before pressing an unseen button behind the half counter. The door slides open, and Tom wipes his boots on the mat before stepping onto the freshly waxed floors of Harbor View Medical Center. The guard nods his sallow, pimpled face, a result of too little sun and too much sugar. Opening his mouth to provide directions to the Emergency room reveals lime-green colored braces with neon yellow bands stretching from his canines. Tom thanked him and headed off in the direction provided. He wonders how young the guard is and if he is aware what appears to be a remnant of ramen noodles is wrapped around one of the neon bands.

The double steel doors leading into the Emergency Room are closed. Pressing a large blue button on the wall, he waits—an audible click. The doors seem unimpressed. He presses the button again. Same song, same dance. Same nothing. Looking up, the sign over the doors confirms he has traveled the correct corridor. A third push of the button. Another click. With slight hesitation and a moan, the door on the right opens, revealing another brightly lit corridor. The floors here have yet to be waxed or mopped. Dirty footprints crisscross from wall to wall, some pointing east, some pointing west, stretching the distance from the intractable doors to a desk absent from any living person. They can’t have a kiosk here, he thinks; it’s a frigging hospital. Carefully, he steps over the outstretched legs of a sleeping man. The man is wearing a blood-soaked bandage over his left eye and holding an upturned paper cup in a motionless hand. A puddle of spilled coffee disappears beneath the man’s outstretched legs. Tom wonders how legs so attenuated could support the man.

Walking past another pair of glass doors on his right, he continues his quest. Outside these doors there is another parking lot—this one has more cars. He berates himself for not having considered an ER entrance. All hospitals have an ER entrance. What was he thinking about? 

His grandson. That was all he had thought about since Kemper called. Grayson was sixteen years old. How did that happen? Yesterday, he was a little boy sitting on the front porch talking about birds and turtles and learning how to whittle the perfect arrow from a birch branch. Trying to outdo each other in a game of if you could have any superpower. Invisibility was always Grayson’s go-to. But it wasn’t yesterday. And he’s not a little boy anymore.

His grandson had attempted suicide. How this happened had plagued his mind for the last twenty-four hours. Suicide? Unanswered questions led to imagining the worst and praying for something less.

Arriving at the unmanned desk, he looks around. A clipboard and a Solo cup filled with half a dozen pens sit on the counter. A placard with white letters on a dark blue background informs the visitor—Please sign in and wait for your name to be called. No Drinks Allowed in the Waiting Area. He looks at the page filled with names from top to bottom; half has been crossed out with red ink. The other half must be waiting for their name to be called. To his left is a large room filled with chairs. Chairs without cushions. Chairs with sick people. Most were sleeping. Some have their heads in their hands, bent at the waist, staring at the floor. A young mother cradles a small child against her. The child’s body is limp, his face pale. A second child sits next to the mother, tiny fingers scrolling over the face of a smartphone.

“Sir, did you sign in?”

Tom turns to the voice. A large woman holding a red pen is pointing at the clipboard. She is taller than him by at least three inches. Her brown hair is pulled back severely, making her forehead appear much more extensive than one’s forehead should be. She wears no jewelry and no make-up. And no smile.

Tom removes his hat and places it on top of the clipboard. “I’m not here to see a doctor. My grandson was brought in, and I need to see him.”

Frowning, she pulls the clipboard from under the hat, dusting the paper with her hand as if the hat had cooties. 

“What is his name,” she asks, turning to a monitor.

“Grayson. Grayson Adair.”

Her fingers fly over the keyboard, her eyes darting back and forth between the monitor and the Stetson.

“We do not have a Grayson Adair listed,” she tells him pointedly.

Shaking his head, “That can’t be right. Please check again.” He picks up his hat, holding it by his side.

Ignoring all data privacy laws and every letter of HIPAA, the boundless foreheaded attendant reveals to him, “There is an Adair, but not Grayson,” she draws out the last syllable—soooon. “Female, not male.” She smirks, “Are you sure you are in the right hospital, cowboy?”

He looks down at his watch, inhaling slowly and releasing breath through his lips. “Yes, I am certain. Is there someone else who may be able to help…”

“Look around, sir. Does it look like there is anyone else who could help? I checked the patient in myself; I assure you it was not a boy. Now, if you want to take a seat, I could call upstairs to see if someone made a mistake.”

“A mistake? How do you mistake a boy for a girl? This is a hospital, for Christ’s sake. I would think telling the difference would be one of the easier things to…”

“Daddy?”