“That Day”

Seattle Washington 

The white lights of towering streetlamps reflect off the wet pavement of the hospital’s parking lot. At the center of this sea of asphalt, a mammoth construction of stone and steel stands tall—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.

The rhythmic drone of the wiper blades ends abruptly when the ignition key is turned. The twin metal arms stop in the middle of the glass as if the man behind the wheel has stolen their sole purpose from them. 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.

The drive from Olympia to Seattle had taken longer than it should have, hampered by the rain and three accidents on the highway. Coupled with two unscheduled bathroom stops because he drank too much coffee (burning his tongue three times) and his arrival was much later than anticipated. Olympia had not been part of his travel plans when he flew out of Dallas that morning. It 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. Tom Britton doesn’t like computers, never has, never will. But a necessity in the twenty-fourth year of the new century. Why the 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. Aboard the non-stop flight (costing twice as much as the others), he had read an article about artificial intelligence. AI is creating friendlier, faster skies. Bullshit! 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 negates the need for human intervention.

His daughter 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? It was typical of his daughter to omit such menial details as visiting hours. Could you get to the point, her often repeated motto in life? 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. 

“So, why am I still sitting in the truck, worrying about being late and not marching into the damn hospital see my grandson?” he asks the man in the rearview mirror. “Worrying about worrying, Tom? Get a move on.”. 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, presses an unseen button. Tom wipes his boots on the door 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 thanks him and heads off in the direction provided. He wonders how young the guard is, and if the young man is aware what appears to be a remnant of a ramen noodle was 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, traveling the distance from the intractable doors to a desk absent of 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 legs so thin 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 the door 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? 

About his grandson. That was all he could think about since Lena had 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, learning how to whittle the perfect arrow out of 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 that wasn’t yesterday. And he’s not a little boy anymore.

Grayson had attempted to commit suicide. Thoughts of 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 holding half a dozen pens sit on the counter. A placard with white letters on a dark blue background informs the visitor—Please Sign in 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 have 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. 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 it is Grace, not Grayson. 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 here is anyone else who could help. If you would like to take a seat, I will call upstairs and 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 between male and female would be one of the easier things to…”

“Daddy?”