A wailing begins at the registration window, a high-pitched adult voice, male, the elemental timbre an unmistakable keening of fear and pain. Even before I see him, I think of the purity of a baby’s cry and, also, that it is unfair to compare a man to a baby. I think too how rare it is to hear anything beyond hushes in this place. No one really wants to be here, even if the nurses are friendly, and the blood draws mostly painless, and the doctors kind, and the furniture clean and new, and the piano sometimes played by a volunteer, and the coffee free.
The wailing cannot be ignored. It is loud, unrelenting, a declaration of memory and desire.
We distract ourselves, one man working the puzzle on the table, another staring at the morning talk show on the television. Two doctors on the show are discussing water bottles. Don’t be alarmed, one says, but mold and fungus can grow inside.
When the wailing man arrives, I see he is confined to a complicated wheelchair. He has white hair over a mostly bald head, smooth skin that has seen little sunlight, limbs bent beyond his control. It’s possible he’s older than he looks. It’s possible he’s younger. The woman who wheels him into the waiting room offers quiet shushing, tones of great love and patience. Her eyes are soft. She is perhaps a sister, maybe a caretaker.
…
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