Excerpt: The Waiting Is The Hardest Part

This is an excerpt from a chapter I'm working on right now in 7 Days:

A cell phone is ringing. I lift my head and see that I’m the only one in the room. It’s my phone. It’s Rick. I answer. He’s at the hospital. Doesn’t look good. 12-24 hours left. Doctors want us to say final good-byes. Final good-byes. Final. I stare at my journal. It’s still unfinished, the pen still in my hand. I set the pen in the crease between the two open pages and then close the journal. I get up and scan the room. What am I looking for? Final good-byes.

A man walks into the tiny consultation room. He greets me with his name, a consoling smile, and holds his hand out for me to shake it. I reach out my hand but I do not shake his. I tell him I’m sorry but I have to go. I tell him my father is dying and I just got a call. He pulls something from his breast pocket. He puts his business card in my hand and tells me to call him if I need anything. I think this is odd. I take his card and I walk out of the room. I put my sunglasses on. I walk outside. It’s raining. I keep my sunglasses on and my face towards the ground. I walk to my car.

Rain falls on my head but I don’t walk faster. I lift my head and see the cemetery as I use the keyless entry to unlock my car. My mother is just over there on the right. In The Mausoleum of The Resurrection. I think, “resurrection” is definitely the wrong word. It’s been years since I’ve come here to see my mother’s niche. I don’t feel her. She must not be here today. Maybe she’s with my father. Maybe she’ll greet him. The car door is open and I’ve been standing in the rain with the car door open thinking about my mother and this business of her greeting my father on the other side. How long have I been standing here?  I get in the car. I close the door. I cry. I start the car. I begin to sob. I lay my head on the steering wheel and I sob. As quickly as it started, the sobbing ceases and I wipe my face. I put the car in gear and I drive to the hospital.

I call Reese on the way. I tell her my father is dying today. I tell her I’m on my way to say my final good-byes. My throat tightens; my chest feels as if it’s ready to burst, as if a thousand knives are scratching to get out, as if broken glass is running through my veins. I keep my tears silent. Now is not the time for an outburst. Now am I driving and talking and listening and waiting. There is no time for bursting now. She is sorry, but what can she say? She knows she cannot change it and she cannot make it better. She says something but I don’t hear her. I tell her I will be okay, that I’ll be fine. I tell her I will call her later. I hang up the phone. I tell her I love her.

The car has stopped in front of the hospital. I guess I’m here. I turn the car off and remove the key from the ignition. I stare at the steering wheel. Then out at the rain. The drops melt into the windshield. The wipers are mid-wipe. I take a deep breath. And another. I hear a melody in my head. Tom Petty seems to come to life: …and the wai--ting is the hardest part… I hear this on repeat like a broken record: the wai--ting is the hardest part… the wai--ting is the hardest part… the wai--ting is the hardest part… the wai--ting is the hardest part. The melody drifts away.

I take another deep breath before getting out of the car and into the rain. I have no umbrella. I stand in front of my car and look both ways for cars. What if I wait for a car and just walk in front of it? I see a car in the distance. The headlights spotlight the rain rushing almost sideways towards the ground. The car gets closer. I brace myself against the wind. The car passes me. I step out into the empty street and make my way to the inside of the hospital. There are people waiting in the lobby. There are people waiting at the information desk. I pass both of these areas and press the elevator up button. I have all the information I need. And I will do my waiting on the third floor. …the wai--ting is the hardest part…