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Fiction Short Story

by Charles Hinckley

A Saturday In October

I stand in the waiting room and gaze at the framed artwork on the walls. Lines of cool green and blue streak across a mass of what looks like earth and grass. Skies stretch for miles in a flat, lined canvas. My thoughts travel to a place far away from here. I fidget and look at my watch. She's been in there for a while now. The sound of her name being called bounces off the walls of my chest and a cold chill shivers down my spine. Her name called, then another, and another, in a series of endless, faceless names.

I look at them, one by one, as they slink toward the pale recess beyond the light green waiting area. I search to see some emotion: shame, guilt, or remorse flecked off averted eyes. I can't make out anything in the face of the middle-aged woman unable to manage her two crying children. She says she just can't afford another. The skinny young blonde girl, alone, weeps as she fumbles through her purse. A big girl, escorted by her big girlfriend, waddles to the desk. Their too-tight jeans form fat ripples, which roll down thick thighs and smooth out at inflated calves. They talk low, and let out an occasional giggle.

I am here for support, I guess. My knees feel wobbly and my shoulders slump as I stare at the art. I see framed death, splatters of tragedy in oil as my mind builds a coffin around each canvas. A tiny voice scratches my ears. I can't bring myself to repeat the words I hear. My heart pounds and my stomach churns. "It'll be okay," I tell myself. "All over soon." I seek comfort in the paintings.

She comes out of the back room. Her head hangs low and her hands tremble. We go outside to the stairwell and she lights up a Marlboro.

"They say it's further along. Say they don't know if they can do it."

We drag on cigarettes, our eyes shift as we stare at each other, and our mouths alternate between half-smiles and frowns. She appears soft now, vulnerable, I guess. Still sharp, however. Still making decisions. Plotting something I have no part in. I try to read her eyes, but she stares down at the asphalt.

A voice in my head says, "We can still stop this."

Can I go through with it? Am I man enough? All I have to do is sit back and do nothing and it will soon be over. I don't know if I love her. I don't really know her. She is so different from me. Things don't mean the same to us. Our values are different. She is so money- and status-oriented, cold in many ways. She doesn't like my family. Holidays are spent at her house. She doesn't get along with her father. What chance do we have?

She takes a deep drag of her cigarette. Our silence is measured by the beating of three hearts. Talking is over. I can't bring myself to say it anyway, can't form the words: "Marry me. We'll get an apartment. Be happy." I can't say it. I can't lie out loud, or to myself. I light another cigarette, blow smoke and watch it curl in the wind and disappear.

The receptionist calls her name again. She goes inside and I gaze back at the people in the waiting room. We know why we are here. We have our stories. Shame and sadness reign in this room. It'll be all right. Right as rain. The day will end soon.

The Van Gogh in the corner of the waiting room unsettles me. Crows flying above a sea of wheat appear as empty as I feel. I pick up a six-month-old Good Housekeeping and flip through the pages. I see cheery bright blobs of smiling faces dressed in warm sweaters and eating chocolates by firelight. I wish to feel warm and cheery.

The nurse summons me. I can go in now. I trudge into the cold, sterile white room. Tubes and suction machines surround me. She's laid out on a gurney with a sheet pulled up to her neck. She looks tired, stale, limp. Her face is pale and she's lost some blood. She smiles and I hold her hand. It's cold and sweaty. She looks out the window at the afternoon light. Twigs and leaves clatter as they race in the breeze and land on the windshields of the parked cars. The day looks warm from in here. Her green eyes fill with tears and she wipes them with the side of her palm. I smile but feel helpless and inept.

Back at the apartment, she lies down on the bed. The pain worsens. She says it won't stop for a while. I sit by her side and place my head on her aching tummy. I rub her sides and feel her ribs. My finger finds the empty space and glides across her torso. She feels so human now. Hurt. I ask if there is anything I can do. I am a boy playing a man's game. She looks away, wants to rest.

I remember that night in the hotel. I opened the champagne as we stood on the balcony and watched the twinkling city lights. Her perfume, lipstick, and kisses covered my face, and her scent penetrated me as I spread her out on the bed. I loved her, owned her. She was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen.

The champagne ignited our passion. Our extreme moment culminated with me wishing, at the moment of climax, for a child, the ultimate fulfillment. I completed my primal task, connected on a discarnate plane, lost in a swirl of passion. In a flash, what I wished for I forgot about. A fleeting notion, dissolved, flattened, like the champagne in our glasses the next morning.

I go for a long walk while she rests. I weep my way to the park.

My life has changed forever and I can't go back. She will never love me now. She will always blame me—something else to blame on me. I picture the recriminations in her eyes. I want to run away, but I can't leave. I'm stuck. I'm stuck to her like honey on a comb.

I think about starting over, like it never happened. Start over, like it's new and everything she says is coated with her bright smile and creamy smell in her hair. I want it to be fresh, like our first date, before the machine raped her insides, before guilt consumed my conscious, when we really did love each other and this day did not exist.

I walk back into the room. She lays in shadows, silent. Cool night sky blackens the windows. I slide in next to her, see her nostrils flare open and close with her sweet breath. I run a finger down her cheek and gently kiss her eyelids. She doesn't stir, just lies there, lost in a dream. A happy dream, perhaps, in a place that's warm and kind and kids never have to grow up. A place where we never have to question ourselves or know who we are, where courage and cowardice are just words, never tested or used. We're new as toys on Christmas morning, not yet taken out of the box.


About the Author
Charles Hinckley is a playwright/screenwriter as well as an author. His short screenplay, "You Want Chili Cheese Fries With That?" based on his stage play of the same title, has been optioned as a short film. Charles has written scripts for video gamers as well as published short stories in T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine and News America Syndicate. He is currently editing his mystery/suspense novel.