Sliding Past The Rock

Accompanying her this afternoon through all these suburban buildings in search of the right clinic. Around this corner, over this pine-needled ground is the Blue team building. We pass through, not sure where we're supposed to be. Green team, Gold team? Where's the magenta gang, so frequently maligned.

Take a left, back outside, along the side of the building, two steps down, right, right door.

In and out of doors, on to the next low slanted modern. Like walking through mini-forests. We may cross a stream soon.

Then as we pass through each not uncheerful, soft, whispery and lambent waiting room, it seems that I am not moving at all, but the scenery is changing. (It's like this sometimes when I'm following a friend and we are on his or her business, not mine.)

Suddenly we're recognized, or rather she is. We sit. She's heard me curse. Why.

Of all the waiting rooms, this one is lousy with kids.

She laughs and smiles and probably pats my leg.

This isn't conducive to reading, or for floating in unreal denial, or for praying.

Lord Father, in Christ Jesus' name. She's good for the world, she's your instrument. I can argue from behind the pure white cloak but I'm no chorus. We've kept this quiet, too.
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Now they've called for her and cheerfully admitted her away out of sight, I start to sink. And then these kids all around me aren't so vexing. I was just starting to sink but three children from one family in particular are happy, but calming too. Whispering their enthusiasms rather than shouting them. As if they're glad to have their seats. They stay put.

Ten minutes of informal god-bothering, more like thinking than praying. One sided, yet a conversation somehow. Unsheathe my heart before you read its desires. Then put it back until I'm strong in a few more years of sobriety.

Read my heart.

How on earth can I stand it, say for an instance, that I'm no longer safely 12 years old, in the house where I grew up, with my parents near-by, and everything normal, all I've ever known.

Got to think.

How do I sit here in this strange part of the world, knowing that I can't go home again, that my dad is dead and my siblings scattered.

All I have in this world is my mother's voice on the phone. It's been so for two decades.

I look around , then close my eyes and try to find myself under all the smithereens. Even if the house was still there, I'm down in the tall, cartoon-billboard Ozarks. Nothing is right. Everything is far away.

This is vacation land, we'd come down for five or six days to fish for rainbow trout on the White River. Oh, Lord, I thought I was unhappy at 15 but not while we were on those last vacations when everything was new for the second time in my life and I would smoke hash with my nearest brother and drive across Table Rock, in between the mountains of trees and rust, with sheer cliffs everywhere that didn't bother me at all. Pre-vertigo.

Father... father/creator of my father (I've thought recently, and felt closer to Him.) I know what I want doesn't matter. You will give me wisdom and endurance, what I need. But I want this all to be all right, is all. And it's not just for me. For Christ's sake she's a 13 year old boy's mother and a Good Night Nurse, let her go! Worries enough here. And we're all growing.

The middle child keeps returning to the table before me for a new National Geographic. There are richer kids here. nullified by ipods.

The receptionist calls out a middle aged woman doctor to show her something on her computer. It's nice how the computer leavens the relationship. The madam doctor is listening carefully, she's understanding after a few questions. One exclamation, "oh, I see. A-ha."

Anonydoc speaks fondly of some of her secretaries/receptionists. Not all of them, not without discriminating intuition or intelligence, which she explains well. I wonder if this woman has anything like her humor. It appears she does. She's nice anyway.

Suddenly she is standing there, a little to the left, smiling. I drop my book to my lap and can't understand this. Sit down beside me. Tell me, I'm about to say.

"You know what, " she uses a whisper voice without whispering. "It's nothing. There's nothing to biopsy, there's nothing there at all. No biopsy. " Eyes open wider than usual, a beam of light broader than usual from there. A smile. I jump up, you're kidding! Really??

We laugh and leave the place arm in arm. People smile at us, maybe they think we've just learned that she's pregnant. No, better! She lives! Then we step out into the beautiful, mild sunny day and head to the car. Shaking our heads. Now we remember with pleasure that she is on vacation, her son is coming to town. Also, I don't work again until tomorrow afternoon.

Wow, what a wonderful memorable day this will be, Angel. Where shall we go, with all this strange but fun time on our hands, all this time in the world. By god, free in the world, too, with these wheels! We've got wheels, baby.