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Utterly at a loss, I mutter my thanks.
“You’re welcome, but you need to be praying too, son.”
“Oh, I don’t know…” I begin to shake my head. “Not sure that would do much good.”
He squints slightly rheumy eyes at me. “Of course, it would. And not just for your friend.”
Is he suggesting thatIneed prayer?
Well, duh.
Of course, I do. But if I have a fear, it’s that I’m beyond prayer.
“Prayer is talking to God. That’s it, so don’t get hung up on fancy words or anything. Don’t make it harder than it is. Besides, He knows your thoughts anyway—but He likes to hear you say them sometimes.”
I lean into the armrest, as far away from this man as I can politely get. I like what he’s saying, but it’s also terrifying. “I don’t know…”
“Well, I do. Now, there’s a whole lot of doctrine I could throw at you, but let me tell you something. God is here. With you. Always, whether you want Him or not. But you have to reach out. Get still and listen. And don’t ignore Him when you do hear. You’re young and you think you’ve got a handle on things, but there will come a day you realize you don’t. He’ll be there then, too, but I strongly recommend getting right with Him sooner than later.”
He relies heavily on his cane to stand, squeezes my shoulder, then makes his way back to his huddled family.
My thoughts spin, but mostly it’s my feelings I notice, a strange twist for a guy like me. What began as prayer for a sick woman changed along the way and I ended up under the spotlight. Didn’t I have enough to worry about tonight without some old geezer laying a guilt trip on me?
I sip my coffee, which has cooled significantly. The guy’s a busybody. Who is he to tell me I need to feel bad about my life, the choices I’ve made? He doesn’t know me and—
I blink. Hedoesn’tknow me. He accused me of nothing, except ignoring God, and he’s on the money with that one.
My anger subsides, but I still don’t appreciate the way the muck in me, the awareness of it, has been stirred to life.
I down the remainder of my coffee, toss the cup, and resume my post by the windows. Sometime later, I’ve not a clue how much later except to know that it’s been nowhere near the length of time required for major surgery, some medical type comes in and speaks quietly to the old man and his family. Heart sinking, I watch their hugs and tears.
As they follow the woman from the room, the old man, tears in his eyes, pauses, turns, and nods my way. I return the gesture, and all vestiges of anger disappear. In his moment of grief, he thought of me. I can’t even imagine. I have forgotten how many good people there are in the world. How much good, period.
With the family gone, I wear a rut in the carpet. I consume yet another cup of coffee. I try not to keep checking the time, a watched pot and all, but eventually I do. I’ve been in this room considerably longer than I was told to expect. Have there been complications? Is Annalise in danger?
I squeeze my eyes tight. Of course she’s in danger.Don’t be an idiot, Gonzalez.
It’s time to make that call. I stare at my phone, ready to do the deed, when the door swings open again. A tall, thin man in blue scrubs with a surgical mask drooping along his collarbone walks my way. “Mr. Walker?”
I clamp my teeth together. I’m not fool enough to squander this gift. “How is she?” I steel myself for the answer.
“She’s hanging in there.”
These words bypass comfort and cinch my chest.
“The procedure went well. Her fever’s down some and she’s responding to the antibiotics.”
“I don’t understand. This infection…”
Nodding, he slips into teacher mode, and that fast I wish desperately I could go back and correct my identity. Technically, I suppose I can, but a certain part of me won’t cooperate because this is my only way of knowing what’s wrong with Annalise, what my duty to my friend is.
Yet, the words the doctor is saying ricochet in my brain and make me want to run. Hide.
These are things I should not know.
Pregnancy. Miscarriage. Scarring and infertility.
“Are you alright, Mr. Walker?”
