Bridge
© Joshua Scribner
Cervical cancer. How would she tell her husband? How would she tell her kids?
A resident at the hospital had just explained the test results. Carla was instructed to wait, told that a specialist would be with her shortly, to talk over her options.
But she couldn't stay in the cold waiting room. She went into the chapel. Up front, a very old woman slumped in a wheelchair, with a man in a suit beside her. Carla sat on a pew in the back.
“Do it now!” said the old woman, in a cracked voice.
The man looked at her. “No, Mother. I can't do it to you.”
“You'll do as you're told!” The old woman coughed, as if the force of her voice had been too much for her throat.
“What if it stops this time, Mother?”
She stopped coughing, laughed a little, not a pleasant sound. “You think it won't want me, because we're related, like it cares where it goes. But it follows few rules. It doesn't even care about time. It won't stop on the bridge. You'll be fine.”
Carla thought this was the strangest conversation she had ever heard. She wondered if she would remember it, though, after the turmoil this day would bring.
The man stood. He reached down to the wheelchair and took the old woman's hand. He turned to Carla, smiled and held out a hand for her.
Carla might have refused, but the man had a kind face, and her defenses were down. She got up and moved slowly past the aisles. She looked at them both, thought the son was probably old enough to be her grandfather, and took the extended hand.
His hand clamped down on hers like a vice. She tried to rip free, but could not. She started to scream, but then felt something else come from her. It was very cold, like ice water running through her veins. It seemed to localize in the hand he was gripping. Then it seemed jet out of that hand into the man. He shook as if a current was running through him, but didn't let go. The old woman stiffened upright and made a pained sound.
Seconds later, the man released Carla. The old woman, who was slumped again, inched her head up to her son. “See, it doesn't care where it goes.”
Carla felt very hot and smothered. She had to get out of there. She rushed out and away. She thought of leaving, forgoing her meeting with the specialist and just getting out of the hospital. Then someone came rushing down the hall at her. It was the resident she'd seen before.
He sighed, in apparent relief. “Carla. I need you to come with me.”
Seemingly unaware of her frantic state, he led her into his office and shut the door.
“There's been a terrible mistake.” He smiled. “Somehow, your test results got mixed up with someone else's. You don't have cervical cancer. You're fine.”
For a few seconds, and for the second time today, she was shocked by the news he'd given her. It took her a few seconds to say, “You're sure this time?”
He laughed. “This time, we're positive. And I can't tell you how sorry I am for the mix up.”
For a sorry man, he was sure smiling a lot. But she thought she understood the sentiment. She looked away from him, took a little time to grasp all that had happened today. A question popped in her head.
“And the person who has cancer?”
________________ Joshua Scribner is the author of the novels Mantis Nights, The Coma Lights and Nescata . His fiction won both second and fifth place in the 2008 Whispering Spirits Flash Fiction contest. Up to date information on his work can be found at joshuascribner.com. Joshua currently lives in Michigan with his wife and two daughters. |