Still staring.
It creeps me out. I notice the room’s gone cold, like someone left a window open, except these hospital windows don’t open. I squirm under her blank, unblinking gaze. She seems not to be looking at me so much as through me. As if I were a ghost, someone physically here once but no longer. I wonder if I’ve slipped between dimensions again.
Her gaze is becoming uncomfortable. I want to get up and leave the room. And find I can’t. I’m frozen in my chair! I shudder at the realization: She’s a witch. She’s put a hex on me, like those animals in The Chronicles of Narnia, turned into statues by the evil witch. What was her name? (You’d think at a time like this I’d remember something as important as the name of the evil witch of Narnia!) I also realize I’m getting a little dopey from lack of sleep.
And she’s still staring at me!
It’s then I notice the woven bag in the chair next to her. Protruding from it is a folded white cane.
She’s blind?
Oh, for crying out loud!
My whole mental landscape shifts. Instead of panic, I’m feeling like a fool, which is not really much of an improvement. Okay, so she’s not a witch. She’s just an old blind woman saying her rosary in the waiting room of a city hospital. I must be losing it. I feel I should apologize. Sorry I thought you were a witch. Nothing personal. You just look like one. I realize this is one of those times it’s probably better I keep my mouth shut. Her unblinking gaze is still unsettling, even if she can’t see me.
Turns out she’s not only not a witch, but she’s not all that old either, not as old as I first thought. Maybe only a few years older than me, but life has not been kind to her. I can see she was once beautiful; the traces are still there. My eyes fall to the rosary in her hands. A slow, steady, unhurried grace to her movements, a rhythm, a tempo I find calming. My breathing slows as I watch the fingers pray, holding a bead for a moment. Then moving on to the next. And then the next. And another, and I ease into the relaxed rhythm. The crucifix dangles from her palm, Christ suspended in space and time, arcing back and forth like a metronome, as her fingers touch, caress, fondle, bless each bead.
Movement in the room.
My eyes flutter open. A young police officer carrying a cup of vending machine coffee nods to me, then takes a seat against the wall. I nod in response and turn back to—
The old woman is gone.
Her chair, empty. I must have dozed off and she left. I hope her prayers were answered. I check my watch— more than twenty-five hours since I last really slept— and rub my face, glancing over at the officer. He’s staring at the floor, unmindful of my presence. I recognize him from the eleven o’clock newscast: “The primary witness in the FBI’s investigation was shot this afternoon by an unknown assailant and is at this hour reported to be in critical condition . . .” Officer Blake O’Connor. I suspect I know why he’s here. He sits, lost in thought. Thinking he could have been the one now lying in the ICU? Or maybe that he could be next? Nice-looking fellow. Looks younger than his photo on TV. Probably mid-twenties at most. The newspaper says he’s the son and grandson of police officers. And now a witness in the Department of Justice’s investigation into police corruption in Portland. Praised by the mayor and police chief for his courage and integrity, he’s become a pariah within the force for breaking their code of silence. Given the option of administrative leave with pay, he chose to remain on the job. Rumors say he now rides solo in his patrol car, that no one will ride with him. I hope the rumors are untrue. But here he is, in uniform, and alone. I suspect his career in law enforcement is over.
The radio on his belt squawks, sounding grotesquely loud in the quiet space. He quickly turns down the volume. “Sorry,” he says.
“You don’t need to listen to it?”
“I’m on break. Just stopped in to check on someone.”
“Is he still in critical condition?” I ask, signaling I know who he is and who the “someone” is he’s checking on.
He nods. “Yeah. And you?”
“I’m waiting to see if a friend makes it through the night.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Yes . . . he’s in critical condition, too.”
“Sorry.” He takes a drink of coffee.
After a pause, I say, “I admire what you did. This can’t be easy for you.”
He gazes at the floor again. “I can’t talk about it.”
“Of course.”
Then he looks up. “You’re not a reporter, are you? I hope to God you’re not another reporter.”
I smile. “No. I’m a counselor. And I hear a lot that’s confidential— and that remains confidential with me.” And I know all about the investigation. I was there at the beginning. I was there before there was an investigation.
Not meeting my eyes, he speaks softly even though we’re the only ones in the room. “It’s not just me. There were others going to testify, too. Several of us were coming forward to tell what we knew to the investigators. But the others changed their minds.” He stares into his cup. “I don’t blame them. They’ve got families.” I notice he wears no wedding band. “And there is some risk.”
“So, why didn’t you? Change your mind?”
Even though he’s no doubt “lawyered up” not to speak, he seems relieved to be talking.
“I knew what was going on. We all did. This investigation gave us the chance to tell what we knew. And I couldn’t let the citizens of Portland think that all cops are bad apples.” He meets my eyes. “Most of the officers I work with are good and decent, brave, dedicated men and women. The best.”
I hold his gaze. “I don’t doubt that for a minute.”
His face flushes as he turns away.
“I hope your father and grandfather are proud of you.”
“My grandfather is. And my father . . . he understands. He’s just worried.”
He suddenly looks embarrassed and straightens up in his chair. “I’ve said more than I should.” He checks his watch. “I need to get back on duty.”
As he stands, I say, “On behalf of the citizens of Portland . . . thank you.”
Again, not meeting my eyes, he nods. “I hope your friend comes through this.”
“Thanks.”
As he leaves the waiting room, I whisper, “I hope you do, too.”
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