The Waiting Room

by Emily Bleeker

  “I got it! I got it!” Veronica said, enjoying the temporary playfulness. She turned the brass knob on the door that led to the garage and stopped before shoving it open. “I love you, Mom,” she shouted over her shoulder, and then walked out toward her car, swinging the door closed behind her before she could hear an answer.

  As she drove through streetlight-lined roads, enjoying the whoosh of her tires on asphalt, she let herself take account of all the feelings swirling around inside her. Usually she ignored them, or better yet numbed them with her work, or occasionally a sleeping pill on the list on her pediatrician’s website of safe medications while breastfeeding, but today she felt them, and it was terrifying but also exhilarating.

  Between her plan to hold her daughter again and the improving relationship with her mom, there was something new, a little flame in her chest right under her breastbone that must be what hope felt like. Hope was one thing she’d been bereft of for far longer than she wanted to admit, but today there was a crack of light in the darkness, and she was heading toward it.

  When she pulled up to Dave’s Ale House, the small front lot was full. An arrow pointed to a lot across the busy Highway 42, with a sign underneath: “Additional Parking.” Veronica clutched the steering wheel and dug her freshly painted burgundy nails into the soft leather.

  She’d been riding on a burst of determination mixed with adrenaline, but even this small obstacle made her hesitate. It would take less than fifteen minutes to get home, ignore her mother’s stares, and brush past Sophie’s room without any foolish thoughts of beating back the panic and fear that went along with holding her; she could strip out of the soft dress, leave it in a pile on the floor along with all her aspirations for change, pop a sleeping pill, and climb into bed. A white Lexus pulled in behind Veronica, the bright headlights reflecting off her rearview mirror right into her eyes.

  “The lot is full,” she muttered to herself and the other driver at the same time, still frozen in a moment of anxiety. She’d hesitated for what must’ve been too long for the luxury car behind her; the driver backed his vehicle up and then drove past Veronica with a squeal. The driver was a man in a business suit, but beyond that she couldn’t make out many details in the dark after being blinded by his headlights, though she imagined a look of disdain on his face as he pulled under the canopy in front of the restaurant. A man in a black shirt came out from behind a podium pressed against the brick facade surrounding the entrance. Valet parking.

  Veronica had never done valet alone, but after watching the ease with which the suited man left his keys in the car and went inside with only a word or two exchanged and a casual wave with two fingers, she craved the convenience of not having to think or walk across dark streets or remember where she had parked when it was time to go home. With a gentle push of the gas pedal, she urged the car up the slight incline to the front door and tried to mimic the man in the suit.

  She stood carefully as she exited the car, her dress shimmying down her thighs to lie smooth against her legs and her silver necklace hanging down to just above her belly button. With a quick hand through her hair, she snatched her clutch from the console between the two front seats and headed for the valet stand. After retrieving her ticket, she was free. It must be what parents feel like when they drop their kids off for the first day of school after a long summer.

  Veronica’s phone dinged in her purse as she walked through the heavy wood-and-glass doors. The restaurant was far nicer on the inside than she’d expected for an “ale house,” which, to Veronica, sounded more like a bar. The room was dim with yellow-tinted lights along the side walls and an oblong light fixture with amber-colored crystals around it, adding to the warm tones. Down two short steps was a large bar in the same shape as the light fixture above it, with lines of bottles under the counter all the way around. Large, softly lit wooden tables surrounded the bar in an unpredictable pattern, all full of prettily dressed people eating beautifully plated food and drinking all kinds of fancy concoctions from elegant glassware.

  If she painted the scene, she’d use oil paints to get the colors right and add the textures of the scene. It’d be a warm palette, with a few cool splashes where the light hit the bottles under the bar and if she included the woman in the blue dress and the man with the green tie. The irony of the warm colors was how cold the room was, the air on at full blast, bringing up goose bumps on Veronica’s arms. A hostess dressed in a black tailored dress with no sleeves approached her quickly, a polite patience to her voice.

  “Hello, table for . . . ?” She glanced around as though she was looking for a husband or friend to pop out from behind one of the tall wooden pillars behind Veronica. No husband, the little voice inside her mind whispered.

  “I’m meeting a friend,” Veronica offered quickly, scanning the room for Gillian but not having any luck at locating her spiky hair or modest wardrobe. “I can just wait at the bar.”

  “That sounds great. If you want to let me know what he looks like, I can send him your way when he gets here.”

  That spot in her chest cramped like it always did when she saw a couple walking hand in hand down the street or a family playing together at the park. It had gotten to the point that just seeing a man wearing a wedding band sent the ache of loneliness spreading through her like the liquefied aluminum one of the guys in her sculpting class used for his final project. It filled every space of any object he poured it into, settled into the cracks and crevices, and then hardened into mysterious and unique pieces of art. She wondered what the sculpture of her wounded soul would look like.

  “I’m not meeting a man; I’m meeting a woman.” Veronica paused when the hostess quirked up one eyebrow. “No, I mean, I’m not on a date at all. Just a friend. Her name is Gillian. Short brown hair, late fifties . . .” Sad eyes, air of desperation . . . Veronica shook her head. All other identifying features she could think of were not exactly kind.

  “Well, I’ll keep an eye out.”

  “Okay, thank you,” Veronica said, and then turned and walked down the two short stairs toward the long wooden counter she’d been eyeing earlier. Trying to look confident, as if she was used to sitting at a bar alone, she picked out a seat in the middle of the mostly empty counter with a clear view of the door. Her phone buzzed again in her purse, and as soon as she’d settled into the most casual position possible on the high stool, she finally pulled it out. The message was from Gillian: Running a bit late. Waterproof mascara is a bitch. See you in ten.

  Ten minutes alone at a bar. That feeling came rushing back in, the one that told her to run away. If she hadn’t just relinquished her car to some stranger outside the front door, she’d be climbing in, speeding home, and calling it a night already.

  What do you do sitting at a bar for ten minutes? She’d never been one to lose herself in her phone, and the internet held very few attractions now that she saw the dirty underbelly of all those smiling family pictures on Facebook. She rarely posted on her profile anymore now that her pictures or posts didn’t match the shiny, beautiful standards of all the other mothers and family members she followed. No one wanted to hear about how hard it was to get out of bed or how she was seeing a therapist to help her learn how to be a real mom again.

  In fact, one night when she’d gotten yet another one of those reminder posts from Facebook that showed Nick standing next to her with his hand on her swollen pregnant belly, she’d deleted all her pictures from her profile but two. Now all that remained was a cover photo with Nick and Sophie in the hospital right after twelve hours of labor resulted in a perfect eight-pound human. And then her most current picture of Sophie eating solids for the first time, green mush spread over her face like clown makeup, as her profile picture. Veronica slipped her phone back into her bag and took another look around the ale house.

  The room was enthralling enough for a few more minutes of observing, and if she could get her hands on a pen, like maybe the one behind the bartender’s ear, then she could start sk
etching the way the amber slats of hanging glass overlapped and tapped against one another when the bartender rushed underneath, but only when he rushed, like when she sat down and he offered her a drink. But not when he moved slowly, like when he poured her a gin and tonic and slid it across the lacquered wooden surface of the bar. The move made her feel as if she were in the Wild West, and she was halfway tempted to lift the glass, chug it in one gulp, and say “Yee-haw!” or something as she choked it down. Instead, she sipped it and nodded politely and went back to watching the glass and plotting a way to ask for the bartender’s pen.

  “What’s so interesting up there?” a deep voice from Veronica’s left asked, making her jump, heartrate skyrocketing. It was the Lexus man, or at least she thought it was. Lots of men were wearing nice suits in the restaurant, but this suited man was familiar, from the way he tucked his tie into his buttoned suit coat to the way his face crinkled on one side when he smiled at her. She stiffened when she realized it was Mark from the therapists’ waiting room. How could she run into him again? It was a small town, but not that small. God, was he following her? She tried to ignore the paranoid thought and focus on his question.

  “Oh, the glass.” She pointed up and took a sip of her drink through a cocktail straw, pretending she didn’t notice who he was. Her drink was stronger than she’d expected, and she gave a little glare at the bartender, who must’ve thought she needed to loosen up.

  Mark followed her gaze and ran a quick glance over the light fixture, but Veronica was acutely aware that his eye line returned to her face almost immediately.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked, leaning in. His voice was lower now and with a slight husk to it. Veronica hadn’t taken the time to look directly at the man, but now she stared at him. There was more stubble on his chin tonight and a dreamy look in his blue eyes that had not been there under the fluorescent lights of the supermarket or in the dim corners of the clinic. This wasn’t stalking; this was flirting. She blinked and fought a smile.

  “Do you mean that I should remember you from when you passed me in the parking lot with your fancy car?” she asked, knowing she was flirting back and flinching at the realization. She tried to let the nice clothes, makeup, new attitude, and strong drink numb that nagging voice that felt disloyal.

  “Oh shit, was that you? God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude; my tail was just hanging out in the street and it’s a company car.”

  “Must be a nice company to give out such a nice car.”

  “I don’t know; I’ve always wanted a hatchback Prius if I’m being honest.” He put his elbow on the counter and gave her a playful smile.

  “Hilarious,” she said and rolled her eyes, trying not to be creeped out that he’d noticed her car and taking another sip of her drink. “Don’t scoff at my choice of vehicle. It’s not all environmental, you know. I also save tons on gas.”

  “Ah yes, that’s right, Ms. Thrifty. I knew I saw a coupon book in your purse before.”

  “Yes, this drink right here was only thirty-five cents. Double-coupon day.” She held it up and took another drink, the sting of alcohol lessening with every sip, along with the choke of her anxiety.

  “There’s something different about you today.” He cocked his head and studied her, chin resting in his hand as though he wanted to know what had changed and why.

  “Well, I am dressed a little nicer than the last few times we met.”

  “No, there’s something else. Something new . . .”

  Veronica took another sip, this time bypassing the straw and drinking directly from the glass, draining the last bit of fluid from the clustered ice cubes filling the base of the cup.

  “How about another?” he asked, noticing her struggle to get any more alcohol out of her glass.

  “I shouldn’t. That was my first drink since . . .” She let the sentence trail off. At least he knew the truth already; that made it easier. Maybe that’s why it was so easy to joke with him, to be her old self. He knew, and she didn’t have to hide the fact that she was half a whole, that she had a little girl she couldn’t hold and no husband waiting at home for her. He knew she went to a therapist, and she knew the same about him. In many ways, she was safe with him. “I’m still nursing, and I have to skip a feeding when I drink.”

  Mark shrugged. “If you’re going to have to pump and dump anyway, then why not indulge, am I right?”

  She snorted, surprised. “You know the lingo?”

  “It hasn’t been that long since my daughter was a baby. Her mom nursed her for almost eighteen months. Sometimes I thought she’d be ten before we got her weaned.”

  Even with the new attitude and slight intoxication, it still stung to hear about a mom who was so successful with nursing that she couldn’t get her baby to stop. She took a breath and pushed down the feeling of shame.

  “Well, I don’t usually talk nursing with dads, but I’m glad you understand. And I guess I’ll take one more.” She held up one finger, feeling sure she’d regret this decision later. Mark gestured for the bartender, and Veronica got brave. “In case you don’t remember, I’m Veronica.”

  “Oh, I remember. I’m Mark DeVenuto, in case you didn’t read my card. Nice to meet you—again.” They shook hands, more like fingertips squeezing fingertips, and then let go, and Veronica let him take over ordering their drinks and then watched them being prepared. She knew he was really interested in her; it was an old instinct from the days of going out dancing with her friends in New York. The way he couldn’t take his eyes off her for more than a second and the way his mouth was more than willing to smile when she told a joke. It was a relic of a feeling; it felt uncomfortable but also familiar, like when her favorite pair of shorts were inevitably a size too small after a winter of treadmill runs, and if it weren’t for the help of her cocktail, she’d likely be too full of guilt to continue the conversation. But it did feel a little good, and the worries hit her subconscious and slid down like rain on a windshield.

  When the last lime was spritzed into the drink, Veronica took the glass gladly, this time taking a long drag from the slender black straw before putting it down.

  “So tell me about yourself, Veronica,” he said in the vacancy her silence left. He said her name as though he’d been waiting anxiously for the opportunity.

  “You know a lot. Like, way more than most people.” She tried to make a joke out of it, but it was true. He knew secrets only her therapist, mother, and a few trusted individuals knew. What else could she possibly share with him?

  “Okay, okay, let’s not go into all the deep stuff again. How about this—How was your week?”

  She laughed loudly enough that the bartender turned around, stunned. Veronica quickly stared into her full glass. “This is not the week to ask that question.”

  “Yeah?” he asked, leaning in till she could smell him like she had when he reached across her in the supermarket. “Well, let’s start with that tidbit. Sounds—exciting.”

  “Yeah.” She nodded, sipping on her drink. “My alarm was tripped this week, and the police had to search my house. It was crazy. I think those alarms are meant to make the burglar go deaf as a punishment for breaking and entering.”

  Mark’s forehead creased, and he lowered his voice in concern. “Wow, so, are you okay? Did you lose anything?”

  She shook her head, still annoyed that not only had Officer Burdick not seemed interested in her case or the video on her computer, but neither had his supervisor.

  “Nah, I don’t think so, but it was still creepy. The alarm was from Sophie’s room, so I don’t know. I’m still a little on edge. This helps tons, though,” she said, holding up her glass to Mark in a mock toast.

  “I guess alcohol does have its upsides,” he agreed, his laugh sounding fake and the concern returning to his features. “Have you thought about increasing your security level? Do you have motion sensors or cameras?”

  She took another sip and coughed a little after swallowing i
t down too fast.

  “I really have a pretty basic plan for now, but maybe it is time for an upgrade.” She felt brave enough to look at Mark now. “What in the world would someone want from my house? I mean, I’m not fancy or anything. Anyway, I don’t get it. And the police could hardly care, so maybe I’m overreacting. I tend to do that.”

  He shook his head and pushed his glass away from him, still half-full. “This sounds more severe than that. Listen, I have a friend in the security business. If you ever want someone who will take you seriously with this stuff, why don’t you give me a call?”

  Veronica was tired of talking about herself and feeling unsettled at the weight of Mark’s concern. Why did he seem to care so much about her and her life? She wasn’t sure if it was flattering or disturbing. She knew almost nothing about him.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, and then added, “So what do you do in that suit, Mark? You seem to know a lot about home security. You an undercover cop or something?” Veronica’s head spun a little, and a calm warmth came over her, as if she’d just had hot cocoa after playing in the snow. She’d looked at his card before, but now a comforting fog filled her mind.

  “Uh, no.” Mark coughed and rolled his eyes. “Nothing quite so exciting. I’m the VP at MDB Bank. The suit and car are just for show; I’m not really that big a deal.”

  “Sure, sure, sure.” She tried to sound playful.

  “No, really. I feel like I’m coming off as some kind of huge egomaniac. Bravado and vehicles aside, I’d really like to get to know you better.” He put both elbows on the counter and held his glass at the apex where his hands met and then looked at her through the window his arms created. “That lady is always talking to you in the waiting room, so I can’t seem to get a word in, but I’ve wanted to talk again since we ran into each other in the supermarket. I can’t believe my luck finding you here.”

  Despite the drink she’d been sipping on, Veronica’s mouth went dry. Mark was handsome, and it wasn’t just the suit. His dark hair was still combed into a perfect part even after a day of work and running his hands through it at least five times since he sat down. And those hands were strong. They reminded her of Nick’s, only a little larger. Actually, that was Mark, like Nick but a little larger. He was taller, and his suit filled out more in the chest than it would’ve for slender Nick, but he had a smile that made you think you were the most interesting person he’d ever met and eyes that held a depth she wanted to uncover.