Umar Jay Merill
Today, Friday, a day in a million. Millie’s on her way. She winked it plainly with her eyes. So I get up, make myself ready. Want to be bright and early for the girl. When I get to the hospital I don’t see her, and I ask the woman at the desk. Woman says she don’t know who I’m meaning. Millie, I tell her. She says there ain’t no Millie here. I says must be. If Millie winks it’s as good as anybody’s word. Says I’ll wait. Woman says I can’t. No room for waiting. I insist I will. Woman goes: “Yes, I remember. You’ve been in here, haven’t you. More than once,” she tells me. “Don’t know. Could of been. Can’t remember stuff.” “Yes, you’re one of ours. Umar. I got a good memory, love.” “Ok,” I say. “Where you livin now?” woman’s asking. I shake my head. Screams from somewhere and moaning sounds. Doors start banging, buzzer goes. More moaning and groaning then all turns quiet. Happens a lot at the hospital. Might of done a bit of screaming myself at one time. When I was a patient here. “Aven’t seen you in a while,” goes the woman, peering at me close. “When did you see me last?” I need her to tell me. It may be a clue to something I should know. “Oh, I’d put it at about a year. Eight months the very least.” Her head goes nodding with the words. “So who’s this Millie you’re on about meeting here?” Eyes starin’ right at me, smile twitching in corners of her mouth.
And just for that moment, when she’s putting me on the spot like that, I clean forget. “Better get some rest. You look done in,” says woman. “Can’t,” says I. “I gotta wait.” “For Millie, you mean? Did she tell you she was comin’ here?” I’m trying to hold onto those last winks that Millie gave me, but they keep falling sideways, slipping out of my eyes like tears. “Now son,” goes the woman, “What you cryin for? Here’s a hankie. You takin’ your medication like you should be? Make sure and take it. Best to go on home.” She gets out a pen and piece of paper. “What’s your address?’ “Greenwich Park,” I hear myself telling her. Her pen’s poised above the paper. “Number?” she wants to know. “Behind the willow trees.” Now she’s gawking right up close to me, driving Millie’s face away. Make me lose my nerve those eyes of hers. Millie would go for her if she saw a stare like that. “Yes, it’s coming back to me,” goes woman, writing something down, not waiting for my answer now. “You’re the one as had that Staffie what got run over down the road.” All words comin die in my throat. I don’t know what to do. In a panic I get out my packet of minty-chews, offer one to the woman to keep her fat mouth shut. “Fanks for that, Sweet’art,” says she, stuffing the minty-chew into her gob. I run off. Millie’s not comin’. Woman’s right. See the poor dog so clear now as she lay there, side of the road. All bleeding and weeping, 12
