The Quiet Room

The lights are bright and hurt my eyes, but not in that way when you first step outside in the afternoon and must squint into the warmth of the glaring sun above. No, these lights of the emergency room are long, fluorescent bulbs, an unnatural white hue that drives away any shadows that lurk in the corners, even in the darkest of these early morning hours. It smells funny, a combination of hospital grade cleaner and something like a nursing home. You know, that smell that old people have. Of sickness, of death clinging close.

I try not to make eye contact with those sitting in the waiting area; a coughing baby in a mother’s arms, the homeless man slumped over in sleep, a large man in a wheelchair, his leg propped up on a chair. I feel foreign amongst them, sitting with my sisters, a couple of college kids, because we aren’t here to seek medical treatment. Instead, we are waiting for news on my mother.

The phone call was only seconds long. Apologies from her boyfriend, police sirens in the background. He sounds panicked as he tries to explain what happened. Then he hangs up. That’s all we got, all we needed to hear before we were in motion, calling every hospital until we found where she could be.

My grandfather paces behind us, occasionally asking the weary nurses behind the desk.

“Is she here, can you tell me if it’s her? Is she okay?”

And they can only tell him the same generic answers. No, they can’t confirm it’s her. They don’t know her condition. Just wait, the doctor will come talk to us. I hold my drowsy son in my arms. He is almost three years old, but even the commotion and panic from earlier hadn’t been enough to keep him up. He lulls between wake and sleep until we are called.

“Weaver family? Right this way, please.”

I cling to my son, relief washing through me as my siblings and I rise and follow the nurse through the door separating the waiting room from the rest of the hospital. My son stirs as I reposition him.

“Don’t worry we’ll go see Nana now.” I mutter to him.

I remember smiling, thinking we would be led to a hospital bed, where I imagined seeing her sitting up, waiting for us. Instead, I feel my heart skip as we are led to another room to wait in.

Still, I shake off my anxiety. I’m grateful for warmer, softer lighting and settle into a comfortable couch. My siblings do the same; we even chat about seeing my mom soon, any minute now. My grandfather is the only one who remains standing.

I don’t think it dawns on me even as two police officers enter the room. I think, maybe, they want to go over the car accident. Maybe her boyfriend was arrested. I glance at a plastic bag in one of the officer’s hands. They ask if we are her children.

“I’m sorry...” One of them is saying. He placed the bag of my mother’s belongings into my grandpa’s hands. I don’t hear what else he says, and don’t need to. His apology is a confirmation of the worst possible outcome.

I’m not sure why they call it the Quiet Room. Our world breaking in two is anything but quiet. The cries of a mother’s children, of disbelief, of denial, of anguish echoing in the small space. There are moments of soft sobbing, of phone calls. My brothers join us later, only for pain to tear through us anew. Anger, a trash can kicked against a wall, cursing. A turmoil of emotion, a hurricane of grief. When all is said and done, we leave the hospital that night with the echoes of our loss.

Death is anything but quiet.

Non-Fiction - Third Place Kayla Sabella Weaver

Modesto, California, USA