Chapter Thirty
Waiting rooms are for people still hoping for good news. The ones who’ve already surrendered to despair tend to float elsewhere. They don’t sit in the waiting room, because there is a part of them that no longer believes there’s anything left to wait for.
People in waiting rooms still imagine worst-case scenarios, of course.
It’s human nature. But mostly, they bargain, plead, and pray.
They clutch rosaries, crosses, and stars.
They whisper promises into the air. They envision futures that haven’t yet been taken from them.
Futures that still feel possible, if only the news is good.
Rose and Landon waited. Landon’s own head was bruised and bleeding, Rose’s arms and legs speckled with cuts, but they refused to be seen.
They were too busy waiting for good news.
Rose was too busy waiting for good news.
She was too busy bargaining with God. She was praying, the words a whimper but the intentions behind them crystal clear: I would give my life, I would give my life, let her live, please, let her live.
She was thinking of Cordelia as she had been that morning, the hearts on her footie pajamas, the giggles and gurgles.
She was imagining the first day of preschool, first day of kindergarten, first day of high school, all of the firsts she would experience again through her beloved daughter’s eyes.
The doctor was compassionate, and brief. There was nothing for them to wait for.