Women in blue gowns • Muriel Luderowski
There are five of us in the waiting room of the hospital’s Diagnostic Breast Care Center.
We are here because we have been called back for more tests following our routine annual mammogram. We each wear a short blue gown over our naked torso. We are waiting to be called for enhanced mammograms and sonograms. The results will be available immediately.
Each one of us had been ushered in this windowless waiting room by a cheerful middle-aged nurse who reeked of contentment. Every staff person in this damn hospital looks content as a matter of fact. What’s the deal with Burlington, Vermont, where people – mostly white – seem to go about their lives with apparent and utter contentment. Once hippies, I imagine they eventually went back to school upon their parents’ insistence to get a degree in environmental science or physical therapy. Some had decided to attend nursing school because Vermont’s UVM Medical Center offered great jobs with excellent benefits. Vermont is also such a nice place to start a family: Streets are safe, the lakes are clean and abundant, the public schools are excellent, and the green mountains offer endless recreation. Lordie, I’m so glad I live in New York State where resilience and unpredictability reign.
Meanwhile in the waiting room, we each pretend to read but never really turn the pages of the magazine we selected from the center table. We are too nervous to read. Besides, the magazines are all about golfing or sailing. How presumptuous on the part of the hospital to think that their patients are into sports. Expensive sports no less. The radiologists probably thought it was a nice idea to bring their copies to the hospital after they had read them at home. Go figure.
While waiting to be called, we each check our phones, look around, cross and re-cross our legs. The tanned and athletic woman sitting across from me is called and escorted to a small office by the smiling nurse. Before she actually closes the door, I hear the nurse say, “the oncologist is pleased to let you know...” Shortly thereafter, the athletic woman steps out of the room smiling, nearly dancing towards the cloakroom where I hear her whistle softly. Once dressed, she rushes out. She is nearly running. The tests must have come back negative. Only in oncology is the term ‘negative’ a good one.
The heavily made-up and tattooed girl next to me knows all the nurses by their first names. She waves at every single one who walks by in the hallway. She tells me that she comes here every three months for her quarterly follow-up. Soon, a nurse pokes her head into the waiting room and gives her the ‘thumbs up.’ Pulling down her short blue gown over her fleshy thighs, she gets up noisily, waves at us and floats out of the room.
There are three of us left in the waiting room. To the right of the entrance door, the young woman with the Wintour bob hairdo is nervously tapping her phone. She is very red in the face. She’s pretty. The other woman at the far end of the room appears to be my age, she looks very distinguished and dignified. The nurse come in and tells her the doctor is now available to talk with her. The white-haired woman stands up quickly, bites her lower lip and lightly brushes against the wall on her way out. With apparent equanimity she follows the nurse into the hallway. I presume you do not want to see the doctor during a call back. I remember someone telling me that during a call back the oncologist only meets a patient when the diagnosis is most likely not good.
“Linda!” I hear my name. it’s my turn. I get up and nearly drop my phone. The woman in the bob hairdo and I look at each other. She whispers, “good luck”.
I enter the dark sonogram room. Kara, my technician, tells me that the enhanced mammogram taken earlier today is inconclusive. She mumbles a few instructions and then proceeds with the actual sonogram, rolling her tool back and forth over the lower bottom left quadrant of my breast. She is quite chatty but I am not really listening. Instead, I ask her whether the oncologist will come in to meet me to discuss the results. She looks at me directly and answers, “no, not necessarily, the doctor will only come and see you if he wants to take more pictures or discuss alternatives.”
Okay, I get it, I do not want to see the doctor. At all.
The sonogram is done. Kara stands up and puts away her instruments and heads for the door. Before leaving the room, she pauses and tells me that she and, if necessary, the doctor will be back in 10-15 minutes with the results.
It is 2:15.
Fifteen minutes later, I hear a light knock on the door. Kara slips inside.
Alone.
840 words.
OVERHEARD ON THE CITY BUS • Mary L.
It had started raining as Sheila waited for the number 32 bus. Her brightly coloured umbrella, printed with Van Gogh’s Starry Night had been a last-minute thought as she’d left her home. But she had quickly put it up as the rain came down heavier. Staring anxiously down the road Sheila saw that the bus was on time. She stepped back from the kerb as it splashed to a halt in front of her. The doors opened and she climbed aboard, giving the now-folded umbrella a quick shake outside as she did so.
Sheila swiped her bus pass and looked for a seat. There, behind the two older ladies, there was a space. She slid into the seat and relaxed for the twenty-minute ride into the city centre.
Both of the ladies in front of her were senior citizens Sheila guessed. The one on the right wore a green raincoat with the collar was turned up. The lady’s delicate thin fingers held her shopping bag firmly on her knees. She talked animatedly with her seat companion who was wearing one of those pleated plastic rain hats that Sheila hadn’t seen for years! Could one still buy such a thing Sheila wondered with a chuckle to herself?
From their conversation, which Sheila could clearly overhear – (it wasn’t her custom to eavesdrop but this was a public bus, and they were talking rather loudly after all) she thought that they must be neighbours? Maybe not close friends, but neighbours of the chattering kind.
“So where are you off to this morning love?” Mrs Green Coat was saying
“Eh, I’m off up to the hospital to see my cousin Violet” replied Plastic Rain hat who was clutching a package wrapped in a brown paper bag on her lap.
“Ooh, is she very sick then?”
“No, she’s on the mend now. Had her gall bladder took out last week. I try to pop in when I can. She tells me that they’re a bit stingy with the meals? You’d think they’d want to build ‘er up a bit before they send ‘er home wouldn’t you?
Mrs Plastic Hat obviously didn’t think much of the menu options at the City General Hospital Sheila gathered. Even as she was thinking this, her fellow passenger had carefully lifted up her package and, as she showed it to her companion continued:
“I’m bringing in a bowl of rice pudding for ‘er. She likes a nice bit of rice pudding does Violet. And for gall stones, well it can’t do any harm can it. It’s very bland” she added.
It was on the tip of Sheila’s tongue to lean forward and remind Mrs Plastic Hat that her cousin theoretically no longer had gall stones. But then she remembered that she was just an eavesdropper to this conversation. She waited to hear Mrs. Green Coat’s response.
“Quite right love! She’ll be happy to have that and it can’t do no harm as you say”.
Uber that you jerks! mXmoore
I was, excited.
And, why not?
First opportunity for a post-Covid adventure.
Not adventuresome, per se - but a welcome relief from the drudge of forced containment, of restricted movement. In part, that climate had actually caused many to simply give up, give in to the futility of finding normal again.
By the way - do you know, any of you, where Normal is - actually?
I found it - it's in Illinois. Yup - 'tis.
Besides the point - my daughter, Larissa, had planned and arranged my visit to her and my granddaughter in Owen Sound, Ontario.
Where's Owen Sound? It's on the shores of Lake Huron - a thriving summertime community with a great beach nearby.
And I had booked my train - early morning, VIA - Gare Centrale to Union Station.
She was willing to make the close to 3 hour drive from her place to collect me in Toronto.
Excited - yes. Was all prepared - laptop, iPad, writing materials - clothing of course.
Until
Until three days before scheduled departure I received an email alert from VIA....
' Potential disruption of VIA Rail train service – Immediate action required'
Shit!
Quickly checking flights (long shot), bus schedules (ohMiGawd no!) it became clear that I could do nothing but wait it out. The impending strike vote was scheduled for the night before my morning departure!
What to do?
Stay calm.
Make a Plan B
Buy a Mega Bus ticket - return fare, cheapest......come Sunday night, when strike vote results are in, choose - direct the Uber to the MegaBus terminal instead of Gare Centrale.
There was no other choice. In the days and weeks following relaxation of travel restrictions airfares from Montreal to Toronto were approaching what used to be the high summer fares to Heathrow......stupid expensive.
So, once settled, went to bed, set my alarm for 2:00 AM - got up, checked the news feed - strike decision postponed. Called VIA - was assured that the morning train would in fact depart as scheduled.
Hallelujah!
Praise the Lord.
Call Uber.
Book a car for 5:45 AM.
Yay!
Back to bed, up at 4:30, got ready, grabbed my stuff, went down to the lobby to wait for Uber.
Relaxed, yes - relaxed.
Checking watch - 5:40 - no car. Of course not. Still early.
5:45 no Uber....what?
Checking ever 5 minutes until by 6:00 o'clock, still no car.
Texted Uber, urgently.
No reply - initially.
Angry now - really angry!
Bleep!
Text...from Uber.
With a flush of incredulity I read the following:
'We at Uber aplogize. We have noo cars available in your area at the present moment.
If, however, you elect to upgrade to Executive Service we can have your ride there in afew minutes.'
Are you fucking kidding me?
What a transparent attempt at gouging the customer!
Of cousre, I replied, 'Super - waiting!'
Oh yeah, the premium price, to travle thge same distance to the same location, was $40.00 more!
Yeah, right! Fools - I agreed and booked you purely as a backup.
Checked the net for local taxi companies - called two.
'Yessir - we can have a cab there in five minutes. What is your destination? Gare Centrale - no problem.'
Of course, by this time I'm now standing in the middle of the street - need to see my ride as soon as it turns the corner.
And, 'Whoopee!'- here he comes!
Piled im - vented to the driver whose reply, was a laconic, 'Yessir - it's happening all the time these days with Uber. Over promise, under deliver.'
He earned his tip, for sure.
And Uber? Of course - received a text from them 15 minutes later announcing my ride would be there shortly.
Did I reply?
What do you think?
Wordcount: 631
same bus • same old story janice
She rode the same bus every weekday. The same route at the same time. She knew all the regulars. They noted each other individually through the crowd as the bus, getting closer to downtown filled up with strangers. The regulars recognized each other but they never communicated. Not even a nod of the head. These were the rules of social engagement on the bus.
She made up her own stories for each one of them. That’s how she passed her time riding the bus, being polite, never staring, but also aware and feeling close to her fellow regulars.
There was the boy wearing a girl’s school uniform. A bit Scottish looking with his navy blazer and plaid skirt. You could almost give him the story of some ancient Scottish warrior, except for the mascara enhancing his long black lashes. The red lipstick against his first downy mustache. She imagined him as a social influencer. A tick tock star. Making a fortune off his/her compelling good looks. Riding the bus because his parents kept all his money for themselves. Still a kid. Going to school. In uniform. But not.
She herself was so beige and medium in all ways, height, weight, age that she felt invisible on the bus. She liked it that way. The bus ride with her regulars around her was a silent sanctuary that began and ended each of her stress filled workdays.
But one morning a stranger with dyed red hair and grey roots interrupted her fantasy about making friends with the presumably lonely old lady sitting as usual right behind the driver.
The red-haired woman asked her in French if the next stop was Villeneuve. The strange woman had to ask the question twice. She barely answered ‘oui’, whispered it because she didn’t want to be rude, but also didn’t want to talk, embarrassed that the other regulars would see her talking to a stranger.
Afraid that people might see her.
Her answer wasn’t good enough. The woman mocked her, called her names. Square head was one. She remembered how they called the German kids square heads back in her far away school. She had trouble grasping that it was happening here, now, on this bus in Montreal. The red-haired woman was yelling in French, calling out to the driver. Calling out to the other passengers. Pointing at her. ‘Kick her off. Get her. Anglo. Damn English’.
English. It was the English kids who had once called her Square Head even though she wasn’t even German.
The boy in the skirt was looking past her. The old lady behind the bus driver was looking past her.
She accidently met the driver’s narrowed eyes in his rear-view mirror.
She stumbled off the bus at the next stop. She watched the raucous load of bullies and collaborators pull away and disappear into traffic. She stood alone and unseen on the street.
Well that was easy. Just get off the bus. Walk away.
same bus • same old story janice
She rode the same bus every weekday. The same route at the same time. She knew all the regulars. They noted each other individually through the crowd as the bus, getting closer to downtown filled up with strangers. The regulars recognized each other but they never communicated. Not even a nod of the head. These were the rules of social engagement on the bus.
She made up her own stories for each one of them. That’s how she passed her time riding the bus, being polite, never staring, but also aware and feeling close to her fellow regulars.
There was the boy wearing a girl’s school uniform. A bit Scottish looking with his navy blazer and plaid skirt. You could almost give him the story of some ancient Scottish warrior, except for the mascara enhancing his long black lashes. The red lipstick against his first downy mustache. She imagined him as a social influencer. A tick tock star. Making a fortune off his/her compelling good looks. Riding the bus because his parents kept all his money for themselves. Still a kid. Going to school. In uniform. But not.
She herself was so beige and medium in all ways, height, weight, age that she felt invisible on the bus. She liked it that way. The bus ride with her regulars around her was a silent sanctuary that began and ended each of her stress filled workdays.
But one morning a stranger with dyed red hair and grey roots interrupted her fantasy about making friends with the presumably lonely old lady sitting as usual right behind the driver.
The red-haired woman asked her in French if the next stop was Villeneuve. The strange woman had to ask the question twice. She barely answered ‘oui’, whispered it because she didn’t want to be rude, but also didn’t want to talk, embarrassed that the other regulars would see her talking to a stranger.
Afraid that people might see her.
Her answer wasn’t good enough. The woman mocked her, called her names. Square head was one. She remembered how they called the German kids square heads back in her far away school. She had trouble grasping that it was happening here, now, on this bus in Montreal. The red-haired woman was yelling in French, calling out to the driver. Calling out to the other passengers. Pointing at her. ‘Kick her off. Get her. Anglo. Damn English’.
English. It was the English kids who had once called her Square Head even though she wasn’t even German.
The boy in the skirt was looking past her. The old lady behind the bus driver was looking past her.
She accidently met the driver’s narrowed eyes in his rear-view mirror.
She stumbled off the bus at the next stop. She watched the raucous load of bullies and collaborators pull away and disappear into traffic. She stood alone and unseen on the street.
Well that was easy. Just get off the bus.
TransitStrike Kim
Four days into a public transit strike, the city was hit by a huge snowstorm. More than 3 centimeters. of snow had fallen overnight. The snow plows were nowhere to be seen -a gesture of solidarity with the striking transit workers. The few cars on the road were slipping and sliding all over. Only big trucks and very skilled car drivers could manoeuvre through the course. It was a “messy” morning.
It was also a morning when I had a 10 o’clock appointment scheduled with my intimidating academic advisor. I had forgotten the last appointment with her and she was not pleased. There was no way that I could miss this one. I lived about 8 kilometers from campus, not too far by bus or metro. However, on a day like this it was too far to walk and too treacherous to cycle. I tried calling a cab but got busy signals everywhere. Hitch-hiking was my only option. Hitch-hiking was scary but so was that academic advisor.
One last detail…a weapon. to defend myself just in case. The old baseball bat left by the previous tenants would have served but would be off-putting to drivers. My spray bottle of window cleaner was too bulky and drippy. So, I opted for a knife,
not a serrated steak knife too risky rather a butter knife I taped to the outside of my calf with tape from the from my first aid kit. I pulled a pair of stretchy knee socks over top.
Gathering my books into my knapsack, I was pumped. On the corner, I defiantly put out my thumb. The traffic was sparse due to the bad weather. About 10 cars drove right by me without a glance. Then, a green Toyota Camry slowly pulled over and honked. I moved carefully to the passenger door ad bent forward to speak to the driver, I was pumped. I scanned the backseat for axes, duct tape or rope. Nope, just a box of tissues.
The driver was a light build, Asian man around 50 years of age.
“Where are you going, Miss”
’ “To McGill University.” I replied
“OK, I can drop you off.” He had an unusual slightly French accent.
He waited for me to buckle my belt and pulled back into the traffic slowly and steadily, the best technique for this weather. He did not say anything. for some time. The silence made me suddenly feel trapped suddenly. Some of the tape was peeling off my leg and my stretchy socks were not staying up very well. I put my knapsack down at my feet, trying to conceal any events in that area.
I don’t know why but I blurted out “My boyfriend just texted me. He expects to meet me at 10 o’clock before lectures. He plays defence on the McGill hockey team.” I wondered how that ineffective threat sounded to my driver. I hoped he wasn’t really listening.
.
“Is that so?” he replied blandly
There was a silent pause. All we heard was the swish of the windshield wipers. I was embarrassed to have been caught in a fib. I had no boyfriend, hockey playing or otherwise.
Without taking his eyes off the road, the driver mercifully reset the subject completely
Transport strikes are awful, you know Paris has a lot of transit strikes buses, metros and trains.” It is s still my favorite city though; I just returned from a conference there.
“I love Paris too. Last year, I spent 2 semesters at Sciences Po as a visiting student in Architecture.” That was completely true.
“What a coincidence. Many years ago I too attended Sciences Po. We used its full name Institut d'études politiques de Paris. I may have been their first ever visiting student. I think it was around the time of the French revolution.” We both laughed at his joke.
“In Paris, I learned French and met my future wife who got me into industrial design. We have our own design company here in Montreal. I am Henry Yau and my wife is Dominique Lafontaine.
“After you graduate, if you are looking for work give us a call.”
“Really?” I could not believe the serendipity of this winter day and my luck in meeting such an interesting and encouraging person who also happened to be an excellent driver. Carefully checking behind he pulled over to the right and stopped the car.
“I could tell you more but it looks like we have arrived at the main gates of the university. It is 8 minutes to 10 o’clock.so you should be on time for your hockey defence man. I blushed a little.
“Thank you so much for this lift. My name is Maxine Milner. It was very nice to meet you, thank you for your card. Thank you,” I babbled as I opened the car door, awkwardly scooped up my back pack and heaved myself up ungracefully and nearly went down on to the sidewalk. I regained my composure smoothed my hair and began moving towards the crosswalk. I heard a car horn sound, turned and saw “my driver’ gesturing me to come back. I opened the passenger. door and leaned down. Looked at me with some confusion. He handed me something metallic.
“Miss Maxine, you dropped your knife.
Wordcount: 883
Next Session
Suggested Prompts:
Write a story about a piece of gossip that becomes more and more distorted as it passes from person to person.
Your protagonist walks past an intriguing stranger, then turns around to take another look at them. The stranger turns around, too. Write about what happens next.
Write about the first moment that reality sets in following retirement
Write a story that includes the phrase “Maybe in another life.”
Write a story about unexpected love found and then, lost.