I wish I hadn't stopped learning how to drive. I could have driven her home, instead of planning to call a taxi. What if we have to wait? What if she has pain?
I don't want her to wait in discomfort. The nurse said she will let me know at noon. So, in two minutes my phone should ring.
Twenty-five minutes later. I wait. I really wish I could drive. Then I could have rented a car last night. All ready and cozy. It's the middle of winter.
The door with the frosted glass slides open and the doctor in dark blue uniform steps out. I grab my purse and walk towards her. She starts speaking. She speaks more than I expect. There are a lot of words coming out of her mouth, like a herd of fruit flies at a summer market. I catch one of them: complication. My mouth dries up so fast, the inside of my lips shrivels like polyester on fire. A fast-forward footage of forests becoming wastelands. Unreal.
I must have been blocking the way somehow. The doctor gently moves me towards the big windows at the entrance side, her palm on my shoulder. "We need to keep her here a bit longer," she says, "don't be alarmed just yet." What a stupid sentence. More words come out of her mouth. My stomach folds in on itself like a dead bug.
I can't see her mouth behind the mask, but I see her eyes. Her gaze passes through me like a cartoon ghost. There are cars outside. People get in, out. Empty wheelchairs roll across the sidewalk.
I could have driven her home.