There were seventeen chairs in the waiting room. Isabel counted them because she had finished counting the ceiling tiles and did not want to check the time again. Her sister had gone through the double doors at nine. It was now a time she was refusing to know.
Across the room, a woman was knitting something yellow. Every few rows she stopped and examined it with dissatisfaction. Isabel watched her unravel a section and begin again. The small reversal felt personally offensive. There should be at least one thing in the room making progress.
“It was meant to be a sleeve,” the woman said, catching her eye. “At present it's a mystery.”
Isabel smiled despite herself. The woman's name was Moira. Her husband was having a procedure. She didn't ask Isabel for details in exchange, which made it easier for Isabel to offer them. Her sister had been ill for months. Today's test might explain more, or it might lead to another test. Uncertainty had become the family's least welcome relative.
Moira put the knitting down. “Have you eaten?”
Isabel had not. She didn't want to leave the room. Moira offered to fetch something from the vending machine just outside the door. Isabel gave her coins and requested anything that wasn't chocolate. Moira returned with crackers and chocolate because the machine had opinions of its own.
They ate slowly. Neither said everything would be fine. Isabel was grateful. She had received many versions of that assurance from people who meant well and could not possibly know. What she needed was someone who could bear to sit beside the possibility that things might be difficult.
Her phone contained a message from a friend at church: Praying with you today. No need to reply. She read it twice. The final sentence felt as kind as the first. She had become tired of reporting, reassuring, and thanking people while trying to hold herself together.
Moira's husband came back first. He looked pale and complained about being hungry. Relief made his wife brisk. She gathered the yellow mystery, checked his coat pockets, and helped him stand. Before leaving, she pressed the unopened crackers into Isabel's hand.
“For later,” she said.
The room seemed larger after they left. Isabel moved to the chair by the window. Outside, a groundskeeper was clearing leaves from a drain. The world continued with its practical tasks, indifferent in one sense and reassuring in another. Somewhere beyond the doors, people were doing their work for her sister.
She tried to pray. For weeks, her prayers had been detailed requests, as if precision could prevent disappointment. This one was shorter: Stay with us. She did not feel an immediate change. She said it again because it was what she had.
When the nurse finally called her, the news was incomplete. There would be another appointment and more waiting. Her sister was tired and wanted to go home. Isabel helped her into her coat, then remembered the crackers.
“Someone gave me these,” she said.
Her sister took one. “Good someone.”
They ate in the car before starting the engine. There was no answer tucked inside the packet, no reason for the long morning. There was food, and a sister beside her, and enough steadiness to drive them both home.
