Here is the smile that makes his day, every day. Here is the small hand that reaches up and tugs at his beard, and here is the laugh that fills the black hole in the middle of him.

Here is the other hand, the one congenitally misshapen but still functional, the one that always tries to take his glasses from his face when the good hand has tugged the beard downward so the bad hand can get its fingers snaked around the nosepiece. Here again comes the laugh when the glasses pull free of his ears. Here is the mouth that opens and chews on the glasses, the one with the crooked baby teeth that are so adorable.

Here is the kiss he places on the little one’s head, who chews his prize and makes pleased, snuffling sounds. Here is muted sunlight through the polarized windows, throwing a brown sunbeam down on them. Here is the warmth; here is the point toward the window, the inquisitive grunt that asks where did the light come from? Here is the moment he never knew he’d wanted when he’d lived alone and only for himself.

Here is the knowledge that such moments are fleeting at best, for his wife enters the small partitioned room through the heavy, white curtains and plunks down into a chair with a sigh. Here is the moment of dread; they’re on their way, she says. Here is the moment of panic that follows the moment of dread, the sudden urge to call it off or climb the building like King Kong and fight off their enemies with angry swats and roars of unquenchable rage. Here is the chance to be the daddy all daddies want to be, a hero who dies saving his family from hurt and shame.

Here is the first grinning man, dressed in scrubs and glasses and that uniformly slick, collegiate way that makes them all look the same, regardless of age, sex, or race. Here is a consent form to sign. Here are the others, a uniformly, slick collegiate gangbang of authority designed to suggest there is no escape now. Here is a pair of smooth, white hands, quietly insistent.

Here.

Here is one last kiss, a caress of the little one’s soft cheek, his giggle, and a wave of his new rubber duckie that he loves to chew on. Here is a goodbye.

Here are the mechanical doors, one which opens inward, the other outward, and that’s the way it works regardless of which way you’re facing. Here is another wave, and here is his little one saying his name, “La-La”, because he can’t yet say “Da-Da”, La-la also being his word for light.

Here is the silence that follows. Here is the sickness. Here is the weakness.

Here is his wife collapsing, first in the face, then in the body, crashing to the floor, and here he stands, too numb to reach out and catch her. Here, finally, is that deep, useless yearning wish that none of this ever had to be, and then he remembers, oh yes, it never did have to be. Here, in fact, is something that was not vital to his little one’s life, but something that would only make his life a little easier, something cosmetic that would maybe make him a little more like other little ones so there would be not so many questions, maybe less giggles in the periphery. Here on display is the true depth of parental vanity.

And here is his realization, that he is the world’s worst father.

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L. Joseph Shosty lives in Texas.

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WAITING ROOM TWO • by L. Joseph Shosty, 3.5 out of 5 based on 34 ratings

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17 Responses to “WAITING ROOM TWO • by L. Joseph Shosty”

1. Debi Blood Says:
   March 2nd, 2012 at 5:06 am

   Utterly spellbinding. Those are the only words I can find for this tremendous piece of flash.

2. ajcap Says:
   March 2nd, 2012 at 5:23 am

   Oh heck, I hate stories like this. Just rips your heart out and throws it into a snow sucking ditch. The baby was real, the parents were real and the sorrow damn near unbearable.

   Wonderful writing. I have to go find somebody to hug.

3. loungey Says:
   March 2nd, 2012 at 7:40 am

   I’m confused on a couple of levels:

   1)the story starts in the 1st few paragraphs like the baby has a serious problem/disfigurement ( the gnarled hand ) where the baby is going to be taken off life support or something and they’ll let him die
   2)we find out in the last paragraph (i think) that they’re just having some cosmetic surgery performed on (i think)his hand

   if i’m right like I think I am then why the completely overwrought reaction of the parents in the last paragraph? You’d think they were killing the child by the overblown reactions. And why is surgery to correct a deformity a horrible thing? If you have a kid w/a mangled hand or hairlip or club feet wouldn’t it be the right thing to do for your kid, instead of acting like its the parents vanity? If you had these problems yourself wouldn’t u be mad @ your parents if they DIDN’T get u the surgery?

   I thought the story was (again if i’m reading into this what i think is the scenario)misleading at best/soap-operatic and unbelievable @ the worst

4. Chris Fries Says:
   March 2nd, 2012 at 7:42 am

   You know, in lesser hands this story could have easily ended up contrived; sinking in a deluge of ‘Here…’ which weigh the story down in an ostentatious construction of form over substance.

   But L. Joseph, you rocked it! This has such a depth of emotion and subtext, and the ‘Here’s’ do exactly what they’re supposed to: Put the reader immediately in the moment with the father as each tiny detail is experienced.

   Very, very nice.

5. Chris Fries Says:
   March 2nd, 2012 at 7:50 am

   @loungey: I take it that they were having the cosmetic surgery on the child’s hand, but that something went wrong and the child died during the procedure.

   So the father beats himself up for agreeing to an elective surgery that ended up having such horrendous consequences: ‘yes, it never did have to be.’

6. ajcap Says:
   March 2nd, 2012 at 8:41 am

   @loungey, the simplest surgery can go wrong (my heart felt apologies to anyone having surgery in the near future, don’t mean to worry you). Wrong amount of anesthesia (sp?)is the first thing that came to my mind.

   I would have made the same decision as this father as far as having the surgery done. Don’t want to even think about how I would have reacted when it went wrong.

7. Elizabeth Says:
   March 2nd, 2012 at 9:49 am

   Truly heartbreaking.

8. JenM Says:
   March 2nd, 2012 at 10:06 am

   The poor father. You certianly wrote this well.

9. LJS3 Says:
   March 2nd, 2012 at 11:11 am

   Thanks to everyone for the comments, even to Ioungey, who wasn’t impressed. Your feedback is just as appreciated as everyone else’s, my friend.

10. joannab. Says:
    March 2nd, 2012 at 12:03 pm

    i had trouble with this story. the MC, who is in a horrible situation, nonetheless was not a sympathetic character, for me. his conflict seemed to be between “daddy of all daddies” and “worst father in the world,” in other words, a narcissistic one. yet the story clearly pulled for “feeling his pain.” i didn’t, and thus it seemed this story didn’t accomplish what it intended to accomplish.

11. B. Stanley Says:
    March 2nd, 2012 at 1:27 pm

    Wow.
    I read this as a story of indictment. 5 stars!

12. Paul A. Freeman Says:
    March 2nd, 2012 at 2:03 pm

    I found the writing a bit monotonous, what with the continual repetition, and the story got lost to me.

13. stu1 Says:
    March 3rd, 2012 at 5:49 am

    this is very compelling and human, and such a tragic twist in perception at the end. well done.
    But I did think that the use of the “here” construction was overdone.

14. Lucy Says:
    March 3rd, 2012 at 6:13 am

    I loved the repetitious use of the ‘here’. Clearly, the decision to use this convention is going to bring mixed reviews, but for me, it worked brilliantly. It made the piece urgent and moved me rapidly toward the very tragic ending. Very well done.

    Lovely descriptions of the relationship between father and child – the little character quirk of the child’s need to chew whatever he gets his hands on immediately set his age in my mind.

15. Cathryn Says:
    March 3rd, 2012 at 9:38 am

    I echo everything Lucy said. The writer has a powerful voice. The ending is gut-wrenching.

16. Gretchen Says:
    March 3rd, 2012 at 5:54 pm

    I love how you showed the relationship between father and child through their interaction. Beautiful and oh-so-sad.

17. Rimshot Says:
    March 3rd, 2012 at 7:31 pm

    Could not get past the over-use of “Here”. Seemed a little too artful and pretentious, and took me right out of the narrative.

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