Someone Else’s Mess.

The woman in the doorway wears herself the way I wear my worst days—poorly. Her fingers clench and splay in spasms; her knuckles whiten and return to pink. With flushed cheeks, she clings to the cold antiseptic frame, unsure if she wants to enter the waiting room. Her eyes dart anywhere but at me—the only other person around.

My eyes scan the space. Light floods in through a wall of windows to my left overlooking grassy fields and a long, pebbled driveway. Agoraphobic chairs line the edges of the square room, keeping their distance from the social circle of seats gathered in the centre of the space.

A loud squeak comes from the woman as her well-polished shoe scuffs the well-polished floor. One of her feet betrays her, trying to enter the room, but she pulls it back across the threshold to safety. In a panic of self-conscious behaviour, she almost makes eye contact with me but looks away, brushing a bedraggled strand of hair in front of her face.

She is coiled tight, and her eyes seem to jump from spot to spot around the room. Her lips work in micro-mannerisms, silent but verbal, as if she is assessing each space, weighing the pros and cons, then coming to her conclusions with a tiny shake of the head and then on to the next evaluation.

I stand up from my seat.

“It can’t be the centre chairs.”

Her ears prick.

“Sitting there, people could surround us. Whenever someone walks behind me, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I don’t like feeling vulnerable like that.”

She glances to the chairs.

“Not the chairs on the far side of the room either."

Another glance.

“No exits.” I pause and look back at the chair I had been sitting in. “Looks like I chose right the first time. It’s halfway between the door and the window, back against the wall, and you can see the whole room. It’s—well, it’s perfect.”

In my periphery, I can tell that she watches me; both of her feet have crossed back into the room now and she has wrapped herself up in thin arms. Her eyes flit to the seat.

“If you like, I will move over one and, ya know, you can have it. That way, I can open the window if we need to get out quick. Unless there is another seat you would like?”

She flings herself across the room, head down, staring at the floor, and almost crashes into the seat next to me.

“Would you like me to sit somewhere else?”

I turn as if to leave.

She reaches out and grabs the sleeve of my wool cardigan. I turn to look at the sleeve and she slams her hand down into her lap and looks at the floor.

I sit in the seat next to her.

She positions herself in the half of her seat closest to me. Her fingers relax, becoming still and she sits them in her lap. We sit for a few minutes in silence, until I notice that she is shivering, shoulders trembling against the thin fabric of her clothes. I sit forward and take off the cardigan.

“I’m so hot in this thing.”

She watches me lay the thing in my lap.

“I only really wear it because… well, it’s so soft and cozy. I can’t handle being too warm. Would you mind holding on to it for me?”

She freezes for a beat, and I think I see the barest nod.

I lay it over as much of her lap as I feel I can get away with.

A few more minutes pass, and her hands shift under the cardigan. She inches it up until she is all but wearing it. I sit back in the chair and stretch my arms out, resting them on the frame of a large heater behind us. It doesn’t hum or give any heat. She almost leans her head into me as she pulls the wool up to her chin, hiding in it.

Two women with lanyards appear in the doorway.

“There you are!”

“We’ve been looking all over for you, sweetheart.”

“You’ll have to come back with us, okay.”

It wasn’t really a question.

She stands, and the cardigan falls slack in her hands.

I try for my most disarming smile and begin to reach for the cardigan.

She makes brief eye contact with me, then locks her eyes onto the cardigan, wide with fear.

I pull my hand away.

She watches me and slowly slides one arm into the sleeve. One nurse helps her with the other arm and they both stand on either side of her, smile perfunctorily at me, then guide her out.

I watch her leave, confused, and listen to them squeak away, heels echoing down the hallway, until the room falls silent, save for a growing ring in my ears.

I stand.

“But…my cardigan.”