I’ve been fortunate not to have to frequent doctors’ offices regularly. Though for whatever reason, today was the third time I found myself in a medical waiting room of one kind or another – with another, different appointment Monday. You never know who you’ll find at any given time waiting along with you…
As I pulled into the strip mall, I checked the address again — 357 MLK, Suite 5. I’d been here once already for my initial evaluation, but between the crutches, paperwork, and trying not to put weight on my ankle, I hadn’t paid much attention to the neighborhood.
I passed a Vietnamese Banh Mi place, a tropical fish store, and I spotted it between a nail salon and a UPS Store – MotionWorks Physical Therapy. As I parked and awkwardly got my crutches out I thought it was a weird location for a PT place, but they take my insurance and now I want a Banh Mi afterwards…
I checked in with the chipper receptionist. “You’re about ten minutes early – we prefer early to late.” She smiled too brightly for this early, I thought. She took a page off the printer, affixed it to a clipboard and handed it to me. “Fill this out and give it to your therapist when they call you back.” She pointed to an adjacent room with one of her brightly painted fingernails and another high-wattage smile. “The waiting area is right over there.”
“Thanks,” I managed and walked around the corner to the waiting area. I took a seat in one of the linked vinyl chairs along the wall, leaning my crutches against the empty seat next to me.
A young woman sat a few chairs away, scrolling through her phone. She wore leggings and running shoes and had one knee wrapped in a black brace. The walls around us were adorned with generic sports-related pictures, and the small tables between sets of chairs held years-old issues of Sports Illustrated and Time.
After taking everything in, I noticed the man on the opposite wall.
The man from my first visit.
He looked exactly the same — off. His black trousers seemed too big on him, and the cuffs of his flannel shirt were frayed. His stringy hair hung limply around his face, and he clearly hadn’t shaved in a few days. He tapped one worn, scuffed sneaker nervously against the floor as he trained his wide eyes on me.
His stare was unnerving enough that I immediately looked back down at my clipboard.
The man had been here when I arrived for my initial evaluation and was still sitting in the waiting area when I left. And now, three days later, here he was again, looking exactly the same.
I tried to focus on the paperwork.
A few minutes later, the door to the treatment area opened and a young man stepped out wearing khaki pants and a navy-blue polo embroidered with the MotionWorks logo. An ID badge hung from a lanyard around his neck.
“Jessica?”
The young woman looked up from her phone. “That’s me,” she stood, tucked her phone into her pocket, and handed him the clipboard she’d been holding.
“Great. Come on back.”
The door swung closed behind them.
Across the room, the strange man continued tapping his sneaker.
And watching me.
A couple of minutes passed, the only sound the receptionist’s tinny radio playing “Drops of Jupiter” on the local adult contemporary station.
The door to the treatment area opened again and a middle-aged woman in pale blue scrubs stood framed in the doorway. She took a moment to survey the waiting area before intoning, “Daniel August Taylor?”
My full, legal name? And what’s with the scrubs? Still, I reached for my crutches. As I did so, my eyes met the persistent gaze of the man across from me. His eyes widened just slightly, and I saw him shake his head almost imperceptibly. My brain stuttered at the unexpected message and I stopped.
“Daniel August Taylor?” the woman called again, her eyes moving slowly across the waiting area without seeming to recognize either of us.
Again, that same slight shake of his head.
Once more, “Daniel August Taylor?”
I didn’t move or break eye contact with the man across from me.
The woman stepped back and the door swung closed. And as it did, I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and looked away from the man.
A minute later, the door to the treatment area opened again and a young woman stepped out wearing khaki pants and the familiar navy-blue MotionWorks polo.
“Dan?” she called, smiling directly at me.
I reached for my crutches again. Across the room, the man gave me a small nod.
I levered myself onto my good foot and awkwardly crossed to the therapist, handing her my clipboard.
“One sec.”
I turned and made my way toward the man in the chair.
Quietly, I asked, “What would have happened if I’d gone with that other woman?”
He stared up at me, and for the first time I saw something other than unease in his eyes.
Sadness.
“You wouldn’t have come back.”
