The Art of Starting Over

Chapter 21 - White and Black

I stared at the appointment card in my hand. It was torn almost straight down the middle because I had been toying with it nervously for the past fifteen minutes. Nanna Millie snorted loudly as she heard the paper rip. She took it gently from my hands and patted me on the knee.

I looked around the brilliant white waiting room. White walls. White tiles. Everything was white except for the big, dark mahogany desk, behind which a roundish girl with a pretty face was clicking away at her keyboard with her flashy red nails. Grey armchairs were uniformly positioned along the perimeter of the room. To the right of the reception desk was a grand circular staircase which, according to the sign next to it, led to the Mini-Op Theatre. To the left was a narrow corridor leading to the consulting rooms, one of which was presently occupied by an oncologist.

The room was big and airy, but it was not big and airy enough to stop the relentless classical music from smothering me. It seemed to get louder and louder, faster and faster, challenging my galloping pulse.

There were two more people in the waiting room: an elderly lady who was busy going through every health information leaflet on the coffee table, and a young man who looked about my age. His head rested against the wall. His eyes were closed, and he had earphones secured in both ears. I couldn't tell what he was listening to, but I was sure it was better than the maddening symphony engulfing the room. I guessed it wasn't his first time here.

According to the notice at the reception desk, a respiratory physician and a diabetologist were also holding their clinics that day.

I hoped they were there to see one of them. I hoped nobody ever had to see an oncologist.

I turned my focus to the colourful prints perfectly mounted on the whitewashed walls. Each print displayed a picturesque scene from the Maltese Islands. I looked at the one opposite us — a view of the Valletta skyline as you would see it from Sliema. I closed my eyes and pretended I was sitting on one of the black metal benches, the breeze blowing softly through my hair. I imagined joggers trotting by, the sound of traffic behind me and the chatter of pedestrians all around. I almost zoned out completely until a door opened down the corridor and the classical music exploded in my ears once again.

A sombre-looking couple came down the corridor. The man was tall and strong and healthy. He had one arm wrapped protectively around a frail-looking woman with wispy, dull brown hair and dark eyes. She was clenching some papers in her trembling hands. The man clapped the boy with the earphones gently on his shoulder.

The boy was a spitting image of the man towering over him. Small brown eyes, unruly dark brown hair, and a strong chin. But there was something about the shape of his face and the nature of his features that he unmistakably inherited from his mother. He stood up, looking expectantly from one to the other, but they just made their way to the reception desk and he had no option but to follow them. His eyes flickered towards me momentarily on his way out, and I smiled softly at him.

Then a nurse with sleek red hair appeared and called out Millie's name. We looked at one another apprehensively, then stood up and followed her.

The doctor's room was colder and even whiter than the waiting area. The walls, the floor, the desk, the examination couch — everything was white. Even the doctor, who was at the sink washing his hands scrupulously, seemed devoid of colour. The only shocks of hue came from a leafy plant on the ledge of the window and a collapsible figure of the human body on the doctor's desk.

The disturbing music mercifully stopped as soon as the nurse shut the door behind her, and a heavy void settled in its place. The doctor turned to greet us with a small smile as he dried his hands and threw the paper towel in the bin. He motioned for us to sit in the two chairs in front of his desk. I observed him closely, trying to draw out any fragment of information from his expression or behaviour.