In Sickness and in Health

The cab came to an abrupt, whiplash stop at the hospital’s front entrance. In a whirlwind ride from the airport, dodging in and out of the heavy streams of New York traffic, missing the bike messengers by just a hair, we arrived at the hospital in Manhattan. I quickly opened the door while shoving money in the cab driver’s hand not really caring how much I gave him. I just wanted out of the cab. I wanted to see my baby. The hospital’s sliding glass doors were dotted with greasy fingerprints. The moment I entered I was overwhelmed by the rancid smell of body odor. The waiting room was packed with people — young, old and many who looked like they had been sleeping on the streets for years. Some were sitting, others standing and quite a few were leaning on the walls, all waiting for their names to be called. “Johnson.” I heard a nurse yell out into the waiting room. “Johnson. Is there anyone here named Johnson?” In the corner of the room, sat an old man looking through an outdated magazine. His stringy gray hair stuck out of his Yankees baseball cap, and his beard looked like it had food entangled in the strands. He slowly got up and shuffled toward the nurse. “Yea, I’m Johnson. It is about time. I have been sitting here for over five hours waiting for you to call my name.” “Well, that I just did,” said the nurse hurriedly directing him to the triage room. I glanced around the room trying to catch the eye of a staff member so that they could show me where my son was. But there was no one, except a police officer. He was standing by a gray metal locked door that led to the ER treatment rooms. All dressed in his uniform with his right hand placed on his gun, he glanced around the room. I ran up to him and screamed, “Please let me in! My son is back there, and I need to see him now. Please I beg you, I need to see my baby!” He looked surprised as I ran toward him but he seemed to listen to what I was saying. He picked up the phone and dialed a number. “There is woman who says that her son is back there. Do you have a kid there?” And then he paused. “Okay. I will let her in.” He pulled out a ring of clanging keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. I ran down the narrow, dingy hallway. It was as if everything was in black and white, and I was running in slow motion. I couldn’t get back there fast enough. Turning the corner of the hallway, I stopped dead in my tracks. It was all becoming so real. Stretchers were lined up and the curtains were open except for one: I knew my baby was behind that curtain. I ran past the doctor and nurses, stopped and then slowly pulled the curtain back. There he was, asleep on the stretcher, his face and arms were smudged with dirt, and his clothes looked ragged and old. He looked so tiny on such a long stretcher. Quietly walking to his side, careful not to wake him, I gently placed my hands under his limp body and pulled him close to my chest and deeply inhaled, taking in his smell, hearing the sound of his breath and feeling the weight of his little body in my arms. Then I began to sing. It was the song I promised him that we would sing when I spoke to him on the phone in the ambulance —the song that we sang every night before he went to sleep. “Taste and see, taste and see.” And with that he opened his swollen eyes and began to mouth the rest of the words, “...and see, taste and see.” I stared into his blue eyes, afraid to close my eyes. I didn’t want to take my eyes off him. How did he end up here, hundreds of miles away from home? How did my husband end up in jail? Why did this happen?