The Last Ten Minutes
A
story about love, death and jelly beans
By Vered Ehsani
Chapter 1
“The first thing you should know about me is I hate jelly beans. The second is I’m dying. What else do you really need to know?” I hold up the form — another form! How many have I filled out so far? — and shake it.
The receptionist smiles but doesn’t look up.
While I can’t give any proof on the jelly beans issue apart from my word, the dying part is pretty easy. Glancing around, I see the proof in the off-white, undecorated walls, the gleaming white, sterile tiles and the countless closed doors — all spotless and white — that line the walls of the waiting room.
Everything about the space screams institution and illness. The death of imagination and comfort.
Not that The ART is any old hospital. The Adams Research & Treatment Institute is a specialized cancer center, one of the best. But I can still feel the cold hardness of the metal chair through the thin gown they’ve given me.
“Why do hospital gowns have to be so thin?” I grumble as I return the form to the clipboard and start filling it out.
Name:
Zain Fischer.
Occupation: CEO of Grow Investments, a.k.a.
Chief Empress Overlord of countless minions.
“Or so unappealing, for that matter?” I continue. “Would it kill someone to give patients clothes that are at least comfortable, if not fashionable?”
The receptionist says nothing, so I keep filling in lines and ticking boxes. There are three options for sex: Male, Female, Other. Other?
“Is this form really necessary?” I ask.
“That’s up to you, Ms. Fischer,” the receptionist says.
“
Up to me? Either it is, or it isn’t. So which is it?”
No response. Figures.
I clear my throat, and the sound echoes. It’s a large waiting room, and I’m the only person in it apart from the ‘up to you’ receptionist. I guess The ART likes to keep us terminal cases separated from patients who have a hope in hell of walking out alive. Or maybe we’re so fragile we have a separate waiting room in case we implode from all the bloody forms we have to fill out. The paperwork alone will definitely be the death of me.
I smack the clipboard against my thighs and stare at the receptionist. He’s tucked behind a large counter in one corner, head bent, energetically scribbling notes. Notes about me? Or about his boring day overseeing one patient. Is that his only job? I’ve never asked a receptionist what they actually do. Apart from drowning patients in forms and handing out thin, scratchy clothes.
I clear my throat again. What he should really be doing is giving me some attention. I mean, I’m the one who’s dying. Dying of boredom, at the very least. This is not part of the plan.
I finish the form, walk across the vacant room and
slide the clipboard onto the counter. The receptionist doesn’t look up. All I see is the top of his closely shaven head, the skin glowing faintly under the bright ceiling lights. He’s wearing a white uniform. Maybe he’s a nurse or a doctor as well as a glorified secretary. His name tag reads, “Ali.” And he’s using a pencil to write on a notepad.
I return to my seat and wait for a response. How long can it possibly take? I’m the only person here, so it’s not as if they’re overwhelmed. I squirm in the seat, and metal creaks beneath me. Nothing about this place is comfortable. Do they intentionally make the furniture this ugly and hard?
I stand up and pace back and forth in front of a row of identical pale green chairs. At least I can walk. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the case when my personal assistant called for an ambulance a few hours ago.
I glare at the reception counter and Ali’s head. “Did you hear me?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m dying, and I hate jelly beans.”
“Are you sure?” he asks. His voice is unflustered, an irksome calm in the face of my irritation.
“Sure about what? The jelly beans or dying?”
There’s a pause. The pencil continues to scribble against paper. The soft scratching noise grates on my nerves, and I don’t have many of those left.
“Both,” Ali says. “Are you sure about both?”
I’m not the eye-rolling type. It’s not a suitable habit at my age. I purse my lips instead. “Yes, I’m quite sure. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” I gesture around the empty waiting room.
“Is it?”
I give in to the temptation and allow myself a small eye-rolling session. It’s something my personal assistant does from time to time when she thinks I’m not looking. “When is the doctor coming? I have questions. And I don’t appreciate being left waiting. It’s not like you’re so busy around here.”
The pencil continues to scrape across paper. Pencil and paper. Who’d think in this day and age The ART continues to use such archaic means of keeping records? Probably the same type of medical institute that lets a stage-four cancer patient sit in a large, drafty waiting room in thin, cheap, itchy clothing. It’s not even clothing, really. More like a gunnysack with holes cut out for the arms and head.
“I’m sure I have an appointment. My PA called it in. It’s for Zain Fischer. I’m there. I’m sure of it. I’ve been here so many times, they should name the bloody cancer wing after me. Did you check?”
“You’re on the list.”
“Along with who else?” I wave an arm at the row of vacant chairs in front of me. “No one else is here, so why am I still waiting?”
“Someone will be with you shortly, Ms. Fischer.”
I give up on the receptionist. Clearly he’s never heard of the expression the customer is always right. And a paying customer shouldn’t be kept waiting. This guy wouldn’t know about customer relations if it hit him in the face.
I look around for a complaints box. Of course there isn’t one. That’ll be my first complaint once I see the doctor. There should be a comment box so I can list all of
the reasons this hospital needs to rethink its treatment of patients.
Something beeps. I glance again at the receptionist sitting behind the counter. “Are you going to answer that?”
“Answer what?”
The beep repeats itself, except it’s now more of a chirp. Chirp, chirp, chirp! The last chirp is louder, insistent.
“Your phone. Or whatever is making that infernal racket.”
No answer. It seems the receptionist’s job is to write down useless notes nobody will ever read and ask me pointless questions I don’t care to answer rather than answering my questions. That really should be his job. He should be answering me, not the other way around.
Chirp.
It’s not coming from the counter. I slowly spin on the spot. My toes wiggle against the cold tile underneath them. They couldn’t even give me slippers! What kind of a place is this that they let me wander around barefoot? I’m definitely going to have a word with my personal assistant. She should know better than to take me to a place like this. Even if it was an emergency.
And then I see the source of the chirping. A golden birdcage sits on a pedestal in one corner. It reminds me of a cartoon cage. Petite, rounded at the top, and with a single swing inside. A small bird is perched on the swing. It chirps loudly and bounces along the length of the swing, then pauses when I take a step closer. It tilts its head to one side as if studying me with equal interest.
“Hey, Ali?” I half-turn to face him and gesture toward the birdcage. “Doesn’t this place have any hygiene