Dr Frown and his nurse exchanged a look.
‘I’m serious,’ I said. ‘I’m a biology student.’
The nurse smiled at me. Dr Frown was already leading my father into a small room. The door shushed shut, and I turned around, temporarily unsure of my bearings. As I retreated back into the waiting room, the receptionist caught my eye. She tilted her head and clucked her tongue. She was short and round, with square fingers. There were packages of unopened bags of pretzels, cakes, chocolatecovered raisins sitting by her phone. She had one of those soft, lovely faces; people probably noticed her all the time and thought, You could be so beautiful, if you weren’t so heavy. I could feel her trying to meet my eye, but I looked away.
I faced a window that looked out onto York. Down seven flights was a Tasti D-Lite, a liquor store, a small hovel that made duplicates of keys but barely had room for anything else. Next to the shops was a park, which consisted of a few benches and a basketball court. Six or seven guys were playing a very loud game of basketball. Even from this high up, I could hear their hip-hop music blaring out of the boom box they’d set up on one of the benches.
I heard a small clicking noise coming from the back of the office and looked up. What were they doing now? Were the electrodes hooked up to his head? Had they given him the anesthetic? How did electrocution erase depression, anyway? Was it like spraying on disinfectant and wiping away the grime?
The basketball players liked to scream at one another, saying things like, throw it here, you fuckin’ *, nice one. There was one guy with semi-greasy blonde hair and a moustache who dominated the ball, springing up to the hoop and sliding it in. I watched as he pranced around with his chest puffed out, guessing he was probably one of those self-assured assholes who harassed women out his car window simply because he could.
‘Those basketball players,’ the receptionist said, making me jump. ‘I have to apologize. It’s a new thing, them playing here. We’ve had a lot of complaints.’
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘They’re not bothering me.’
‘No really, they’re animals.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Why aren’t they working? Middle of the day.’
‘It’s fucking out of bounds,’ said a voice from the basketball court.
The receptionist pursed her lips. I gripped the seat, her tension suddenly infectious. They were annoying. All of a sudden, I wanted to shove something through the window to make them shut up. A brick, perhaps, something heavy. I wanted to hurl it at the loudest player down there-the shirtless guy with the scraggly moustache-and scream, Have some respect. Do you know what’s happening up here?
I pictured the brick hitting his head and cracking it open. I saw him falling awkwardly, a pool of blood running out from his head, his greasy face contorted, the other men flocked around him. My vision narrowed. My thighs trembled and knocked against the arms of the chair. The zigzag designs on the carpet blurred.
When I opened my eyes a few seconds later, the waiting room was still and bright. The receptionist marked something in her book and absentmindedly placed a pretzel on her tongue like it was a pill. The basketball game continued. When the ball hit the hoop’s rim, it made a loud, clattering sound like a piece of the earth splitting open.
And then the nurse was touching my arm. ‘Miss Davis?’
I shot up.
‘Do you want to see your father? He’s done.’
Her expression was bland, almost obtuse. He was done? How long had it been? ‘Do I?’
‘He would like you to, I think.’
She led me through the door to a long, fluorescent-lit hall. Near the window were two people in wheelchairs. I could see my father’s hair poking up over the wheelchair’s back, his hands curled over the arms.
‘Why is he in a wheelchair?’ I whispered. ‘Can’t he walk?’
‘No, he’s fine. It’s just for recovery, so he feels more comfortable.’
They’d made him change into a faded, worn hospital gown. I had a foolish thought, although I didn’t realize until later how foolish it really was: my father’s hair wasn’t standing on end. And his ears weren’t bleeding. I wasn’t sure what I had expected, but maybe that. When I got a few steps away from him, I coughed, thinking he’d turn, but he continued to look out the frosted-over window, blinking and blinking, his teeth gnawing at the middle portion of his bottom lip. I peeked at the person next to him, a woman in her thirties. Her head lolled to one side, her eyes remained closed.
‘Dad?’ I said softly.
He still didn’t turn. I walked around to face him. His face contained no expression whatsoever. His eyes followed me, then landed on me. I felt him taking me in. He was looking at me like he was watching television; anticipatory, with no idea what would happen next, but not really so concerned either way.
I had no idea what to do. Sit down, continue to stand? Tell him who I was? Wait?