Four Minutes

The clinic on Green Street opens at eight. By ten past eight every chair was full, and I was sitting with my coat on my knees and my hands under it, because my hands were shaking.

The man in the next chair was doing a puzzle in the newspaper. He filled it in slowly, in pen.

“First time?” he asked.

“Is it that obvious?”

“You’re sitting very straight,” he said. “Nobody sits like that the second time. I’m Emeka.”

“Padma,” I said.

“Eleven years I’ve been coming here. Every March my daughter has a test, and I sit in this chair and I wait.”

“And is she okay?”

“She’s fine every time,” he said. “And every March I’m sure she won’t be. It doesn’t get less scary. You should bring something to do. Reading works. Puzzles work better.”

A nurse called my name at nine. The test took four minutes. The doctor looked carefully at the screen, said everything was normal, and asked me about my holiday.

Emeka was still in the same chair when I came out, and still on the same puzzle.

“Well?” he said.

“Normal.”

“Good.” He didn’t look up. “Now you know. The test takes four minutes. The waiting takes an hour.”

I bought a newspaper in the little shop by the door, and I put it in my bag for next year.