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A Novel
by Garth Greenwell
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There were many more people waiting at the ER, where nearly every seat was taken, all the seats that hadn't been blocked off by tape, signs with the words Social Distancing warning people away. At the entrance, in a cubicle behind plexiglass between two sets of sliding doors, a woman took my name and date of birth, then instructed me to stand on an X marked on the floor, so that an instrument mounted above could scan my temperature as she asked if I had any symptoms of Covid, in which case I would have to go to a different part of the hospital. It was the end of August, students had just come back to town, to everyone's dismay; the summer had been calm, without a huge number of cases, but now the bars and fraternity houses were packed, as though nothing were wrong, and of course there was a surge, a second wave people said, though really I thought the worst was still to come, in winter when all the parties would move inside. Already the rooms the university had designated for quarantine were full, the hospital had sent up flares about scarce resources and few beds, already it was worse than it had been in the spring, when the students were sent home and the city became its summer self, relaxed and nearly empty, a calm that felt like siege but also we sensed we were spared. The state was being aggressive about ending lockdown and insisted on in-person classes, all thirty thousand students were called back to town. It's like watching a car drive straight off a cliff, a friend said, but slowly, deliberately, a slow-motion suicide. Everywhere in the ER there were signs reminding us to wear masks but not everyone did, or they pulled them off to talk on the phone, to eat or drink, or they didn't cover their nose. I wished I had more protection than the surgical mask I was wearing, I would have liked a face shield of my own, I would have liked not to be there at all. The room was large and open, but there was a section somewhat sheltered by a kind of partition, wooden slats framing a medium-sized aquarium, of the sort I associated with cheap restaurants with pretensions to class; it was the part of the room farthest from the door where nurses appeared to call people's names, maybe that's why I found an open seat there. The aquarium was meant to be soothing, I guess, like everything else in the room. The TVs were cycling nature images, a purling stream, grain swaying in sunlight; later this switched to a montage of high school choirs from around the state, singing hymns and spirituals and patriotic songs, which didn't calm me at all actually, which did the opposite, as did the fish: one huge bottom-feeder, too large for the tank, which lumbered from one corner to another, gumming the pebbles at the bottom, and a dozen or so smaller fish, bright and hyperactive, zipping miserably back and forth.
A screen mounted at the front of the room said the wait was two hours, so I was surprised to be called back so quickly, after fifteen minutes or so; maybe I wouldn't be there all day, I thought. I moved slowly, the pain wasn't debilitating but it was bad enough. I moved too slowly for the woman who called my name, who had let the door swing shut and retreated to the interior before I could reach her, then opened it again after I had waited a minute or two, motioning me impatiently through. I only had time to glimpse the main area, the department or ward: there was a central bank of what looked like cubicles, plexiglass partitions behind which doctors and nurses and technicians sat at computers or leaned on desks, all in masks but many with their face shields lifted, and then corridors of examination rooms stretching back, some with doors and some with drawn curtains. There were patients in the corridors as well, people lying on stretchers pushed against walls, all of them alone—it seemed terrible to me that they were alone, as I was alone; even if we didn't have the virus it had still cut us off, whatever we were facing we would face it alone. Seeing them made me frightened, for the first time; my sense that everything would be all right faltered. But I was being dramatic, I chided myself, I wasn't really cut off, my phone was in my pocket, I had already texted L with updates, he had texted back his love. Even if it was appendicitis that wasn't a disaster, it would mean surgery but a routine surgery, it was something that could be fixed. The woman led me to a scale, then asked me my name and date of birth before fastening a plastic bracelet around my wrist, which had a barcode that would be scanned dozens of times each day, with every medication and procedure, every vial they took of my blood. We were in a little alcove with a curtain she left undrawn, I sat in a chair while she took my blood pressure and temperature, she stood at a computer mounted to a wall taking notes while I spoke. Mm-hmm, she hummed at regular intervals, which seemed less encouragement than skepticism. I disliked her, I realized, I felt an antipathy she hadn't earned. Probably she was exhausted; I can't imagine it, day after day seeing people in pain, at their worst moments, over years; how could you protect yourself from that, I wondered, there was some human regard I wanted from her that I had no right to demand. You can head back out now, she said, turning from the computer. We're a little full at the moment, as you can see, you're going to be waiting for a while. Oh, I said, they sent me here for a CT scan, can you schedule that, but she made a dismissive sound. She couldn't schedule anything, a doctor would have to see me first, and for a doctor to see me they would need to put me in a room, and who knew when they would have a room available, she said as she ushered me back through the door, you can see how many people are waiting already.
Excerpted from Small Rain by Garth Greenwell. Copyright © 2024 by Garth Greenwell. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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