Wayne Mok
Peaches
On our first wedding anniversary, my husband burned himself while cooking for me. I had to rush him to the hospital. The nurse told me to stay in the waiting room while the doctors examined the burn.
An older man sat across from me, hunched over, hands clenched on his lap, eyes fixed on the white vinyl floor. His legs rocked up and down rapidly; his lips moved inaudibly, as if he was praying. As the minutes passed, his movements looked increasingly distressing.
I spoke up,“Sir?” No response. I asked again, “Sir, are you okay?”
Without even looking up, “No,” he replied.The abruptness felt like it froze time.
“Do you need a doctor?” I asked.
He shook his head and chuckled,“What good is a doctor?”
His comment made me feel uneasy, so I remained silent.
“My wife,” he managed to say after a long pause.
I wasn’t sure what to do at that point—he was obviously here for his wife, but if they didn’t think a doctor could help, why were they here? The clock on the wall hung crooked; each tick, full of effort, rattled through the room.
The nurse entered the waiting room and we both turned. She called out a name that I did not recognize; neither did the man. He glanced in my direction before averting his eyes.
I broke the silence,“What’s her name?”
His legs stopped moving,“Peaches.”
Surprised, I replied, “That’s my nickname.”
He looked up, revealing a handsome face worn down by a large number of wrinkles,“Who are you here for?”
“My husband,”I replied, “he burned himself cooking.”
“Men,” he laughed.
I laughed too.
He spent the next few minutes telling me about his wife. Her real name was Elizabeth. One day, early in their marriage, she choked on a peach pit and had to be taken to the hospital. From that day on, he called her Peaches. A year later, she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. That was twenty years ago.
“That must’ve been difficult.”
“It was.”
“She’s fortunate to have you,”I smiled.
The man seemed surprised by what I said, but after a long pause, he replied, “Fortunate?”
I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t. My mind drifted between thoughts of my husband and of the man. I was worried about my husband, yet at the same time, something about the man was unsettling,even a little frightening. The man closed his eyes, leaned forward, clasped his hands, and resumed his mumbling. I watched as his face grew paler with the tick of the clock, second by second, outrun by each beat of my pounding heart. For just a moment, the lights in the room flickered, the clock hand stopped—time seemed to stand still. The silence was encompassing, swallowing us up. I wasn’t quite sure why, but I shivered in my seat.
My husband came out a few minutes later. The burns were not too serious. I said a quick goodbye to the man and left.
“Who was that?” he asked.
I didn’t answer. “I’m glad you’re okay,” I said.
My husband smiled. He walked in front of me and pushed the door open with his left hand. His right arm was wrapped in gauze, barely exposing his fingers. I reached for them. He flinched in pain, then shot me a puzzled look, “What are you doing?” He tried to shake me off, but I resisted—somehow, I knew that I needed to hold on. I clutched his hand tighter and drew him close.
Wayne Mok is originally from Hong Kong and now lives in Sydney, Australia.
