The Empty Chairs
I woke up from heart surgery alone.
The first thing I saw was the ceiling. White tiles with little holes in them. The second thing I saw was the window, gray Seattle sky pressing against the glass. The third thing I saw were the three chairs lined up against the wall beside my bed.
All three were empty.
I turned my head slowly. My neck felt like it was made of wet sand. There was a tube in my arm and a clip on my finger and wires taped to my chest under the hospital gown. A heart monitor ticked beside me, steady and green.
“Hello?” I said. It came out as a croak. My throat felt like someone had sanded it.
A nurse came in a minute later. She was young, maybe twenty-five, with a dark ponytail and pink scrubs and a name tag that said KAYLA, RN. She checked the monitor and smiled at me the way nurses smile at old women.
