The Illustrated Encyclopedia of an Imaginary Universe

‘Are you awake?’ She asked and I was. ‘I can’t find out any information on this. It should be 130 or 140 but it’s only at 90. Should I call the clinic?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Call the clinic.’

□ □ □ □ □

The early morning drained blue sky was overswept by clouds. It denied us the measure-for-measure match of our worry and the morning’s atmospheric opposite. I suppose this was good. We needed mediation as the unknown into which we were driving was not an unknown that needed any welcome nor deserved it. It did, however, seem as uncertain as we were: two virgin situations in sudden conflict. I hoped for arrest. I couldn’t tell what she was hoping for but I assumed it was the same. It was the safest bet, surely. Any safe bet at so early an hour was the one upon which our chips were stacked.

Parked and then up three floors, two zombies drifting anxiously through hallways curiously populated by the detritous of other peoples’ miseries. A family of too many children, all the shade of cheap milk chocolate, had crowded around the elevators: too loud, too decorated with jackets too puffy for so gentle an Autumn morning.

‘She’s squishing me! She’s squishing me!’

A quiet woman in a wheelchair behind us greeted by an overly-thin woman who looked better set in a used bookstore the building of which looked as creased as the spines contained throughout the shelves within.

‘You’re up early,’ she said warmly.

The doors slid shut and I felt trapped.

□ □ □ □ □

The parade begins. Calm waters enacted into disarray by unability and then butchered wildly by the wrong words.

All she had to hear was the was the word ‘non-viable’ and away crumbled the eddies of her strength, a gentle and solemn collapse of so much exquisite porcelain dropped into the bleached red of despair. He backpedaled but it was too late. We were adrift. I wanted to hurt him, I wanted to push him down, to knock him off of his feet, to stand above him and menace him with my ungraceful and unathletic self.

They disappeared quickly, one by one, until we were alone and we allowed our disintegration to complete itself with fierce alacrity now that one was looking.

□ □ □ □ □

The parade continues. Calm waters soothed into uneasy solace by ability. A quarter hour of darkness and images, movements and then the object of our concern: three and then none, three and the none, looping fitfully as her internal sleep in retreat encouraged her into movement. She became a midnight comet sneaking behind clouds.

A familiar face, a familiar voice joined us, stood nearby and became our buttress, propping us up at least for now.

The lights came up and the machine and its operator retreated. She wished us luck. He spoke to us of measurements, of FAX machines. Twenty minutes. Is it going to be all right? He certainly seems to think so.

We breathe for the first time in three hours.

□ □ □ □ □

The parade dissipates. Blood work. I can’t see what’s happening: the nurse is between me and the site of her excavation. It’s probably just as well. I watch her deposit vial after vial on the tray. Six bottles of the ‘red, red vino on tap’. That’s a lot of blood. It will hopefully answer questions.

They bring us a delayed breakfast: dry, barely warm, and bland. We eat it gratefully. Moods lift, spirits lighten. I amuse her with raunchy interpretations of diagrams. One after another drifts in, tells us something. Mr. Non-Viable returns and apologizes.

We’re cleared to go home.

□ □ □ □ □

A lot of blood. A lot of unanswered questions.

‘It’s most likely nothing to worry about,’ he reminds us. He tells us that he’ll pray.

Everyone comes by and offers their individual sincerities. We are open books and easily interpreted. I want to hug some of them for it. I had no idea how much we’d need it. I never figured we’d have this anything like this happen. But what really is happening? Five hours later and, except for the suggestion of a ridiculous word that is most likely to blame, we still don’t know. Not yet, at least.

‘It’s most likely nothing to worry about,’ he had said and I believe him. I think she does, too.

Tuesday has never seemed so far away as it does to us now.