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Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
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telephone voice has acquired a more urgent tone—almost, a chiding tone Still alive. Your husband is still alive . Aloud I say, “He is still alive. My husband is still alive”—in a voice of wonder, terror, defiance—“Ray is still alive”—such pathos in still , so provisional and desperate—this past week I’ve fallen into the habit of talking to myself, instructing myself—encouraging myself as one might encourage a stumbling child You can do it. You will be all right , you can do it. You will be all right! When I’d thrown on clothes in the bedroom, to prepare for this frantic journey, this admonishing voice had lifted in a semblance of bemused calm— Be careful what you wear , you may be wearing it for a long time.
In the ghost-white Honda I am veering over the yellow line into the other lane, for some reason I am having difficulty gripping the steering wheel—my hands are bare, the wheel is cold yet the palms of my hands are slick with sweat. I am having difficulty seeing, too—the road ahead, in the Honda’s headlights, looks smudged. I think that there is something wrong with my vision—it’s as if I am peering through a tunnel—in the periphery of my vision there are shadowy figures—beyond the snow-edged road—I’m afraid of being struck by a deer—in this area it isn’t uncommon for deer to wander out into the road and even at times to leap into the path of a vehicle as if hypnotized by headlights. Now my voice lifts frightened, thin—“Is Ray going to die? Is Ray going to—” I am not able to acknowledge the possibility as I am not able to acknowledge the terror I feel, and the helplessness—such frustration as I enter Princeton Borough and the speed limit drops to twenty-five miles an hour—here, I must wait for a very long time—how long, how long!—a nightmare of lost time!—waiting for the red light to change at the intersection of Hodge Road and Route 206—which is called State Road in Princeton—there is no traffic on State Road as there is no traffic on Hodge Road—no traffic anywhere in sight—yet I am obliged to wait at the light, I am too fearful of driving through a red light, too conditioned to “obey” the law and at such a time especially—at last the light changes—I drive to Witherspoon Street, turn left and drive several blocks to the hospital—past darkened houses—I am able to park in front of the hospital, at the curb—only one other vehicle is parked here, at this time of night—desperate I run to the front door of the hospital which of course is locked—the interior of the hospital, semi-darkened—yet more desperate I run to the ER entrance which is around the corner—my breath is steaming, panicked—I am pleading with a security guard to let me into the hospital—I identify myself as the wife of a man “in critical condition” in the Telemetry unit—several times I give my husband’s name— Raymond Smith!—Raymond Smith! —thinking how astonished Ray would be, how embarrassed, in the hospital too much is made of things he’d said the other day—the security guard listens to me politely—he is middle-aged, dark-skinned, sympathetic—but can’t let me inside before making a call—this takes some time—precious seconds, minutes—like butterflies with frayed wings thoughts fly at me in random and frantic succession He is still alive. It’s all right. He is waiting for me , I will see him , he is still alive. How frustrating this is, how strange, whoever called to summon me to the hospital hasn’t made any arrangement for me to be allowed inside—maybe there is some mistake?—the wife of Raymond Smith isn’t supposed to be summoned to the hospital?—someone else is expected?—but then the security guard informs me that yes, Mrs. Smith is expected on the fifth floor, I can enter through a door he opens—blindly I run through this door and find myself in the hospital lobby—at first not recognizing the familiar surroundings,
In the ghost-white Honda I am veering over the yellow line into the other lane, for some reason I am having difficulty gripping the steering wheel—my hands are bare, the wheel is cold yet the palms of my hands are slick with sweat. I am having difficulty seeing, too—the road ahead, in the Honda’s headlights, looks smudged. I think that there is something wrong with my vision—it’s as if I am peering through a tunnel—in the periphery of my vision there are shadowy figures—beyond the snow-edged road—I’m afraid of being struck by a deer—in this area it isn’t uncommon for deer to wander out into the road and even at times to leap into the path of a vehicle as if hypnotized by headlights. Now my voice lifts frightened, thin—“Is Ray going to die? Is Ray going to—” I am not able to acknowledge the possibility as I am not able to acknowledge the terror I feel, and the helplessness—such frustration as I enter Princeton Borough and the speed limit drops to twenty-five miles an hour—here, I must wait for a very long time—how long, how long!—a nightmare of lost time!—waiting for the red light to change at the intersection of Hodge Road and Route 206—which is called State Road in Princeton—there is no traffic on State Road as there is no traffic on Hodge Road—no traffic anywhere in sight—yet I am obliged to wait at the light, I am too fearful of driving through a red light, too conditioned to “obey” the law and at such a time especially—at last the light changes—I drive to Witherspoon Street, turn left and drive several blocks to the hospital—past darkened houses—I am able to park in front of the hospital, at the curb—only one other vehicle is parked here, at this time of night—desperate I run to the front door of the hospital which of course is locked—the interior of the hospital, semi-darkened—yet more desperate I run to the ER entrance which is around the corner—my breath is steaming, panicked—I am pleading with a security guard to let me into the hospital—I identify myself as the wife of a man “in critical condition” in the Telemetry unit—several times I give my husband’s name— Raymond Smith!—Raymond Smith! —thinking how astonished Ray would be, how embarrassed, in the hospital too much is made of things he’d said the other day—the security guard listens to me politely—he is middle-aged, dark-skinned, sympathetic—but can’t let me inside before making a call—this takes some time—precious seconds, minutes—like butterflies with frayed wings thoughts fly at me in random and frantic succession He is still alive. It’s all right. He is waiting for me , I will see him , he is still alive. How frustrating this is, how strange, whoever called to summon me to the hospital hasn’t made any arrangement for me to be allowed inside—maybe there is some mistake?—the wife of Raymond Smith isn’t supposed to be summoned to the hospital?—someone else is expected?—but then the security guard informs me that yes, Mrs. Smith is expected on the fifth floor, I can enter through a door he opens—blindly I run through this door and find myself in the hospital lobby—at first not recognizing the familiar surroundings,
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