Director's Cut by Alton Gansky Page B

would get an argument from the patients.
    I parked and walked into the lobby. My head was down, and I realized that leaving the world of the well for the cosmos of the afflicted had unsettled me. It wasn’t that sick people made me uncomfortable; it was that I spent time here this past winter, and it held a negative association. I had anchored my past uncomfortable experience with PHH.
    The lobby was expansive. To one side was a group of worn and faded chairs and sofas. The room could seat fifty or sixty people, but only a handful of people populated the area, sitting in clumps like mushrooms on a spring lawn, each group as far from the others as the furnishings allowed.
    I set a course for the information desk manned by two silver-haired ladies dressed in pink. They had kind eyes afloat on dour expressions, as if waiting for this morning’s prune juice to do its work. One was short and thin as if crafted from drinking straws. The other was broad from shoulder to hips and her cheeks bore several layers of rouge. Hospital volunteers. Women who chose public service to pass hours otherwise spent alone in front of a television. As I stepped to the oak desk, they looked up at me but said nothing.
    I smiled. “My name is Madison Glenn. I’m here to see Doug Turner.”
    â€œIs he a patient?” the thin one said.
    I blinked. “Yes, he’s a patient.”
    The thin woman asked, “What is his name?”
    I smiled again. “Doug Turner. Maybe Douglas Turner. He was admitted last night.”
    â€œIs that Turner with a T?” Before both women were clipboards with several sheets of paper. I could see patient names and room numbers.
    â€œYes, ma’am, that’s Turner with . . . a T.”
    â€œHere it is,” the broad woman announced with a forced smile. The thin pink lady frowned as if she had just been trumped in bridge. “He’s in ICU. You’ll need to check in with the nurses before going in. There’s an intercom in the ICU waiting room. Just push the button and a nurse will talk to you.”
    â€œWhat did you say your name is?” The thin pink lady picked up a black felt-tip pen and a sticky-backed name tag.
    â€œMadison Glenn.”
    â€œThat’s a lovely name, dear,” the broad woman said.
    â€œOur mayor’s name is Madison Glenn,” the thin one announced. “Did you know that? You have the same name as the mayor.”
    â€œImagine that,” I replied.
    â€œShe’s not going to be our mayor for much longer,” the wider lady said. “She’s running off to congress.”
    She wrote down my first name, then stopped. “Not if I have anything to say about it,” her partner said. “I’m going to vote for that nice-looking Garret Kinsley. He has kind eyes.”
    â€œMary Jane! You’re a Republican. Kinsley is a Democrat. He’s going to steal all your Social Security.”
    â€œBut he has the kindest eyes,” Mary Jane countered. “I trust a man with kind eyes.”
    â€œExcuse me,” I said. “My name tag.”
    The larger woman looked at me, then cut her eyes to her friend. “Some women lose all common sense when they get old.”
    There was no reply to that. “My name tag,” I said again.
    The thin woman frowned at me like I was a nettlesome child interrupting an adult conversation. “What did you say your last name is?”
    â€œGlenn.” I started to tell her that I spelled it with two n ’s, but was afraid of where that would lead.
    â€œThat’s right, just like the mayor.”
    I didn’t argue.
    With my name badge glued just below my shoulder, I marched down the corridor and took the elevator to the fourth floor. My time was tight when I arrived; it had been made worse by the kind pink ladies.
    The ICU unit was behind closed doors. Just as the volunteer had said, there was a waiting room with an intercom and a white button. A