In the Waiting Room

I was half an hour early, but I had printed out a challenging crossword puzzle, anticipating a boring wait at the doctor’s office. Long ago, I had given up the chance of sitting next to an amiable stranger who would like to engage in a little chat; these days everyone prefers using a cell phone which offers countless opportunities for work, remote socialization, and entertainment. I looked around the room. Yep, the other patients were all absorbed in virtual communication.

The woman on my left seemed to be discussing a dinner party, and her instructions to the person on the other end involved cooking a chicken, or maybe a few chickens. The conversation was loud enough for me to discern the subject, but too soft for me to hear the details, which was unfortunate because I like to cook chicken and I’m a big fan of dinner parties. I hated missing the details of the party.

The gentleman on my right was sitting next to a woman, probably his spouse. They were both focused on his phone. From their intermittent reactions and frequent laughter, I figured they were scrolling through photos. They appeared to be in their fifties or sixties, the very people who, in the old pre-cell days, would be delighted to relate fun stories about their grandchildren. I miss those old days because I’m a pushover for hearing amusing family anecdotes.

A nurse called Ms. Chicken-Dinner Party, and off she went, still talking on her phone. A minute or two later, a couple and a little girl ambled in. The man took the Chicken-Dinner Party woman’s empty seat next to me, but there was only one empty seat next to it. The man and woman settled into both chairs, and after the woman helped the toddler out of her jacket, the child climbed onto the man’s lap. No one took out a phone; and the woman and man seemed perfectly content. The man leaned toward me, aware that I, too, was not on my phone, thus possibly available for interaction. He smiled to me, focused on the child on his lap, and said in slightly accented English, “This beautiful girl is my granddaughter.” The woman leaned across her husband toward me, and said, “Dara’s three years old.” She reached into a big tote, took out a doll in frilly clothes and handed it to her granddaughter. Then she took out a bag of graham crackers and gave one to Dara. Having fortified her grandchild with the doll and a snack, the grandmother introduced herself, “I’m Laila.”

I folded my crossword puzzle into my purse. “Does Dara go to preschool?” I asked. “In the morning, then she plays at our house.” Laila’s accent was a bit stronger than her husband’s, but charming. “She likes cats, dolls, crackers and sometimes cheese.” I appreciated the “sometimes cheese” detail. This was getting interesting because, for me, there’s never too much given information. I seldom have a chance to talk to total strangers about their grandchildren, and when I do, it’s never boring.

The woman offered her husband and me graham crackers. He accepted, but I wanted to talk. “Do you have other grandchildren?” I asked. “Dara is one son’s youngest girl. He has four daughters,” the grandfather answered. “Our other son has one girl and one boy. His boy is in college.” Then Laila asked, “And you?” We talked about our children and grandchildren until the grandfather was called into the doctor’s office. Laila moved over to the seat next to me, and Dara sat in the other chair, where she played a pretend game in which her doll did tricks and danced. Laila reached into her tote again and pulled out a picture book. I thought it was now story time, but Dara paged through the book herself while Laila and I kept talking.

We were chatting about bringing our grandkids with us on errands, when my name was called. I passed Dara’s grandfather getting a printout at the nurses’ station. “I enjoyed talking to you and your wife,” I said. He answered, “My wife loves meeting new people; I do, too, but nobody talks. Everybody’s looking down at their phones.”

“I’m happy we sat next to each other!” I remarked. “Me, too!” he laughed. The nurses just smiled.