Waiting in Rooms

It's one of those nights where the lights are still on but we're lying in bed, trying to blame the other for not turning them off. We go without words for a long time.  The noises in the house press down on me.  The furnace, the dryer, the occasional mouse.  I can hear the wind outside wresting the leaves from the trees, trying to get across the threshold to chill me.

He has his arm over his face and he's been lying still for so long that I want to shake him.  

Out of the quiet, he says, "You know why they put us in that other waiting room, right?"  

Unsure of his intent, I take my time. I picture the waiting room.  It's large, at least the size of the other one, although without coffee and a sink.  Like the other room, it has a television and a monitor so you can see your child's number change colors, signaling the transitions from Pre-op to In-Op to Recovery.  But unlike the other waiting room, which is filled with parents sitting shoulder to shoulder watching daytime TV, this room is empty.  It's quiet, and the lights are dim, and no one has turned the on TV. 

"Why?"  I say, instead of answering yes or no.  

He's quiet a bit more.  He gets up.  He shuts off the lights.  He bumps into the furniture getting back into bed and when he gets settled his back is to me.  

"Honey?" I say.  

 Barely, he speaks.

"Just in case."