The steps to a privately owned pharmacy are unlevelled. A stray cat beside the cracked glass door growls at me and scurries under a blue Kia parked at the curb. I swing the door open, and with the squeaks of hinges, I walk in.
A thin layer of dust blankets the edges of three narrow shelves hung on the right wall. Baby care products pile the shelves: diapers, bottles, pacifiers, lotions, and no-tear shampoos. The whole shop is adorned with smiling young faces: Pampers posters, Colgate stands, and Johnson’s stickers all show happy boys and girls with smiles stretched from ear to ear.
The left side of the store has a large U-shaped table with piles of shampoos, conditioners, toothpastes, sanitary napkins, razors, and gels. The sight overwhelms me. I’m afraid to touch anything. The last thing I want is to disturb the organized chaos that gathers in front of me.
I stare straight ahead at the pharmacist for help. Her head is tilted to the right as she holds a corded phone between her head and shoulder. Her weathered face and receding eyes scream for rest. Her skin knows no makeup and is a stranger to the facial creams that disperse in front of it. Her freckles blend with old age spots, and wrinkles crease as she talks on the phone. She wears a white medical gown on top of a black sixties dress.
I look down at my nails and scrape my cracked purple polish. I slip my hands into my winter jacket and scan the place one last time in the hope of finding a bottle that says ‘Nail Polish Remover’ on it.
Nothing.
“I’m telling you, if I receive any more of this fake stuff, I’m going to be very upset!” the pharmacist says to whoever’s on the other end. “Well, yes, I’ve sent the last shipment back so you better be careful next time.”
She slams the phone down and turns to me. “Sorry about that. Had to knock some sense into my supplier,” she says shaking her head. “Things are crazy these days. But anyways, how can I help you?”
The door opens. We both turn to face a young woman. Her strawberry blonde hair is haphazardly tied back in a pony tail. Strands of fly-aways sway at the sides of her face as she strides forward. She looks around at the heaps of products.
I’m about to tell her to spare herself the trouble and just ask for whatever she’s looking for when she looks at the pharmacist, rubs her palms, and says, “Um...hi!”
“Hi,” the pharmacist says. I take a step back.
“Uh...do you have, like, abortion kit?”
I glance at the baby on the Pampers poster. Its fat cheeks plump in a smile, and a yellow transparent pacifier covers its thin delicate lips.
“No, I don’t sell abortion kits.”
“No? But do you know where I can find one?”
“Other pharmacies have them.”
“So, if I go to another pharmacy here, I can find it?”
“Yes.”
“OK! Thank you.” The woman dashes out.
The pharmacist turns to look at me. She shrugs.
“That’s an ethical decision I’ve made for myself,” she says. “Ever since I started working 40 years ago, I made it a point not to sell contraceptives and these other things.”
“Oh...”
“But, sorry about that. Anyways, what are you looking for?”
“Nail polish remover.” I point at my cracked nail polish and manage to break a smile.
“Oh...these should be here somewhere,” she says. She stretches her body over the counter, and shuffles through the pile.
A middle-aged man and his son walk in. The son looks no older than five. The man, after what looks like a long day of work at a construction site, is covered with dirt. His thin grey sweater covers his boney figure and his rolled up pants reveal thin ankles. His long face is unshaven and salt-and-pepper hair messy.
The pharmacist looks up and sees them.
“They can go ahead,” I tell her and stand behind them.
The man hands her a prescription. She goes to the back, grabs a plastic bottle, throws it in a bag, and returns. The bag goes from her hand, to the man’s, and finally to the boy’s. What happens next, I see in slow motion:
The boy drops the bag.
The boy picks up the bag.
The man slaps the boy.
The boy stands still.
In silence. Not a cry escapes his lips. Not a tear rolls down his cheek.
The pharmacist looks down. I stand enraged. My hand forms a fist, but stays at my side. My jaw tenses, but I can’t say a word.
Before I can do anything, the man shoves his son forward, and they leave the pharmacy.
“I don’t know why I’m still working,” the pharmacist says with her head still down. “Can’t stand it anymore. I’m just counting the days until my retirement.”
I want to ask her about what just happened. About what we were supposed to do, but didn’t.
She hands me a glass bottle with blue liquid, and says, “Here you go.”
I hesitate, take the bottle, pay, and leave. Flickers of elevated lights in the distance pierce the January night sky. I try to take a deep breath, and smell the scent coming from the jasmine trees lining the street.
A honk from a zooming red Toyota disturbs the silence.
*Events and their order are true. Exact location is undisclosed for universality of topic.
Nadia Qasmieh
Nadia Qasmieh
4 comments: