Free Live a Little by Kim Green Page A

says.
    “Actually, I was a vegetarian for years,” I say, proud of my veggie cred. “All through college, until I got married. It’s hard when you have to cook for a husband and kids, though. Who has time to make two versions of every meal?” I gloss over the fact that except for Sundays, clan Rose is lucky to get one meal.
    Dr. Minh raises his eyebrows at me. They are finely arched and sensitive. I wonder if he has them waxed. I really want to know; I don’t think I can respect him anymore if he does. It’s just so, you know, womanly.
    “I don’t mean giving up meat,” he says, cringing, as if the very word could cause a slice of pastrami to cross his tongue. “Historically, breathivores are almost immune to the heart disease, cancers, diabetes, and other systemic illnesses that plague ingesters.”
    “Breathivores?”
    “Yes,” he says patiently. “We drink green tea, a little water-based vegetable, a little seaweed. It’s a beautiful, clean way to live. Of course, it takes some getting used to. But it sure beats breast cancer.”
    “What?” Did he say what I think he said?
    “Mrs. Rose, you’re going to have to make some lifestyle changes in order to detoxify your body. I don’t want to shock you, but the cancer’s the least of your problems. It’s your body’s way of telling you—shouting at you, actually—to wake up and start taking care of it. You should listen.”
    “What are you saying, that I gave myself breast cancer?” A vision of the other Raquel Rose pops into my head. Is she, in true desperation, also consulting a series of quacks, trying to “cover her bases” with visits to bossy herbalists and deranged chiropractors? Are they insulting her—our—dignity with such misguided accusations?
    “We’re all responsible for the health of our own bodies,” Dr. Minh says.
    “So if someone gets beheaded in a car accident, that’s their fault?” I can feel heat browning my cheeks.
    “Unfortunate, but there are cycles to these things. We’d all benefit from a little consciousness-raising, a little self-reflection.”
    “That should be challenging without a head.”
    I stand up. I think Dr. Minh can tell I’ve had enough without reading my pulses, because he stands up, too. I flex my calves to my full height, which is quite a bit more than his.
    “Mrs. Rose, if you change your mind, please feel free to contact me. Given a little time, you might see things differently. I mean, your colon’s so blocked right now—”
    My latent rage boils up and over. “Shove it up your ass, you vegan freak!” I mutter, the magenta glove of bougainvillea along the path muffling my words as I run.
    “You should have seen his face. I thought he was going to plotz.”
    “What could he plotz, a tea bag?” Sue giggles, her hand coming up in a habitual gesture to hide her teeth.
    “What a hypocrite. The prick was lecturing me on healthy living while he practically diddled his assistant.” I gave my friend an edited version of why I was at the acupressurist/ sadist’s in the first place. I was not worried about Sue seeing me on Laurie’s show before I could talk to her personally; she turns on her ancient black-and-white television for one purpose only—cooking shows—and that’s only when she’s depressed.
    Sue pads over to the pantry. “Chocolate-chip peanut butter or backpacker?” she calls, naming my two favorites of her restaurant’s arsenal of delicious baked goodies.
    “What do you think?”
    Sue hands me one of each, and I stretch out to full length on one of her Adirondack chairs. Susan Banicek’s funky little Victorian on San Francisco’s Potrero Hill is my absolute favorite home in the world. She’s transformed it from a warren of dim railcar rooms into a loftlike habitat that resembles a cat’s dream house, complete with exposed beams, platform nooks, and vast windows.
    “Where’s Fina?” I ask.
    “With Arlo.”
    “Ooh, I want to see her.”
    “I know. I called when