Free Large Animals in Everyday Life by Wendy Brenner

specialist to get her out of the way. The specialist is a kind-faced, rather sloppy man named Dr. Boonstra. His shirts are always stained in odd places, his nose shiny as a teenager’s, but he comes recommended by the child’s elementary school. He has met several times already with the child and the child’s parents, though it remains to be seen whether he will have any success in exterminating the child’s fears. And why
can’t
it be as simple as calling the exterminator? the child’s mother wonders.
    This time Dr. Boonstra talks with the child alone. He ushers her into his warm, messy office and shows her a series of pictures, realistic black line drawings on white cardboard cards. Each drawing represents a familiar object, Dr. Boonstra explains, somethingthe child might expect to see around the house every day, such as a toaster or a bicycle or a turtleneck sweater. But each object is missing one of its parts, a crucial part, and it will be the child’s task to figure out what. The bicycle, for instance, is missing its handlebars. Does the child understand? What is missing is more important than what is there. Dr. Boonstra leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees so that his hands will be steady holding the cards before the child’s eyes.
    The child proceeds eagerly through the stack, feeling satisfaction each time she correctly identifies what is absent. She is successful with the lamp, bucket, rolling pin, and TV set, but she gets stuck on the scissors. She cannot find anything missing from the scissors. The second blade? No, the scissors are closed. The screw? No, the screw is right there. Another screw? No, there is only one screw. “Nothing’s missing!” the child guesses—it’s a trick! But no, something is definitely missing, Dr. Boonstra says.
    She looks more closely at the picture, Dr. Boonstra tilting it helpfully toward the light. “The paper?” she asks. No, there is no paper, only the scissors. “The screw?” she asks again, weakly. Dr. Boonstra’s face is friendly but serious. She has all the time in the world. She puts her face right up next to the card and stares as hard as she can, gritting her teeth and holding her breath, as though if she can just focus hard enough she will be able to see what is invisible. “
Nothing’s
missing!” she blurts out, finally. She is getting angry.
What is missing is more important than what is there
, Dr. Boonstra reminds her. She goes on making the same guesses over and over, until finally she is bored. She doesn’t care anymore, she is positive nothing is missing. Dr. Boonstra never does tell her the correct answer.
    â€œWhat did you do today?” the child’s mother asks him, writing out his check at the end of the hour.
    Dr. Boonstra is famously vague. “Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” he says. The child’s mother is not thrilled about these responses but she understands the notion of professionalism, at least.Dr. Boonstra nods as politely as he can at the mother and notes that the child appears slightly fiercer than she was last week. And last week slightly more so than the week before.
Everything in its time
, he thinks. “Take her home and love her!” he calls after them in the parking lot, waving at the child, who waves back.
    â€œYou know what my mother would call a man like that?” the child’s mother says, reaching over the front seat to make sure the child’s belt is fastened safely. “Tooty-fruity.” The child giggles, imagining the blasé grandmother saying this. The child’s mother laughs with her, and they drive along like that, giggling together from their places in the front and back seats.
    That night, in the middle of the night, the passionate grandmother awakens. It is not yet Christmas, but almost. She still hasn’t found a gift for the child, but that isn’t what woke her, not this