Free Hot Springs by Geoffrey Becker Page A

differently. Invented a miscarriage, too? Contrived to actually get pregnant and hope he couldn’t count up the months correctly? But that hadn’t ended up mattering, because in the end there was nothing, not even the lie itself—her mind was wiped clean of it, too.

FOUR
    S he was supposed to fill out a bunch of forms. Emily lay on the floor playing with Legos, and a dog-faced woman with a little boy on her lap sat across from them, staring right at her. The boy’s nose ran freely. Bernice thought of all the germs that must be floating around the room and shuddered. What is the main reason for your visit today? Carefully, she inked in the word “Fever.” She read each of the following questions carefully before ticking off the “No” box, the accumulating weight of what she did not know about her own daughter growing like a tumor in her head. AIDS, no. German measles, no. Hepatitis, no. Allergies to medications, no. Major surgeries, no. The child was five—how much could have happened to her so far? Lots, of course. Lots.
    Finally, when she felt she’d done her best, she turned in the clipboard. After another ten minutes or so, they were descended upon by
an acned nurse in Minnie Mouse scrubs who singsonged “What a lovely little girly!” and led them to a room where she weighed Emily and took her temperwemperture . The child was not amused by the baby talk, and Bernice loved her for that. They looked at each other and shared something. The world is full of these people, she tried to say with her eyes. But not everyone. You have to remain hopeful. Then they were back out in the waiting area, with its vague scent of rubbing alcohol and throw-up, and flowery wallpapered walls. FastCare, the sign outside read—some corporate approach to medicine. Bernice hadn’t been for a checkup herself since she was pregnant. She’d hated that doctor, Peregrine Stine, whom she’d suspected of being another born-again creep. She couldn’t get over the idea that she’d accidentally walked into her own version of Rosemary’s Baby . Emily went back to the Legos, and Bernice picked up an old copy of Time and looked at the ads.
    Another nurse brought them to an examination room, where they had to wait again, which they both did quietly. The doctor knocked and entered. He was young, with a reddish nose and glasses, and looked like a third-rate comedian, but he didn’t try to be funny. He listened to Emily’s chest, poked a tongue depressor into her mouth, shined his light into her eyes, then peered into her ears.
    “Well,” he said.
    “It’s been like four days.”
    “How’s her appetite?”
    “What appetite?”
    “I see. Aren’t you hungry, Emily?”
    She didn’t answer.
    “Emily?”
    “Try calling her Pearl,” said Bernice. “I know, it’s weird.”
    “Aren’t you hungry, um, Pearl?” he asked.
    She shrugged. “Sometimes.”

    “Do you have any favorite foods?”
    “Pop-Tarts,” she said. “And spaghetti.”
    “But not together.”
    “No,” she said. “That’s not a good idea.”
    “Wise.” He returned to Bernice. “It’s an infection. Otitis media. You’ll just want to keep an eye on her temperature, make sure she’s well hydrated.” He studied her forms for a moment, then looked up. “Do you have a regular pediatrician?”
    “Oh, sure,” said Bernice. “Back east. We’re just out here visiting right now.”
    He wrote something on a pad. “Give her these, too.”
    “Give them to her where?”
    “In the ear. It’s an ear infection.”
    “It is?” Relief flooded her—just knowing something specific was so much better than the vague feeling of dread she’d been living with, the expectation of calamity and failure. “How did that happen?”
    “Impossible to say. Kids get them. But she should be over it soon enough.”
    She wondered if the red spot on his nose embarrassed him. She wondered if maybe he wasn’t such a good doctor, what with working at this Jack-in-the-Box clinic.