Free Hot Springs by Geoffrey Becker Page B

“But other than that, she looks pretty good to you?”
    He nodded. “Oh, yes, I’d say so.”
    “Nothing I should be, like, watching out for or anything?”
    “Keep her oil changed and new tires on her and she’ll run forever.”
    She examined the prescription he’d torn off. “And I just take this someplace?”
    “That’s right. I’ve got some samples I can give you, too.” He dug around in a drawer and came up with two little cardboard boxes. “That’ll start you up. She should be feeling better in a few days.”

    “Where would you suggest?”
    “For what?”
    “Where would you suggest I take this?”
    “Any pharmacy will do. Albertsons.”
    He had a wedding ring on. She thought about his wife, his house, the life that she was only seeing the very tip of. “Do you like Eddie Murphy?” she asked.
    His eyebrows lifted, little furry drawbridges.
    “Not the later stuff,” she said, “but back when he was funny. You can rent it on video. He did one skit where he pretended to be white for a day, and suddenly he found out that everyone else was in on something.” Vasily had had a fascination with Eddie Murphy, in particular the movie 48 Hours , but also compilations of old Saturday Night Live routines, and she’d sat next to him for repeated viewings, the two of them smoking cigarettes, he barking his hyena laugh. “Like, he gets on a bus and there’s one black guy sitting reading a paper, and then at the next stop that guy gets off, and as soon as he does, the bus turns into this big party where they’re serving drinks and there’s balloons and confetti.”
    “Balloons?”
    “Exactly. And when he buys a paper—this was before he got on the bus—the guy at the newsstand won’t take his money. White people don’t have to pay for things, it turns out.”
    “I don’t watch that much television.”
    “Just once, I’d like to get on that party bus, that’s all. But I guess if I want that to happen, I’ll have to disguise myself like I’m white.”
    The doctor was now thoroughly confused. “But you are white.”
    “I know, I know.” How to explain it to this person? It was impossible. He was a member of it, that other world they wouldn’t let her be a part of. Or was it just that she’d chosen not to be? “Listen, I’m sorry. Thanks for these.” She put the samples into her purse.

    “Would she like a lollipop?” he asked.
    “I don’t know,” said Bernice. “Maybe we should ask her .”
    He bent down in front of Emily. “Would you like a lollipop?”
    “Yes, please,” she said, and Bernice was filled with pride at how polite her child was, even if this had nothing to do with her at all.
    The doctor stood back up. “They have a jar of them out by the desk,” he said. He tore off a sheet of paper from his clipboard and held it out. “Give this to them, too. And remember, plenty of fluids!”
    The bill came to an even one hundred dollars. She paid with her credit card. When she got herself situated, she’d have to contact Visa, let them know she’d moved. All those things she’d done to establish herself—cable, phone, her Pikes Peak district library card—all those things that made her her , she’d simply walked away from. Again. She wanted to be someplace. To be there, and to belong there. She signed the slip, handed it back to the receptionist.
    “Thank you,” she said to Emily as they exited the building into the hot sunlight. “You were really good with all that.”
    “You’re welcome,” said Emily, taking her hand. “Do you feel better now?”

    The next day they all piled into Gillian’s Neon and drove to Nogales. They parked on the U.S. side in a big lot for five dollars and then walked to the border. As they were waiting to go through the gate, a Mexican boy of about twelve came sprinting past them, pursued energetically by a border-patrol guard who managed to catch him halfway up the block. The guard picked the kid up under one arm and hauled him,