Read Online Mitochondrial Curiosities of Marcels 1 to 19 by Jocelyn Brown - Free Book Online

myself.
    The student nurses lead me to the cafeteria and I hit overwhelm. Killer smells fight it out, mostly disinfectant and deep-frying, possibly of mice, because the smell is pure nausea. And the noise. Clunking and wheelchair clicking and hard-soled shoes onhard floors that shine homicidally because the overhead lights are so bright. Maybe that explains Grandma’s taste in lighting. Maybe all staff have uber-bright homes because after this everything feels dark. Inhale 2, 3, 4, exhale 2, 3, 4. You know you’re stressed when your two relaxation exercises come from your ex-stepmother who probably stole your inheritance. Actually I only use one since the other one, the corpse pose, is no longer relaxing. I’m on a bench in this little alcove being all discreet with my expansive slow breath. Since no one is around, I bend forward to exhale. I hang my head down to the floor and imagine a row of sinister people in white lab coats, and Marcel falls out of my coat pocket. I pick him up and the evil people are gone. Stuffed cutesy creatures have never been my thing, even when I was three, but maybe I’ve changed. Maybe it’s his eye/body ratio, maybe the hat. Whatever works.
    I say, ‘Don’t worry, I’m going,’ to the agitated woman who comes up, but she sits down and says, ‘No, please, I need help with my taxes.’ We both looked at a fly buzzing in the plastic fuchsia.
    â€˜Talk about hopeless,’ I say.
    â€˜You think they’ll come?’
    â€˜I meant the fly looking for food in a plastic plant.’ She laughs and pulls out a wad of paper from her coat pocket. ‘Cute little guy,’ she says, and squeezes Marcel. ‘Forty-two dollars for subscriptions is not enough, they get suspicious if it’s not enough.’
    â€˜Exactly,’ I say. She’s leaning in to discuss and I’m leaning in to look at the papers she holds out, sort of like we’re going over her essay, and so we both jump when a man’s voice says, ‘Charlene, everything okay?’
    Potentially dangerous, I think. Clearly an anger disorder. Or some sort of condition that makes him utterly repulsive. His mouth takes up half his face, I am not exaggerating, and his bottom lip is so big and pouchy you can’t help but imaginetrapped flies. About ten hairs are lacquered onto his bald head which looks strangely small and, wait, strangely familiar. Angry man in Grandma Giles’ photo. Which is right in my bag.
    â€˜Hey, I know you.’ I try to go chirpy-young-woman-with-respectful-eye-contact. I can’t look at his face again and that’s when I see the nametag. Dr. Rinkel. In the same second, he sees I don’t have one.
    â€˜What are you doing here, excuse me, what are you doing here?’ he says.
    I pull out the picture. ‘My grandma works here. Hey, it
is
you.’ I show him the picture. ‘I’ve got to get a new frame, it was an accident – ’
    The lip hangs open long enough for me to smell coffee bacteria. His eyes blink again and again and then his face snaps back to mean and repulsive. ‘Well, Rowena and I need to chat about roaming grandchildren,’ he says.
    â€˜I’m leaving right now, my dad died.’
    An eyebrow lifts. ‘Leonard Johnson? Condolences.’
    â€˜You knew my dad?’
    â€˜He worked here briefly.’
    â€˜I’m going now.’
    â€˜Yes, yes you are.’
    And I am. I head for the nearest exit like the place is on fire. When my hand is on the metal bar of the door, ready to push, something makes me turn around – psychiatric institutions apparently do that to a person – and he isn’t watching me anymore. He’s looking at Charlene’s papers. ‘Stay,’ I hear, possibly. Leonard’s voice. ‘Stay.’ I let go of the door and turn down the other hallway.
    Running is never a good way to look inconspicuous so I stop when I get to the new