Read Online The Convalescent by Jessica Anthony - Free Book Online
Authors: Jessica Anthony
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Television Elise roses, and all is forgiven. One episode they surprised her with a trip to Cancún.
Mrs. Himmel watches every episode with her hands on her chin, a wistful look about her face, and then, when the program ends, she sighs in one explosive breath, replaces her eyeglasses on the tip of her nose, pulls her fingers through her short, tightly permed hair, and, quick as a lightswitch, returns to her regular, acerbic self. Today when the program ends, Mrs. Himmel picks the phone up again and makes a phone call to Daughter Elise’s modeling agent.
Perhaps I was tough on Daughter Elise. She has big brown eyes and nice skin, and she’s great with the Sick or Diseased children. In fact, if she weren’t under so much pressure to be a model, I’d say she was quite beautiful. Suddenly I feel compelled to tell this information to Mrs. Himmel. I tear off a piece of paper from my writing tablet, and quickly write:
Your daughter is quite beautiful
.
I hold the paper in my hand and imagine getting up out of my chair and walking up to reception and giving it to her. The look that would cloak her face! But upsetting Mrs. Himmel could make me lose privileges with Dr. Monica, and that’s just one risk I’m not willing to take.
I fold the piece of paper and stick it in the pocket of my trousers as Adrian pops her head into the Waiting Area.
“Mr. Pfliegman,” she says. “You’re up.”
I follow Adrian down the hallway that runs behind the reception desk, passing more pictures of bucolic farmyards, and into Dr. Monica’s office. Adrian flips a few pages of her clipboard. “Dr. Monica wants you to change into the examining gown today,” she says, and closes the door.
Mrs. Himmel had to order the special paper gown for me because I’m obviously not like the other patients. The Sick or Diseased children’s gown has trains on it if you’re a boy and daisies if you’re a girl, but Mrs. Himmel insisted on ordering me an adult-sized gown. It’s big and blue. Sterile-looking. It’s much too big for me, and hangs poufed over my limbs as though inflated. I put on the gown and then take a seat on the child-sized examining table. Stuffed animals are scattered all over the place. They’re everywhere: on the windowledge, the examining table, the counter below the cabinets where Dr. Monica keeps stacks of paper cups andglass containers filled with tongue depressors and throat swabs. Color-coded anatomical illustrations of children’s bodies hang on one wall, and on another is a poster of a white kitten hanging by its claws off the branch of a tree, its eyes squeezed tight in terror. Beneath the kitten, the poster says HANG IN THERE ! The first time I came to Dr. Monica’s and saw the kitten, I brought out a scrap of paper and wrote
Life is not worth living
.
Dr. Monica said that everyone has to believe in something in order to make life worth living.
Like what?
I wrote.
Dr. Monica shrugged. “Most people believe in God,” she said.
She wanted me to write down for her what I believed in, but I just sat there. I couldn’t write. I couldn’t put into words a single thing that I believed in, because to believe in something is to have hope, and that is something that the Pfliegmans, in our stinking, wayward lives, have never had.
Dr. Monica believes in water. As soon as she saw my peeling skin, she took away all of my prescriptions and made me start drinking eight glasses of water a day. It’s helping, although now every forty minutes or so I have to leave my post at the meat bus to take a piss. I also sweat more, which is extremely unpleasant for my customers. So she gave me a tube of fiercely pine deodorant. It covers my natural odor, a ruddy mixture of grass and meat and oil, and hovers about the small space around my lawnchair. It’s called Spice of Life. It keeps away the mosquitoes, which is a big relief, but the field ticks are still present, popping around my ankles. They are not afraid of Spice of Life. They
Mrs. Himmel watches every episode with her hands on her chin, a wistful look about her face, and then, when the program ends, she sighs in one explosive breath, replaces her eyeglasses on the tip of her nose, pulls her fingers through her short, tightly permed hair, and, quick as a lightswitch, returns to her regular, acerbic self. Today when the program ends, Mrs. Himmel picks the phone up again and makes a phone call to Daughter Elise’s modeling agent.
Perhaps I was tough on Daughter Elise. She has big brown eyes and nice skin, and she’s great with the Sick or Diseased children. In fact, if she weren’t under so much pressure to be a model, I’d say she was quite beautiful. Suddenly I feel compelled to tell this information to Mrs. Himmel. I tear off a piece of paper from my writing tablet, and quickly write:
Your daughter is quite beautiful
.
I hold the paper in my hand and imagine getting up out of my chair and walking up to reception and giving it to her. The look that would cloak her face! But upsetting Mrs. Himmel could make me lose privileges with Dr. Monica, and that’s just one risk I’m not willing to take.
I fold the piece of paper and stick it in the pocket of my trousers as Adrian pops her head into the Waiting Area.
“Mr. Pfliegman,” she says. “You’re up.”
I follow Adrian down the hallway that runs behind the reception desk, passing more pictures of bucolic farmyards, and into Dr. Monica’s office. Adrian flips a few pages of her clipboard. “Dr. Monica wants you to change into the examining gown today,” she says, and closes the door.
Mrs. Himmel had to order the special paper gown for me because I’m obviously not like the other patients. The Sick or Diseased children’s gown has trains on it if you’re a boy and daisies if you’re a girl, but Mrs. Himmel insisted on ordering me an adult-sized gown. It’s big and blue. Sterile-looking. It’s much too big for me, and hangs poufed over my limbs as though inflated. I put on the gown and then take a seat on the child-sized examining table. Stuffed animals are scattered all over the place. They’re everywhere: on the windowledge, the examining table, the counter below the cabinets where Dr. Monica keeps stacks of paper cups andglass containers filled with tongue depressors and throat swabs. Color-coded anatomical illustrations of children’s bodies hang on one wall, and on another is a poster of a white kitten hanging by its claws off the branch of a tree, its eyes squeezed tight in terror. Beneath the kitten, the poster says HANG IN THERE ! The first time I came to Dr. Monica’s and saw the kitten, I brought out a scrap of paper and wrote
Life is not worth living
.
Dr. Monica said that everyone has to believe in something in order to make life worth living.
Like what?
I wrote.
Dr. Monica shrugged. “Most people believe in God,” she said.
She wanted me to write down for her what I believed in, but I just sat there. I couldn’t write. I couldn’t put into words a single thing that I believed in, because to believe in something is to have hope, and that is something that the Pfliegmans, in our stinking, wayward lives, have never had.
Dr. Monica believes in water. As soon as she saw my peeling skin, she took away all of my prescriptions and made me start drinking eight glasses of water a day. It’s helping, although now every forty minutes or so I have to leave my post at the meat bus to take a piss. I also sweat more, which is extremely unpleasant for my customers. So she gave me a tube of fiercely pine deodorant. It covers my natural odor, a ruddy mixture of grass and meat and oil, and hovers about the small space around my lawnchair. It’s called Spice of Life. It keeps away the mosquitoes, which is a big relief, but the field ticks are still present, popping around my ankles. They are not afraid of Spice of Life. They
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