Read Online The Convalescent by Jessica Anthony - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jessica Anthony
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greenish?”
Most of the time?
“Yes.”
Red. Or yellow. But most of the time, red
.
“Red, huh,” she says and looks at me sideways. She blinks, officiously, sucking in one part of her upper lip as though to hide it. Around the room the stuffed animals stare at me, unblinking. The white kitten looks panicked:
Hang in there!
“You know you have to be honest with me, Mr. Pfliegman. If you’re not honest about how you’re feeling and what’s happening to you, I won’t be able to help you. You won’t be able to see me anymore. Do you understand?”
I nod vigorously.
“Okay then,” she says, and then stops writing. “Tell me, if your pain were on a scale from one to nine today, one being the least pain you’ve ever felt, and nine the most, how would say you feel?”
I look at her. Is she serious? She is.
Four?
She closes the folder. “All right, Mr. Pfliegman, let’s have a look at you.”
In one swift, breathtaking movement, Dr. Monica pulls all of her hair into a ponytail. The elastic hairband snaps like a hasty prophylactic.
I shudder a little.
“Take it easy,” she says. “I’m just going to see what your muscles are doing.” With cold hands, my pediatrician begins professionally squeezing my shoulders, my arms and legs, stopping along the way at every hinge of my small, oddly shaped appendages. She squeezes elbows, wrists, ankles. The wide part of my little plate-shaped feet. All the way down every phalanx of my awkward, reaching toes—
“Joints seem fine,” she says. “Sit up now.” She kneads my head, pressing her fingers lightly against the lumps. “Does this hurt?” she says. “Does this?” She reaches around and presses the base of my skull with two cold fingers, then slips the other hand behind my beard and politely prods my throat, balancing my head on her hands as though it’s a fragile egg. She’s searching for something, I know not what, but it feels nice.
“It’s important to try and speak every day,” Dr. Monica says. “Even if you can only make noises. Sometimes rubbing the throat helps loosen things up. Can you try and say something now? As I do this?”
I am terrified of what would happen if I actually spoke. If I spoke, I would tell her that when I look at her, every circular cell in my body aches. I would tell her that if she wouldn’t mind, I should very much like her to lean over the examining table and let me unbutton her blouse and gently unwrap the Kermit the Frog stethoscope and nuzzle my beard into her neck. I lean forward slightly to see if my head might accidentally bump against her head, to see if she might accidentally brush her lips against mine and accidentally slip her tongue into my—“
Algh
,” I say.
Dr. Monica looks up and blinks, hopefully. I try again.
There’s nothing left.
She makes her final notes, checks her watch, and then hands me the folder. “Return this to Mrs. Himmel,” she says. “And I think it would be useful to see your parents’ health records. Can you get them for me?”
I nod.
“Okay then,” she says, and smiles again. “I’ll see you next week.”
I watch her leave, thinking that I don’t have a clue about Ján and Janka’s health records. They never went to a doctor. As far as I know, there aren’t any records of anything about my parents beyond what sparse pieces offurniture lie moldering in the farmhouse that leans both east and west, and what was written in the
Lick County Gazette
on the day following the accident, June 16, 1985:
János and Janka Pfliegman of Front Lick were killed yesterday afternoon when their car crashed into a telephone pole on Back Lick Road off Rural Route 9. The car, rented from Galaxy Car Rentals, was in showroom condition, and it has been determined that the accident is not the fault of Galaxy Car Rentals, which always provides Safe Cars and Safe Service ® , but rather the fault of Mr. János Pfliegman, who was driving under the influence. The couple is survived by
Most of the time?
“Yes.”
Red. Or yellow. But most of the time, red
.
“Red, huh,” she says and looks at me sideways. She blinks, officiously, sucking in one part of her upper lip as though to hide it. Around the room the stuffed animals stare at me, unblinking. The white kitten looks panicked:
Hang in there!
“You know you have to be honest with me, Mr. Pfliegman. If you’re not honest about how you’re feeling and what’s happening to you, I won’t be able to help you. You won’t be able to see me anymore. Do you understand?”
I nod vigorously.
“Okay then,” she says, and then stops writing. “Tell me, if your pain were on a scale from one to nine today, one being the least pain you’ve ever felt, and nine the most, how would say you feel?”
I look at her. Is she serious? She is.
Four?
She closes the folder. “All right, Mr. Pfliegman, let’s have a look at you.”
In one swift, breathtaking movement, Dr. Monica pulls all of her hair into a ponytail. The elastic hairband snaps like a hasty prophylactic.
I shudder a little.
“Take it easy,” she says. “I’m just going to see what your muscles are doing.” With cold hands, my pediatrician begins professionally squeezing my shoulders, my arms and legs, stopping along the way at every hinge of my small, oddly shaped appendages. She squeezes elbows, wrists, ankles. The wide part of my little plate-shaped feet. All the way down every phalanx of my awkward, reaching toes—
“Joints seem fine,” she says. “Sit up now.” She kneads my head, pressing her fingers lightly against the lumps. “Does this hurt?” she says. “Does this?” She reaches around and presses the base of my skull with two cold fingers, then slips the other hand behind my beard and politely prods my throat, balancing my head on her hands as though it’s a fragile egg. She’s searching for something, I know not what, but it feels nice.
“It’s important to try and speak every day,” Dr. Monica says. “Even if you can only make noises. Sometimes rubbing the throat helps loosen things up. Can you try and say something now? As I do this?”
I am terrified of what would happen if I actually spoke. If I spoke, I would tell her that when I look at her, every circular cell in my body aches. I would tell her that if she wouldn’t mind, I should very much like her to lean over the examining table and let me unbutton her blouse and gently unwrap the Kermit the Frog stethoscope and nuzzle my beard into her neck. I lean forward slightly to see if my head might accidentally bump against her head, to see if she might accidentally brush her lips against mine and accidentally slip her tongue into my—“
Algh
,” I say.
Dr. Monica looks up and blinks, hopefully. I try again.
There’s nothing left.
She makes her final notes, checks her watch, and then hands me the folder. “Return this to Mrs. Himmel,” she says. “And I think it would be useful to see your parents’ health records. Can you get them for me?”
I nod.
“Okay then,” she says, and smiles again. “I’ll see you next week.”
I watch her leave, thinking that I don’t have a clue about Ján and Janka’s health records. They never went to a doctor. As far as I know, there aren’t any records of anything about my parents beyond what sparse pieces offurniture lie moldering in the farmhouse that leans both east and west, and what was written in the
Lick County Gazette
on the day following the accident, June 16, 1985:
János and Janka Pfliegman of Front Lick were killed yesterday afternoon when their car crashed into a telephone pole on Back Lick Road off Rural Route 9. The car, rented from Galaxy Car Rentals, was in showroom condition, and it has been determined that the accident is not the fault of Galaxy Car Rentals, which always provides Safe Cars and Safe Service ® , but rather the fault of Mr. János Pfliegman, who was driving under the influence. The couple is survived by
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