The Convalescent (14 page)

Sitting here, in these cheap and uncomfortable chairs, helplessly staring as though I can see right through the flimsy white polyester material of her pediatrician’s jacket, as though I can see the run of her sturdy thighs wrapped snugly in their tan slacks from the curved anchor of her lower back all the way down to her thick, alluring kneecaps, there are moments I fear that I really
am
more Animal than Man; moments when I don’t trust myself
not
to stand up and walk over and lift the tidy hem of her jacket to expose those devastating thighs. Creamy. Limber. Delectable Darling.
Ma Plus Grand Amour!
Do you not feel the pulse of my probing gaze? Do you not yet see me blowing you imaginary kisses? Do you not feel my hot breath traveling toward your milk-colored neck? Do you
really
want to know how to heal me? I can tell you that right now. There’s only
one thing
I need to recover,
and that is for you to dim the lights, walk over to the crusty little bearded man who at this very moment is sitting so patiently next to a wheezing Sick or Diseased child, lean down, place your tender, pudgy hands on the arms of his wooden chair, and kiss him wetly on the mouth. It would be just like in the movies. Kiss him, and his lungs would clear, his bad leg would fill with muscle. His eyes would blink and brighten. He would tear his stylish woolen cap from his head, toss his thick spectacles onto the Berber carpeting, throw one arm around your waist and bend you over and—

Dr. Monica finds her paperclip and stands up, professionally cinching the child’s report.

“Make sure he gets plenty of water,” she says to the mother. “You also might want to watch the way he walks. If he seems to be crossing his legs a lot, or tripping over his own feet, then schedule another appointment to bring him back in— Otherwise, he should be fine by morning.”

The mother effuses her gratitude to Dr. Monica and then leaves, passing a tall, fat man wearing a baseball cap on his way inside. It’s Herman. I lower my writing tablet and watch him make his way into the Waiting Area. He’s holding a bulky paper bag with a grease stain on the bottom in one hand, and a stack of books in the other. The Sick or Diseased children stop what they’re doing and stare up at him from the floor. He tries to wave at them, but it’s a lot to manage. The books are slippery, and fall from his arms onto the Berber carpeting.

“Hello Herman,” Dr. Monica says, and disappears around the corner to her office.

The security guard gathers the books, approaches Mrs. Himmel’s desk, and dumps everything over it. He sighs like a deflating balloon. “Elise forgot her schoolbooks again,” he says.

This, I am amazed to learn, is her husband.

Mrs. Himmel reaches into her mini-fridge, pops a can of Coke, and hands it to him. “I’m busy,” she says. “You’ll have to take them yourself.”

Herman grabs the soda and drinks it. He belches, softly, licking the sugar from his wet lips. “What do you want me to do? Be late again? If I’m late for work again, they could let me go. They could let me go just like that.” He snaps his fingers, but the sound is soft. Ineffective. Like he’s trying to snap éclairs.

“Fine,” Mrs. Himmel says. “I do everything anyway.”

“Fine,” says Herman. But he doesn’t leave. He points to the greasy bag. “By the way, that’s your lunch. You left it this morning.”

Mrs. Himmel picks it up, lightly. “What is it?” she sniffs.

“Cheeseburgers.”

“
Again
?”

Adrian approaches the reception desk and picks up her clipboard. She sees the fat man sloped to one side. “Hi Herman,” she says, but she does not make eye contact.

Herman shifts his belt and clears his throat. “Why, hello Adrian,” he says. He speaks to her with exaggerated politeness, as though good manners could somehow diminish his corpulence.

But Adrian is not impressed. She doesn’t say anything else. She studies her clipboard, then walks into the center of the Waiting Area. The mothers all look up from their magazines.

“Mary Ellen,” she announces.

One of the Sick or Diseased children stirs. She has a sour face and ears that stick out a bit too far from her head. She’s wearing jeans with yellowed knees, sneakers tied with pink bows, and a pink halter top that says, in glittering rainbow letters,
HOT FOR RECESS
. The girl hears her name and runs behind a barrel of building logs. Her mother stands up and grabs her by the wrist. The girl instantly falls limp and heavy to the floor, rendering her body immobile.

“It’s your
turn
, Mary Ellen,” her mother says, pulling her up.

Mary Ellen reaches for one of the bulbous legs of the nearest chair, and misses it. She screams.

Adrian points at me. “You’re up after this one,” she says, and whisks Mary Ellen down the hallway.

I quickly look at Herman to see if he’s noticed me, but he’s still standing at the reception window.

Mrs. Himmel glares at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” he says, but the baseball cap is pinching his head. He removes it, shovels the sweat from his forehead with one flat palm, and wipes it on the front of his shirt. It leaves a dying smear.

“Bull,” says Mrs. Himmel. “What’s going on?”

Herman shrugs. “There’s just some trouble at work is all,” he says.

His wife tightens in her chair. “What kind of trouble?”

“The numbers don’t match up again.”

“So?”

“So it’s one of
my
sections.”

“But that’s not your fault,” she says. “Somebody probably counted wrong. That’s Inventory’s problem, not yours. You’re Security.”

“That’s what
I
said,” he says. “I told them that. Besides, everyone knows that Inventory’s never exactly right. Everyone’s always saying that since the place is so big, it’s hard to keep track of what goes in and out.”

Mrs. Himmel throws a finger at him like a dart. “Just see you don’t get fired again, Herman Himmel. Elise has a lot of modeling appointments lined up, and every week we have to get new clothes and new makeup. It’s extremely expensive. We can barely afford it on what you make now, and I’ve already taken on extra hours here,” she says. “I’m doing my part.”

Herman’s face softens. He rolls each of his large lips around the other. “I know that,” he says. “I know you are, dear.”

Mrs. Himmel visibly bristles at the term. “Just stay on top of it. Make
sure
that someone counted wrong. Go through the paperwork yourself if you have to.”

“All right,” he says.

Mrs. Himmel shakes her head and selects another piece of zucchini bread. Herman stares at the dessert with a long face. Intuitively, he slowly lifts a large paw over the counter, but he isn’t fast enough—Mrs. Himmel slaps it.

“Herman!” she scolds. “Your diet!”

The security guard stands up. His lips quiver. “I shouldn’t be the
only
one on a diet,” he mumbles, then he marches out the front door of the Waiting Area. Mrs. Himmel picks up her purse and removes a small vanity mirror with a tortoiseshell clasp. She stares at her reflection as though it has somehow deceived her.

“Mr. Pfliegman,” Adrian announces. “You’re up. Let’s go.”

I slide out of my chair.

Adrian offers to take my coat. “Here,” she says. “Let me.”

I wrap my arms firmly around my body. I shake my head no, but she just looks puzzled. “It’s really hot in here,” she says. “C’mon, let me just—”

I try to protest, and hold on to the coat.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Pfliegman,” she says, and reaches around the
back of my neck. She tries to yank it from my shoulders. “If you want to keep coming to see Dr. Monica, you have to hang up your coat like everyone else. You know that.”

I grab on to the lapels and fiercely pull back, creating an unanticipated heavy movement from inside one of the pockets. In a panic, I try to hold on to it with an elbow, but it’s no use:

A perfect, two-inch, dinner-sized sirloin, still wrapped in plastic, slides out from one of the pockets and falls expressionlessly to the floor. The label shines in the Waiting Area:

BIG
M

I glance at Mrs. Himmel, but she’s got her face in the mirror, and Adrian has been fortunately diverted by one of the Sick or Diseased children dejectedly plucking a near-dead leaf off the ficus plant.

“Leave the plant alone, Muriel!” she shouts.

The meat is safely returned to its pocket.

Adrian shuffles me down the hallway and opens the door to Dr. Monica’s office. She points to the closet. “You have to hang up your coat in here, Mr. Pfliegman,” she says. “Dr. Monica can’t examine you otherwise.”

She watches, curious, as I go to the closet and remove my coat. She watches me pull out of the sleeves and hang it up. I close the closet door, plunk myself down on the examining table, and then I look at her, expectantly.

Adrian stares at my sweatshirt. She’s had a tough day; first Mary Ellen, and now Dr. Monica has instructed her to take Mr. Pfliegman’s blood pressure. Taking my blood pressure means she must go near the greasy sweatshirt. Even worse, a fetid little forearm. She lightly touches the sweatshirt, and moves her hand to her nose. Her eyes water. She quickly spins around and goes over to the cabinet above the sink. She takes out a paper mask and wraps it around her face, then she pulls on two plastic gloves, like what she’s about to touch is toxic. She picks up the coil to the blood pressure unit. “I don’t know why
I
have to be the one to do this, anyway,” she says.

Then Dr. Monica walks up behind her. “How’s everything going in here?” she says.

Adrian wipes her eyes with one wrist. “I haven’t had a chance to take the blood pressure yet. The sweatshirt—” she says.

Dr. Monica looks at her watch. “That’s okay,” she says. “I’ll take care of it.”

Adrian leans in and whispers into Dr. Monica’s ear, something so inaudible I can barely make it out:

(He
stinks
.)

Dr. Monica waves her off. “Finish up your paperwork, then go. You’ve done enough today.”

The intern looks relieved. She snaps off the plastic gloves and mask and ducks out of the office before Dr. Monica can change her mind.

Dr. Monica looks at me perched on her examining table. “Mr. Pfliegman,” she says. “I think it would be a good idea to use the examining gown today, all right?” She hands me the blue gown, folded in a tight clean square. “Put this on. I’ll be right back.”

She leaves the room for a moment to give me time to change. When she returns, she’s carrying a pile of fresh towels and a can of Lysol. “No offense,” she says.

None taken
, I write.

Dr. Monica wanders around the room, huffing Lysol into the air. She lingers at the coat closet, holding her finger on the nozzle, then without hesitation, without even any plastic gloves, my pediatrician walks back over to me, plunks down in the swivel chair, grabs my arm, and straps on the Velcro to the blood pressure apparatus. She smiles, pumping air into the strap, holding my scrawny arm until the strap tightens. Air hisses out. She watches the gauges, carefully, and then rips off the strap. “Terrific,” she says, and grins.

I reach for my writing tablet.

You’re in a good mood
, I write.

Dr. Monica laughs. “I guess I am,” she says.

She brings out my folder and scribbles in it. She takes a minute and reads, allowing me to observe the delicate way she picks hair from her eyes and tucks it behind her ears. She sighs. She lifts one of her pudgy, flour-colored hands and rubs the back of her neck with it—

St. Benevolus shivers, like a child in a church pew.

“I’d like to start with a throat massage today,” she says. “Massaging the throat can help maximize the opportunity for speech. Watch me.”

Dr. Monica moves her hands along the rigid run of her trachea.

“Hold your throat with both hands,” she says. “Like you’re holding a drinking glass,” she says. “Practice moving it up and down. Then I want you to try and make a sound. Not just any sound, you’re going to make the sound
Ooo
. Are you ready?”

My hands are at my throat. I nod.

“
Ooo
,” she says. “Now you.”

I hold my throat and open my mouth, but nothing happens. I reach down to the bottom of my gut and grasp for the sound, but it’s like trying to find the lightswitch in a big dark room.

“
Ooo
,” she says. “Do you understand?
Ooo
.”

I understand that I want her to stop speaking and take off her white coat and peel off her flesh-colored slacks. I want her to sit next to me on the child-sized examining table and uncross her legs and blow on my eyes. But she just keeps
Ooo
ing.

“
Ahhh
,” I say, dryly.

Dr. Monica smiles and marks the folder. “A good start,” she says. “Now, let’s do an S.R.E. This is a Sensory Response Examination.”

What’s that?
I write.

“All of our bodies are like two halves sewn together at the middle. I’m going to touch both sides at once, and you need to let me know if anything feels imbalanced on either side, all right?”

I nod. Dr. Monica gets up and begins moving efficiently around the examining table, placing her hands on parallel parts of my body.

“Does this feel the same?” she asks, swiping two fingers down my neck. Behind the ears, over the eyes. “Does this feel the same? Does this? Does this?” She’s making sure the symmetry is working properly, that my body is not entering into a civil war; that one side is not acting more aggressively that the other side.

She swipes her fingers twice lightly against my ankles, as sharp as little rocks. “That’s good,” she says. “I think you’re recovering well, Mr. Pfliegman. You’re off all of those horrible meds, you’re drinking enough water, your vitals are improving, and you’re not coughing as much.” She taps me on the knee with a finger. “You should be happy. You’re looking good.”

Looking good? I want to say. I’m barely human. I’m a hairy little Hungarian pulp. An incongruous mass of skin and blood and hair. I am a sorry gathering of organs. That is all.

Dr. Monica keeps smiling at me, but then her eye catches something, and she starts blinking very quickly. “What the,” she says, and swivels the chair close to me.