So leaving them was not exactly easy. But it was something she already knew how to do.
14
The last thing she wanted was more doctors. But Maribeth needed a cardiologist. Or a surgeon. She would be missing her scheduled follow-up appointment with Dr. Gupta, so before checking out of the motel, she’d found a Yellow Pages in the dresser, right next to the Bible, and had ripped out a sheaf of pages. She’d felt a pang of guilt for destroying the book, but, really, who didn’t have a smart phone anymore? Well, who besides her?
She’d spent Halloween morning in her new apartment calling cardiology practices. There were several; Pittsburgh was a medical town. Her new neighborhood was sandwiched between two hulking hospitals, which Maribeth found equal parts comforting and alarming. Most of the doctors were booked out, but after a dozen calls, she found a practice that had just had a last-minute cancellation for Monday.
As she waited for the taxi to take her to the appointment she wished she’d thought to steal the entire Yellow Pages. She’d spent most of the weekend holed up, sleeping and watching TV, subsisting on minestrone soup and yogurt from the little Italian grocery on the corner. Now that she was feeling steadier, there were things to figure out. Where was a proper grocery store? A pharmacy? Where might she get a nicer set of sheets than the stained ones the apartment had come with? Without Google at her constant disposal, she didn’t know how she would find anything.
A scrawny tabby cat sidled up to her, lost interest, and then sniffed at an artfully carved jack-o’-lantern that was starting to rot. The handiwork, she guessed, of her upstairs neighbors, a young couple who were the only other tenants in the small frame building. The top floor, she knew, was vacant. Mr. Giulio had offered to show her the studio apartment there, but she’d declined, saying she could handle the rent on the one bedroom. (What she could not handle were the two flights of stairs to the attic.)
The door opened and a young man with a swoop of platinum hair emerged. He bent down to try to pet the cat, which scurried away.
“Is that yours?” Maribeth asked.
“We aren’t allowed pets in the building,” he replied.
“Oh. I didn’t know. I just moved in to the ground-floor apartment here.” She pointed. “But luckily I don’t have a pet.” She heard herself babbling and stopped.
“Welcome to our beautiful neighborhood,” he said drolly, gesturing to the bleak, treeless block.
“Thanks. Hey, look, you don’t happen to have a Yellow Pages?”
“They still make those?”
Maribeth suddenly felt so very old next to this young man, as she waited for a taxi driver to ferry her to a doctor.
“Sunny,” he called over his shoulder. “Do we have a Yellow Pages?”
A young South Asian woman, Sunny presumably, appeared. She had deep dimples, a ponytail, and was wearing leggings and an oversized sports jersey. “Didn’t we use it as a doorstop last summer?”
And now Maribeth felt 482 years old. Mercifully, the taxi pulled up. “Maybe another time,” she said.
She arrived at the doctor’s ten minutes early, as instructed, to complete the paperwork. She sketchily filled out the health history and left the insurance forms blank. So far, she had managed to exist on an entirely cash economy. She hadn’t planned it that way—she hadn’t planned any of this—but after so many years of being constantly available to everyone, she wanted to keep it that way.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the receptionist said after Maribeth had handed in her paperwork. “We’ll need your insurance card.”
“That’s all right,” Maribeth said. “I’m paying cash.”
“You’re paying cash?” She looked at Maribeth as if she’d just announced she would be paying with Pokémon cards.
“Yes,” Maribeth said.
“Don’t you have insurance?”
“I’ll be paying cash,” Maribeth said.
“If you can’t afford insurance,” the receptionist replied, “we can help you apply for it. It’s very reasonable if you qualify for Medicaid. And we also offer discounts for the indigent.”
Indigent? She’d showered for this morning’s appointment, even washed her hair, albeit with lice shampoo, which had dried it to straw. Also she’d forgotten to get conditioner so maybe she did look a bit finger-in-socket. But still, the grooming had taken some effort.
“I’m paying cash,” Maribeth said for the third time.
The receptionist had looked at the forms. “You’re coming for postoperative care and you’re paying cash?”
“That’s right.”
“How did you pay for your surgery? In cash?”
Maribeth was beginning to get flustered. But then she remembered Elizabeth’s advice in situations like these: Act like you own it.
She took a deep breath. “How I paid for my surgery is neither here nor there. I just need to see a doctor, and I can pay cash. Up front. You won’t have to bill anyone.” Her voice sounded haughty, completely unlike her.
It seemed to work. The receptionist went to get the office manager.
Maribeth sat down and waited, feeling like she was about to be busted. As if it wasn’t the office manager who was going to come out but her high school principal. Or Jason.
“Ms. Goldman.”
It took Maribeth a few seconds to realize she was the Ms. Goldman being addressed. M. B. Goldman was the name she’d listed on her forms. An old nickname, her mother’s maiden name.
“Yes. That’s me.”