The office manager, an attractive overweight woman wearing a red power suit, smiled. “I understand that you’d like to pay cash for your visits.”
“Yes,” Maribeth said.
“The thing is,” the office manager said, “it’s against our practice’s policy.”
“I don’t see why this is such a problem.” Maribeth knew from her C-section and Oscar’s ear tube surgery the paperwork jungle of insurance companies. Oughtn’t they be thanking her for saving them the trouble?
“The doctors might want to order tests. And with the Affordable Care Act, everyone should be insured. Particularly a cardiac patient.”
“Shouldn’t that be my concern?”
“I’m just trying to explain our policy.” She paused. “Perhaps you should visit the ER?”
“I don’t need an ER,” she said. “I have money. I can leave a deposit.”
The office manager looked genuinely apologetic. But she still shook her head.
“Can you at least refer me to a cardiologist who might see me?” She no longer sounded like someone who owned the world. She sounded like someone who was asking to borrow a teaspoon of it.
“What about Dr. Grant?” the receptionist asked.
The office manager frowned.
“Is Dr. Grant a thoracic surgeon?” Maribeth asked.
“A cardiologist. One of the founders of this practice,” the receptionist said at the same time that the office manager was saying, “No, no. Not Dr. Grant.”
“Why not? Will he take cash?” Maribeth asked.
“I bet he might,” the receptionist started to say.
“I’m just not sure he’s taking new patients,” the office manager interrupted. She shot a warning look at the receptionist.
“So you can’t refer me to anyone?” Maribeth asked.
“Not anyone who won’t require insurance,” the office manager said.
Maribeth looked at the receptionist who was now looking at the floor.
Well, so much for easy. She’d had a good run, she supposed.
Defeated, she gathered her things to leave. She was almost out the door when the receptionist tapped her back. “Stephen Grant,” she whispered. “Give him a call.”
15
When she got home, she pulled out her purloined section of the Yellow Pages. Many of the doctors and practices took out ads. Dr. Stephen Grant did not. He had a one-line listing. As the phone rang, she remembered the queer look on the office manager’s face, a look of warning almost. A receptionist picked up. She said they had an opening for the next day. Maribeth hesitated. It was one appointment. How bad could he be?
DR. STEPHEN GRANT’S office was in a neighborhood called Friendship, not so very far from Maribeth’s new apartment. In her old life, it would’ve been walking distance. In her new life, she could walk three blocks.
As she rode the bus, she stared out the window at the elegant brick homes that Pittsburgh seemed to have in blithe abundance, like an overripe tree dropping apples to the ground. A few days ago, in the taxi from the train station, Maribeth had been similarly amazed at how pretty it was here—she’d assumed Pittsburgh would be a, well, pit. But it wasn’t. All the graceful sweeping trees dappled in fall colors, all the handsome houses with their stained glass windows, elaborate brickwork, tidy gardens. When the taxi had dropped her in front of her building, drab and with vinyl siding, she’d been disappointed, but mostly relieved. To run away was bad enough, but to land somewhere she might enjoy living, that felt obscene.
Though Dr. Grant’s office was right next to one of the large hospitals, his practice was not in one of the adjacent modern buildings, as the first practice she’d tried had been, but attached to one of those large brick houses she’d admired. She walked past it twice—it was easy to miss, only a small plaque on the front door announcing the practice—and when she pushed open the front door, she felt as if she was about to barge into someone’s living room.
Instead she found herself in a tiny waiting room with two chairs and a desk manned by an older black woman, her hair done up in an elaborate tower of braids. She gave Maribeth the same stack of paperwork to fill out that the other practice had, and Maribeth handed it back, with both her family history and the insurance forms blank.
When the receptionist asked for her insurance card, Maribeth replied: “I’m paying cash,” steeling herself for an argument that never came.
“Payment due at time of service,” she said. “Hundred and fifty dollars.”
A hundred and fifty dollars? Maribeth had expected it to be at least three hundred dollars, maybe more for tests. To be safe, she’d taken five hundred from her stash (or stashes; she had secreted bills throughout the apartment, hoping that if someone broke in, they wouldn’t find it all and clean her out).
“I might need tests,” she said.
“Hundred and fifty dollars,” the receptionist repeated.
Maribeth counted out the money and handed it over. The receptionist printed out a receipt by hand and gave it to Maribeth.
“That’s okay,” Maribeth said. “I don’t need it.”
The receptionist raised an eyebrow. “I’ll go on and leave it in the file.”
“Thank you.”
Maribeth started to sit down but the receptionist stood up and beckoned to her. “Come on back.”
In a small examination room, the receptionist, who was also apparently the nurse, took her vitals. Then she handed her a blue examination gown. “Dr. Grant won’t be but a moment.”