She couldn’t remember the last time she’d written letters on paper like this. Her wedding thank you cards? When the twins were born, she’d e-mailed thank yous for the gifts. Not very classy but she was lucky to manage even that. These days, thank you notes tended to fall to the bottom of the pile, except for those to Jason’s mother, who got offended if her gifts were not properly, and promptly, acknowledged.
It felt good to write on paper that smelled like old libraries. The pen scratched noisily across the page as it filled up with words. It seemed to imbue her letters with more substance.
Dear Oscar and Liv,
There are lots of museums where I am. Last week I started exploring some of them. First I went to an art museum, and then yesterday I visited a natural history one. It had so many dinosaur fossils, but no blue whale. Do you remember when we saw the blue whale at the Dinosaur Museum? Do you remember what you said, Liv?
The Dinosaur Museum was what they called the Museum of Natural History, because when they visited, it was mostly to see the giant dinosaur skeletons. But on this particular day—which had been that rarest of birds, a Sunday free of birthday parties and playdates and classes—the four of them had explored further afield, looking at the moon rocks and then the Hall of Ocean Life, where the enormous blue whale hung from the ceiling.
We were all lying down, which you two thought was crazy, and we were looking up at the whale. And Liv, you said, “At school, we learned the blue whale has a heart so big you can walk through it.” And Oscar, you said, “I want to walk through someone’s heart.” And I squeezed your hands and said, “You already walk through mine.”
They still did. Though she didn’t write that. A woman on a business trip would have no cause for such sentimentality, no need to prove the capacity of her flawed heart.
28
A week after what she’d come to think of as the ice cream intervention, she had another follow-up with Dr. Grant to check her weight. She’d gained two pounds, which seemed to please Dr. Grant, and had gone grocery shopping with Todd and Sunita without any drama, which had pleased her.
As they were finishing up the exam, she asked Dr. Grant about her neck. “I thought it was eczema. I’ve been using this cream but it hasn’t helped,” she said. “I’ve changed soaps, shampoo. I looked online and now I’m worried it’s a vitamin deficiency.” Talking about it made not just her neck itch but her entire body. “I was thinking you could refer me to someone who wouldn’t be averse to my, um, insurance situation.”
“Hmm. I might know an understanding dermatologist, but why don’t I take a look first.” He patted the stool. “Have a seat.”
She sat down and leaned over. He parted her hair, and for a second the itchiness was replaced by the warmth of being touched by another human.
“So the good news is that it’s not a vitamin deficiency,” he said.
“And the bad news?”
“You appear to have lice.” He paused. “A rather robust case of it, I might add.”
She dropped her head into her hands. “I used an entire bottle of that RID shampoo.” She scratched her head again. “That stuff is literally poison.”
“But it only kills the live bugs, not the eggs. You have to pick those out.” He scratched his temple as if the talk were making him itchy, too.
“Oh, yes, I’m familiar with the process.” She tried to imagine combing herself out as she’d done the twins. She remembered that horrific day back home. Niff passing judgment. Walking through the rain. Liv shoving her. Her hitting Liv.
She started to cry.
“It’s not that bad,” he said. “Lice don’t discriminate. It doesn’t mean you’re dirty.”
“It’s not that . . .”
“What is it then?”
“I just feel as if it will never end.”
She kind of detested herself. Whatever self-pity points she’d earned had already been spent. And then some. “I’m sorry.” She stood up and wiped her eyes, prepared to leave, even though her favorite part of the appointments was fast becoming the talk after the exam in his office. “I have to go find one of those combs.” She imagined getting it through her rope of shoulder-length hair. “Shit.”
“I have a better idea,” he said. “Let’s go upstairs and I’ll get them out for you.”
“You?”
“Yes, me.”
“Do they teach nitpicking in medical school?”
“No. But I have a daughter and she had them a few times.”
“But you need a special comb?”
“Says who?”
Niff Spenser.
“You just need a good pair of eyes and a fair amount of patience,” he said, “and while my eyes aren’t what they used to be, my patience is improving with age.”
She looked at him. He was serious.
“I don’t think I can let you do this. It’s too . . .” Intimate, she wanted to say. “Icky.”
“I’m familiar with icky. I am, after all, a doctor. And a father.”
This made her smile.
And when, in a softer voice, he added, “It’s okay to ask for help, you know,” it made her relent.
HE TOLD LOUISE he was done for the day. There were no other patients in the waiting room and, obviously, none coming. Maribeth wondered, not for the first time, if she was his only patient. Outside, she headed down the walk, toward his car, but he went in the opposite direction, up the pathway toward the front porch of the house.