“You,” the man said. “Get up.”
Meredith knew from the startled look on Lisa’s face that the man was talking to Lisa. He must have touched her leg with his boot, maybe given her a nudge. Or maybe not. Maybe Lisa Bellow just knew the man was talking to her because, given the choice between the two girls lying facedown on the floor, of course the man was talking to her. And Meredith knew this, too, and did not move.
Lisa got to her feet. She stood still for a moment and Meredith (though she could see only Lisa’s sparkly gladiator sandals) had the sense she was composing herself, maybe brushing a wayward strand of hair from her face, adjusting the straps of her peasant top, slipping her Vera Bradley backpack over one shoulder. Meredith did not dare move. She didn’t even want to move her eyes. She had an idea that if she lay completely still with her eyes fixed straight ahead that she would be invisible. This was called something but she couldn’t remember what. Scared possum? What even was a possum? Was it like a porcupine without the points? The left cuff of Lisa’s black leggings had a small white mark on them, something from the floor probably, and would require washing. And her gladiator sandals were—but then they were nothing, or rather they were gone, still something but gone, out of Meredith’s sight, no longer her concern, only a recollection hovering among the settling molecules in the space they’d just occupied. Then the door opened and the Christmas bells jingled and there was a little burst of air in the restaurant, like a quick breath of October inhaling, and then a car door slammed, and then an engine rumbled, and then acceleration, and then silence.
Meredith Oliver lay alone on the floor of the Chestnut Street Deli Barn for eleven glorious minutes. It was the most wonderful place Meredith Oliver had ever been, more comfortable than any bed, warmer than summer sand, safer than her brother’s famous polar bear hug. The tile was smooth and cool on her face and she could see dull stains from spilled sodas under the counter and her body slowly and resolutely attached itself to the floor as if the floor were mud or glue. Meredith thought about her algebra test. She went over every problem in her mind. She thought again how Mrs. Adolphson would probably only give her half credit for the last problem because she hadn’t graphed the asymptotes. Find the vertical & horizontal asymptotes. Find x-and y-intercepts. State the Domain and Range in interval notation. She had run out of time; that was all. She knew what they were. She just hadn’t had time to graph them.
y=x+2/x-2
If she hadn’t had to get up and walk across the room to sharpen her pencil, between problems 14 and 15, she would have had time to graph the asymptotes. Next time there was a test she would remember to bring two sharpened pencils to class. This would be her goal on the morning of the next test. On the morning of the next test she would write herself a note. She would use a black pen. There was probably a black pen by the cash register. The note would say: “Remember to bring two sharpened pencils to algebra.” She would write the note on her hand so there would be no question but that she would see it. She would use a black pen. There was probably a black pen by the cash register. She would definitely use a black pen. As soon as she got up from this floor she would write it on her hand. This would (vertical asymptote: x=2) be her goal. The best way to remember something was to write it on your hand. There was probably a black pen (horizontal asymptote: y=1) by the cash register. People needed pens to sign their credit card slips. On her hand she would write: “Remember to bring two sharpened pencils to algebra.”
Later, after a customer came in and discovered the scene—Meredith facedown on the floor beside the counter, the sandwich farmer unconscious in the doorway to the back room, the register drawer ajar—and called the police, the paramedics tried to coax her to her feet, but she would not budge. When they attempted, as a group, to lift her, Meredith shrieked and thrashed and dug her fingernails into the neck of the EMT who knelt beside her. Finally it took a needle full of Thorazine to peel her from her cherished spot.
4
Claire had long since resigned herself to the question, “What made you go into dentistry?” The question—regardless of the asker—was almost always delicately posed with a cautious, falsely friendly tone that was obviously meant to very clearly state, I’m not passing judgment, but . . .
It went without saying that no one ever asked this question of a medical doctor, except possibly podiatrists, the only group that regularly fell below dentists in the general public’s unwritten pecking order of respected health professionals. Feet and mouths no one could understand, a kneejerk underestimation of the importance of each, Claire felt, a remnant from the seven-year-old mentality that mouths and feet were icky. Hearts and brains, of course—she could give them that. It was natural that those should be at the top of the list. They were the heavy hitters, the prestige organs. (What parent had not dreamed of the words, “And this is my son . . . the brain surgeon”?) But what about ENTs or rheumatologists? What about orthopedists or gynecologists? Why did no one suspect that they had settled, that some flaw had prevented them from reaching their potential, that somehow—intellectually? emotionally?—they just hadn’t been able to cut it?
In dental school the majority of their friends admitted they had decided on dentistry for the money. The pay was good—sometimes outstanding—and there was job security and a steady paycheck (teeth were never not going to be a problem), and unlike most of the med students they knew, they would all be able to go home at the end of the day and not go back to work until the next morning. Many of them were already planning on a four-day work week. So now in addition to settling and/or failing, they were also greedy and/or lazy.
It was an impossible situation, one that infuriated Claire because it just wasn’t fair. No one accused bankers of being lazy, or plumbers of being greedy. How could you begrudge someone for choosing a lucrative career? And yet there was a sense particular to dentists that they had simultaneously succeeded and failed, that they had sold out, that their moral obligation to help their fellow man in a more significant, meaningful way had been first acknowledged and then, poof, dismissed. Sure, I could be a doctor, but I choose to be a dentist. Why? Because it’s easier.