Brightleaf (3 page)

The garage door is all the way open. I turn and start sprinting towards my car. I am busting my butt to get my keys out. My hands are shaking, and my brain is in full throttle freak-out mode. I pull out my sunglasses, shoving them on my face, keeping my head turned away from the scene unfolding behind me.

The Lexus begins to back out of the garage. I can’t look. I won’t watch. I reach my car and open the door and am shocked when Floyd hops up onto the front seat. I turn to look back at the Jersey Guy’s house. His car has backed out all the way onto the street, with one long brown tire mark going down the driveway. Then the Jersey Guy drives away.

Floyd looks at me expectantly, panting, his tongue lolling out, with a huge grin on his face. He knows he was playing me back there. I pull a dog biscuit from the glove compartment and hand it to him, my heart still beating through my eardrums, and say, “You did good, Floyd.”

6

The Gynecologist

I stand in my bedroom, wearing only my bra and underwear, debating what to wear to my doctor’s appointment today. I decide against a dress because when they ask me to take off my shirt for the mammogram, I’ll have to take off the entire thing. So I opt for a shirt that buttons up the front and a skirt, just in case.

I am paranoid of hidden cameras. I don’t really believe that a female doctor would have hidden cameras for depraved reasons like a man doctor might, but mainly to catch women stealing stuff, like alcohol prep pads. Those are handy. I think women in general just like to snoop—to open drawers real quietly, look inside and close them again. My own curiosity is kept in check by the fear that there are probably hidden cameras everywhere.

I read on the Internet once that a lawyer had hidden cameras planted in the toilets at his office.
Recording from inside the toilet.
I wondered what he did with those videos. Like come home from a long day in court, microwave a Lean Cuisine, loosen his tie, and relax on the sofa to one of those videos? A good rule of thumb would be to inspect a lawyer’s toilet really closely before you hire him.

I’m in the waiting room of the Gentle Care for Gentlewomen office. I spend twenty-five minutes filling out the required paperwork, then pass it back to the receptionist. The name of this place cracks me up. I admit, the Gentlewomen part initially drew me in, but it still strikes me as strange because I know a lot of women who are seriously not gentle. Women who could put a flying monkey in a full nelson. Where do those gals go for OB/GYN? Nurse Ratched?

The walls are painted a soothing mint green and hung with framed photos of waterfalls and gurgling brooks. I’m aware the photos and the color scheme are all about promoting a feeling of peace and safety. It works for me. I pick up a
Town and Country
, immediately flipping to the pages where they show all the filthy rich brides and grooms whose parents threw them multi-million dollar weddings. I find this fascinating. Sometimes I’ll look at each couple and try to figure out what will go wrong with their marriage. It’s not that I want these marriages to fail; we just know they do based on statistics. So it’s fun to kind of be a sleuth in the beginning. You can always see when a groom thinks he’s big stuff and might have an affair. Or is already having one. Or the bride is all into Herself. I don’t get to investigate this too long before a nurse calls me.

“Mary Beth Green.”

I’m glad to get this over. The nurse leads me to a room and hands me a paper gown. “Take off your clothes and put this on. Dr. Dorrie will see you shortly.”

“All my clothes?”

The nurse nods and gives me this look like she wants to ask what rock I just crawled out from under. Feeling dehumanized, I comply. The room is freezing. I fight the thought that there are hidden cameras in the ceiling vent. Dr. Kelly, what did you get me into? Why do I need a pap smear anyway? People who don’t have sex don’t need those. I doubt nuns are subjected to them. This is only my second time visiting a gynecologist. I avoid the gynecologist like some people avoid the dentist. But for all I know, there’s a giant fungus taking root inside me. Some kind of conspiracy my body summoned against me for never introducing it to a male. I hate the way it sounds, too.
Pap smear
. Smear is such a negative word. For example,
The teacher spent a portion of her day cleaning smeared boogers off desks
. Or,
The girls had a combination of blood and mascara smeared on their faces at the end of the fight
. Smear is never used in a pretty way.

I begin my wait for the doctor.

It’s taking a while.

I lean back and close my eyes. The icy air blowing through the vent is probably channeled straight from Antarctica:
Special Delivery to doctors’ offices across the globe. From The Coldest Place on Earth!

When I get cold, I go into hibernation mode. I can’t help it. My eyelids are heavy, and I feel myself nodding off. A faraway voice calls my name. I’m like Sleeping Beauty dreaming in the Enchanted Castle, and my prince is standing over me, waiting to kiss me back to life. So I open my eyes, and there he is, just as I imagined he’d always be, with serious brown eyes, concentrating on me. Like I am his only reason to live. This must be what love feels like.

I whisper, “My prince.”

“Prince, like the singer?” he says.

Then I realize I’m not dreaming, but awake. And a man is watching me be half-asleep and half-naked.

“Hello, Ms. Green,” says the man. “Getting some shut-eye, are we? I apologize for the wait.”

It takes me a few seconds to remember I’m in a doctor’s office. And the doctor is standing over me. He’s got the white jacket and all, stethoscope dangling from his neck. Wiping his eyeglasses on his coat before settling them on his face. Smelling like he just braved a hurricane of coffee and soap.

“I’m Dr. Dorrie,” he says, extending his hand for a shake.

I slowly sit up, unfolding like a rusty beach chair, and extend my hand. My heart is still pounding because of my dream, and I feel so exposed. He looks friendly enough. In fact, I feel like I already know him. But I was expecting a woman. At least I asked for a woman doctor.

I sit up a little straighter, pulling the gown around me, careful not to tear the paper, and focus my eyes on him. Then it comes to me that I actually know this man, and not just from my dream. A combination of embarrassment and anger starts forming in my throat and cheeks. I frown at him, searching for words.

“Ms. Green? Are you okay?”

I nod, thinking I should grab my clothes and run.

“Will this be your first mammogram? You seem really nervous,” he says, looking at his chart, briefly glancing up. “It won’t be so bad. We are very proud to be one of the few OB/GYN offices in North Carolina to offer this service in-house. You indicated that you’d prefer a female physician, so it looks like Dr. Salander will be seeing you. Unfortunately she is running behind today so I thought I’d stick my head in the door and introduce myself, go ahead and get the ball rolling by addressing any concerns you may have. Will you allow that?”

I nod.

“Everything seem relatively normal?”

“Normal?”

“Normal, as in menstrual cycles, or irregularities of that nature.”

“Oh.” I nod again while he writes on my chart.

“Is there a particular reason why we are seeing you today? Or is this your yearly?”

I don’t want to tell Dr. Dorrie about the Dr. Kelly Challenge or that I don’t normally have a yearly, but I just say, “Yearly.”

“Okay. Great. In that case, Dr. Salander shouldn’t be too much longer.”

I nod at the man I just called my prince. I could cry. I’m naked, talking to the Jersey Guy about my period. His dog is stashed at my house.

“And if we need to contact you concerning any of the results, when would be best—morning or afternoon?” He writes on a pad of paper. “Afternoon? I’ll put a note in your file.”

When he finishes making notes, he sets down my file and turns his gaze on me. He doesn’t look unkind, or even weary. In fact, he’s got a freshly showered, first cup of coffee, inquisitive expression, like the day is new and there’s so much to learn.

“You look familiar,” he says. “Have we met, Ms. Green?”

Finding my voice I tell him no, we do not know one another at all, but people often tell me I look like Reese Witherspoon.

He blinks. “Who?”

“You know,
Legally Blonde
?”

“That could be it,” says Dr. Dorrie, looking at the ceiling like he hasn’t watched a movie in eons. “Where do you work? The Green Bean? Gourmet Gourmand? Grocery store, maybe?”

He’s trying to place me. “No,” I say. “I rarely go to any of those places. Hardly
ever.”

He crosses his arms and nods.

“I run a boarding house on Main Street, you know, rent out the rooms. I also open up my home during the day as a coffee house of sorts, and hold a meeting on Wednesdays. It’s just my thing.”

I left out the part about volunteer preschool driver. Just in case he decided to ask,
Oh really? Where’s your route? What kind of car do you drive? Have you seen a white poodle with nasty pink stuff around its mouth?

“On Main Street?” He pronounces each word slowly, giving emphasis to the word
Main
. “I love those old Victorian homes.”

“Mine isn’t Victorian.”

“Not Victorian. Hmm. Let’s see, there are a few bungalows, Queen Annes, and Cape Cods. You look like a Cape Cod woman.”

I shake my head with a smile.

He continues. “A couple of Prairie Styles, a really neat Italianate, and then there’s the house somebody tore down and built a urology clinic in its place. Maybe you live there.”

It takes me a second to realize he’s joking. “Yes, as a matter of fact I do live in the urology clinic. Great guess.”

“Never a dull moment around the dinner table, I suspect.”

“It’s a ton of fun,” I say. “On Chili Night we eat out of bedpans.”

He doesn’t laugh. He just looks at me over his glasses. I can’t believe I said that thing about the bedpans.

“How festive,” he says with a smile. “You must sleep on the examination tables there, too.”

“That’s why I fell asleep in here. I feel right at home,” I say gripping the sides of the table.

This time he laughs, and says, “Okay, lady. You gonna tell me where you live? Or do I have to look in your file?”

“You’re going to have to look in my file.” I can’t tell him where I live.

“Seriously?”

He opens my file. Dangit. I didn’t think he would.

“303? Is that near the top of the hill?”

I nod.

“Good-looking place. Someday I’d like to buy a home on Main. Great street with all the big trees and shady sidewalks.”

“I doubt you’d have to try too hard to find a home there. Something is always for sale.”

“Yeah, yeah. Most of those homes are just way too much house for one person. Not to mention all the work you gotta put into those things.”

“Thankfully I’ve got swarms of people helping me out.”

“You’re fortunate,” says Dr. Dorrie. “Out of curiosity…”

“What?” I ask. Please, please don’t ask if I’ve seen a white poodle. Who’s now blue.

“You don’t by any chance have the original plans to your home do you? I would love to get a look at those. I studied architecture at one time and still love to see the crazy things the old-timers drew into the plans. Hidden rooms and funky spaces.”

“Well, I’m not sure,” I say, shivering in my gown and trying to suck in my chest as much as possible so Dr. Dorrie doesn’t notice how very
cold I am.

“You know,” he says, “they used to put the house plans in the banister post at the foot of the stairs. It’s true. Sometimes you can just lift up the finial, look down inside and pull them out.”

I tell him I’ve never checked, but if I do I’ll let him know if I find the plans. I just want out of here.

Dr. Dorrie gives me a nod. “Hey, when did you say that meeting of yours is?”

Crap.

“Wednesday nights. It’s boring, though. You probably wouldn’t like it.” See, I always feel guilty about excluding people from Share Group, so I end up inviting them, anyway. Even the very
last
person I’d want to come. “But you can come if you want.”

“Thank you, Ms. Green. I just might do that.” He smiles and extends his hand for a shake. “Hang tight. Dr. Salander will be right in.”

7

The Totally Personal Diary
of Mary Beth Green

June 2, 1990

Dear Diary,

Hello, Brightleaf. Hello, blue room. I’m sitting here on the feather bed I sleep in every summer and promising myself to keep this diary so that when I grow up, I will remember what it’s like to be 12. Especially if I have a daughter who is 12. I will not be drunk and crying all the time with long strings of snot tangled in my pearls, or snooty when I’m sober, but instead bake lots of carrot cakes and meatloafs. Our house will always smell like cinnamon and garlic, and I will sit down with a cup of regular coffee every morning and eat bacon and raisin bran with my daughter. Yesterday was the last day of the 7th grade, and I left Atlanta at 8:04 p.m. on the Amtrak. I rode in a sleeper car with a bunk bed and a little toilet and listened to the mix tape Marcelle made. Marcelle never makes me tapes, and it is the best tape ever. Somehow Marcelle knows about music that none of my friends have. So I listened to The Pogues, They Might Be Giants, and The Cocteau Twins until ten. Then MC Hammer (who everybody knows). And later I switched to my New Kids On The Block tape. I tried staying awake all night, but the moving of the train always rocks me to sleep like a little baby. My train got to Greensboro at 4:43 in the morning, and Grandmother was waiting for me. It was still nighttime, and she was standing under a light pole wearing one of her outfits from the 1960s again.

It took us a whole forty-five minutes to drive to Brightleaf in her prehistoric Roadmaster. I like it that Marcelle didn’t come this time, for the first time ever. I am plenty glad she decided to move into her summer school dorm early. Mainly because whenever a boy talks to me, like at the grocery store or the movies, she ruins it by stepping between me and the boy and saying something stupid just to get attention. But she knows what she’s really saying is, Look. Here is a prettier girl, a taller girl… a more sophisticated version of the one you are now talking to. With boobs! I am shocked that middle school boys notice that type thing. But it’s true. They do. I don’t even like boys, anyway, except two. I wish I could figure out a way to make them notice me. I thought about sending them secret letters so that they would have to guess which girl liked them, and they would look around real hard at all the girls they knew. That would make them look real hard at me. Like, was I the one who sent such a mysterious and exciting letter? But all I’m brave enough to do is call them on the phone and hang up. It is amazing how fast a 7th grade boy can run. I had to race one on field day last year. It was puny little harelip Huey French (he does not speak French). I was so sure I would beat him, but he just took off. Like the Roadrunner. Beep-beep. I never had a chance. He made me feel as slow as Judy Carmichael, who is slower than a sick turtle and has the tiniest teeth in the world. I would never tell another soul, but Huey’s speed shocked me so much, I got a crush on him. Sometimes I would watch him wearing his young Indiana Jones hat to school (which I used to think was pretty dumb) and had the private knowledge that he’s a lot stronger than he looks. His scarred lip made him more mysterious. Like a battle wound. If anybody reads this and dares breathe a word, you can guarantee I will put Nair hair removal cream on your eyebrows while you are in a deep sleep. And maybe even on certain spots on your head so it will look like your hair is falling out in clumps, and everyone will think you are dying….X