Morgan had a dentist appointment. She and Dana sat in the waiting room, each reading a People magazine. Morgan’s had a picture on the cover of a teenage superstar who’d passed out in the back of a limousine with a bottle of Grey Goose in her lap and the window open, to the delight of the paparazzi. The smaller inset picture showed the star and her mother retreating from a court-house. The mother held her hand up, as if her little palm and fingers could fend off the assault of shouting reporters and the rapid fire of Uzi-size cameras. The girl cringed against her mother, looking ashen. And average, Dana realized. This millionaire teenager, undoubtedly recognized in any tar-paper shack in any Third World country, looked like she’d been plucked at random from a high-school field-hockey team somewhere.
Dana wanted to ask Morgan what she thought of this girl. Was it satisfying to see someone who presumably had everything plummet to the bottom of the social soup just like anyone else? Or did Morgan see, as Dana did, that somewhere behind the overpriced clothes and the capped teeth, the girl was a real person, with real pain, and was far too young to be abusing herself like this? But Morgan’s eyes flicked across the pages, soaking in every detail, and Dana knew interrupting her would provoke nothing more than an irritated shrug.
Dana’s glance fell to the magazine in her own hands. It featured an older actress on the cover, hands on narrow hips, victorious smile exaggerated by high-gloss lipstick. The inset picture was grainy and showed her stepping off a curb clutching a plastic grocery bag. She wore sweatpants and an oversize coat that billowed out to one side, making her seem large and ragged. The caption read, “Back in a Size Two, I’m Me Again!”
Dana remembered this actress as the cute, bouncy one from a 1980s sitcom. A comeback of sorts. And Dana was happy for her, if a little bit jealous. Size two, she thought. I’d be happy with a size eight. But then it occurred to her: Comeback to what? The woman’s career hadn’t been revived. She was just thinner.
The waiting-room door opened, and Marie the hygienist said, “Morgan, we’re ready for you now.” With effort, Morgan gave Marie a polite half smile, an attempt to cloak her anxiety. Dana wanted to give her some indication of motherly encouragement, but she knew the rules. Parental affection prohibited, except under cover of utter privacy and, if possible, darkness.
Dana was soon bored by the shimmering starlets and hunky boy-men whose names she didn’t recognize. She closed her eyes, rested her head against the back of the chair, and ran through a mental checklist. Get paper goods for Morgan’s party . . . Have car cleaned—floor has more crumbs than a cracker factory . . . Grady’s game on Sunday . . . Football. Coach Ro. That perked-up look he gave when she said she was divorced. The squareness of him, the warm, frying-pan-size hand on her back . . . Taller than Kenneth and broader, though not quite as handsome . . . but nice enough . . . and warm enough . . .
“Mrs. Stellgarten?” said a deep voice.
Dana’s eyes fluttered, and she sat straight up. “Mmm?” she muttered, “Yes?”
Dr. Sakimoto’s face wavered before her. “I hate to wake you,” he said. “You look so serene.”
“Oh!” She passed a hand across her lips to make sure she hadn’t drooled. “I was just—”
“It’s Friday,” he said, smiling. “Who doesn’t need a nap? Sometimes I go into my office and close my eyes—I’m out like a light. Marie has to throw something at me.”
Dana sighed. Dr. Sakimoto had such a talent for putting people at ease. “Is her appointment over already?” she asked.
“No, not quite.” His face settled into a strangely pensive state. “Would you come to my office for a quick chat?”
Dana rose and followed him. Something was wrong. Dr. Sakimoto never called her into the office. The insurance, she thought. Kenneth was
Dana wanted to ask Morgan what she thought of this girl. Was it satisfying to see someone who presumably had everything plummet to the bottom of the social soup just like anyone else? Or did Morgan see, as Dana did, that somewhere behind the overpriced clothes and the capped teeth, the girl was a real person, with real pain, and was far too young to be abusing herself like this? But Morgan’s eyes flicked across the pages, soaking in every detail, and Dana knew interrupting her would provoke nothing more than an irritated shrug.
Dana’s glance fell to the magazine in her own hands. It featured an older actress on the cover, hands on narrow hips, victorious smile exaggerated by high-gloss lipstick. The inset picture was grainy and showed her stepping off a curb clutching a plastic grocery bag. She wore sweatpants and an oversize coat that billowed out to one side, making her seem large and ragged. The caption read, “Back in a Size Two, I’m Me Again!”
Dana remembered this actress as the cute, bouncy one from a 1980s sitcom. A comeback of sorts. And Dana was happy for her, if a little bit jealous. Size two, she thought. I’d be happy with a size eight. But then it occurred to her: Comeback to what? The woman’s career hadn’t been revived. She was just thinner.
The waiting-room door opened, and Marie the hygienist said, “Morgan, we’re ready for you now.” With effort, Morgan gave Marie a polite half smile, an attempt to cloak her anxiety. Dana wanted to give her some indication of motherly encouragement, but she knew the rules. Parental affection prohibited, except under cover of utter privacy and, if possible, darkness.
Dana was soon bored by the shimmering starlets and hunky boy-men whose names she didn’t recognize. She closed her eyes, rested her head against the back of the chair, and ran through a mental checklist. Get paper goods for Morgan’s party . . . Have car cleaned—floor has more crumbs than a cracker factory . . . Grady’s game on Sunday . . . Football. Coach Ro. That perked-up look he gave when she said she was divorced. The squareness of him, the warm, frying-pan-size hand on her back . . . Taller than Kenneth and broader, though not quite as handsome . . . but nice enough . . . and warm enough . . .
“Mrs. Stellgarten?” said a deep voice.
Dana’s eyes fluttered, and she sat straight up. “Mmm?” she muttered, “Yes?”
Dr. Sakimoto’s face wavered before her. “I hate to wake you,” he said. “You look so serene.”
“Oh!” She passed a hand across her lips to make sure she hadn’t drooled. “I was just—”
“It’s Friday,” he said, smiling. “Who doesn’t need a nap? Sometimes I go into my office and close my eyes—I’m out like a light. Marie has to throw something at me.”
Dana sighed. Dr. Sakimoto had such a talent for putting people at ease. “Is her appointment over already?” she asked.
“No, not quite.” His face settled into a strangely pensive state. “Would you come to my office for a quick chat?”
Dana rose and followed him. Something was wrong. Dr. Sakimoto never called her into the office. The insurance, she thought. Kenneth was
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