Pieces of Hate by Ray Garton Page B

dropped as he stared at Lynda. His dark brown eyes were wide as he said, “Yes, uh . . . we met.”
    “Oh, good,” Lynda said. “Sorry I was asleep. We were watching a movie I’d seen before, and I just drifted off.” This time she took both hands to her head, digging her nails into each side furiously.
    Blinking rapidly, Dr. Plummer asked, “So, Lynda, how do you . . . feel?”
    “Pretty good. In fact, believe it or not, I’m feeling kind of hungry. I was feeling hungry earlier, and I thought it was just a false alarm, but I really think I could use some Jell-O, or maybe some soup.” Scratch, scratch, scratch. “In fact, soup sounds good. Something hot.”
    “You’re . . . hungry.” He was not asking a question.
    Lynda nodded, smiling.
    Dr. Plummer walked around the bed and sat on the side opposite Margaret. “Okay, let’s have a look.” He pressed his fingertips under her jaw, then asked her to lift her arms and felt her armpits. His eyes widened as his brow lowered, and his jaw dropped slowly, opening his mouth behind closed lips. Then he touched her face here and there, as if he were fascinated with it, as if it were a completely foreign object, something he’d never seen before.
    Lynda reached up with both hands again to scratch her head, squinting as she did so.
    “You’re scratching a lot,” Dr. Plummer said. “Do you have a rash?”
    “I don’t think so. My head’s just itching. It’s been driving me crazy.”
    “It’s probably the hair,” Margaret said casually.
    Dr. Plummer turned to her. “Hair? What hair? She’s on chemo.”
    “Well, she’s got some peach fuzz under that bandana,” Margaret said with a gesture of her hand. “It’s probably making her head itch.”
    “Oh, no. That can’t be.” He looked at Lynda again, his lips parted. He reached up, removed the bandana and dropped it into Lynda’s lap.
    Her head was covered with a thin layer of salt and pepper down.
    Dr. Plummer muttered something to himself that was unintelligible, but which had the sound of a very soft curse. He lifted a hand and ran it over her head slowly, his jaw hanging low once again.
    “Your hair’s growing back,” he said, his voice breaking.
    “Really?” Lynda asked, reaching up to feel for herself. “Is that bad?”
    Ignoring her question, Dr. Plummer began to page through her chart his eyes scanning the pages carefully. He frowned down at the chart for a long time, chewing a lip, then: “You’re still on chemotherapy.”
    “Yes, I am,” Lynda said.
    He looked at her again, reached up and touched her scalp again. “And your hair’s growing back.”
    “Is that bad, Dr. Plummer?”
    “Well, it’s-it’s-it’s not bad, really, just . . . unusual.”
    “Why?”
    “Well . . . it’s just thuh- that . . . you lost your hair due to a reaction from the chemotherapy, which affected your follicles. The hair doesn’t grow back until weeks after the chemo has been discontinued. But . . . you-you-you have hair.”
    “Really? So, what do you think? Should I go to the beauty parlor? Have it styled?” She laughed.
    Dr. Plummer did not. He leaned away from her and stared at her as sternly as a teacher sizing up a troublesome student. He licked his lips, then plucked a pen from a pocket and made a note on the chart.
    “I’m scheduling you for a test,” he said. “Tomorrow. Nothing painful, don’t worry. Just . . . a test.”
    Lynda’s smile disappeared. “Is something wrong, Dr. Plummer?”
    “Uh, no. No, you have nothing to worry about. It’s just that your body is behaving in, uh . . . a rather uh-unorthodox manner.” He lifted his eyes from the chart and stared at her rather suspiciously. “How do you feel? Physically?”
    “Well, I feel good. In fact, I feel better than I’ve felt in a long time. Maybe because I’m so happy that Margaret showed up, I don’t know. But I feel really good.” Her smile returned, then became a big grin.
    Dr. Plummer smiled as well, but his was