Poison to Purge Melancholy by Elena Santangelo Page A

named them all after famous Lees. Then again, I hadn’t asked. Not wanting to sound like a total doofus, I said, “I know Ann’s a doctor.” I’d discovered that on my own, after trying to find a local gynecologist. Miss Maggie’s wasn’t taking new patients, so Hugh called his sister for me. When he handed me the slip of paper with her recommendation, all he’d said was, “They’re right across the hall from her office.” It wasn’t until I went there and actually saw “A. C. Lee, D.O.” rounding off a list of family practitioners on the door opposite that I realized her profession. Anyway, to Horse I said, “I’m just surprised to find two doctors in the same family.”
    “Two?” Horse hunkered down to give my leg closer scrutiny. “Hugh’s the only one of us who can’t write prescriptions. Is this where it hurts?” With his large hand, he cupped my left knee, pushing against it with his thumb.
    The pain made me jump. “That’s the spot. On the other side, too. All four of you are doctors?”
    “Yup, we all followed in Daddy’s footsteps, though Foot went into psychiatry. Rich would tell you that Acey’s Doctor of Osteopathy isn’t the same as a bona fide M.D.—she likes to be called Acey, by the way, instead of Ann. We used to call her ‘AC/DC’ when she was little and it stuck. Foot insists on ‘Francis.’ We call him Foot anyway.” With his other hand, Horse gently lifted and lowered my ankle. “Hurt when I do that?”
    “Same places. Not as much as when you pressed on it. No more than the other knee.”
    “Both knees?”
    “The left one’s worse.”
    Removing his hands and standing, he stroked his chin a moment. A bunch of questions followed: Was the pain sharp or dull? Burning? When do I get it most during the day? Anyone else in my family have anything similar?
    “That’s why I think it’s rheumatism. Three of my dad’s sisters have it. Poor circulation,” I said. Of course, those aunts were also fond of artery-clogging foods like Italian sausage and cream cake, and all defined “aerobic workout” as a good gossip session over coffee and cannoli. I had a healthier lifestyle, didn’t I?
    Horse nodded to himself. “I want you to lie down up here on the table.”
    “What? I’m not going to lie down on your mother’s kitchen table.” Picturing myself prone, with him leaning over me—looking and sounding so much like Hugh—my face heated up, turning, I imagined, a bright poinsettia pink.
    He shrugged. “Okay, we can do this upstairs on one of the beds.”
    “No!” For an instant, I suspected that he wasn’t a doctor at all, but was trying to play an elaborate joke on his brother.
    Seeing my horror, his grin broadened. He took a wallet from his back pocket and extracted a business card, which he held out for my inspection.
    Kratzhower Orthopedic Associates , it read. L. H. Lee, M.D. Certified in Orthopedic Surgery and Sports Medicine .
    My face must have gone from pink to Santa-suit red. He was a specialist, offering a free examination—no referral, no HMO approval, no appointment, no copays, and no outdated, dog-eared magazines in his waiting room. And here I was, the pro bono patient from hell. “How ’bout if I stretch out on this bench? Will that do?”
    “If you think you can keep your balance.” A polite way of pointing out that my hips were slightly wider than the seat.
    So I became horizontal, with my head toward the back wall. He lifted my ankle again, wrapping one arm around my lower leg, cradling my calf in his palm, and began to move my leg, bending the knee and hip. “Any pain?”
    “No more than before,” I said. “My knee just feels stiff— oh! ” Slow and gentle had changed to one swift knee bend and the pain was blinding.
    “Where?” he asked.
    “From my knee up toward my hip.”
    “Here?” Still cradling my calf, he used the fingertips of his other hand to trace a path up my thigh.
    It tickled, almost sensually, and I was reminded