huh?”
“No, none of mine are typical. It says you had an X-ray done two weeks ago at Bronx Community Hospital.”
“Yes.”
“We’ve tried to contact them, with no results. Now, we can either wait, or we can take another one, which I wouldn’t recom—”
“Take another one. Please. I want a completely separate opinion.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, let me see how soon we can have the room.”
He leaves me alone in the pit of my fears for a few naked minutes. He comes back and says we can go in a couple of minutes. Then he takes out a light purple stethoscope and starts warming it in his hands.
I say, “I thought all stethoscopes had to be regulation black.”
“Please, this is conservative. I could’ve chosen magenta or orchid, but I thought lavender went better with my scrubs. Deep breath.”
He raises the back of my gown and presses the stethoscope to my ribs, so I guess he means me. I oblige, staring blankly ahead.
“Again. Uh-huh. Again.” He moves it over a bit, then down, then he steps back and unplugs his ears. “There’s certainly a lot of wheezing, but not more than any former heavy smoker.”
He asks me about the blood. I tell him it’s happened a few times since I’ve been out here, like when a truck passes me on the road or the wind shifts and I get a lungful of incinerator ash from Kim Tungsten.
“I need to listen in front.”
Maybe I’m just kind of slow today, but it doesn’t really register. So he gently pulls down the front of my gown and places the thing on my chest. “Breathe.” I oblige. He’s in so close I can smell his cologne. Something leathery. Not my favorite. He straightens up.
“Let’s go for the X-ray.” He helps me off the examination table and leads me out into the hall. And suddenly I am very aware of a chill breeze blowing up my back, and I feel pretty silly holding my two hands behind me, one high, one low. I wonder if Judgment Day feels anything like this.
He stands me up behind the big screen and stays close to me, making adjustments. I read his ID badge three times.
“Please tell me your name is not Alan Wrennch,” I say.
“Well, I’m better off than my brother, Monkey,” he says. “Just kidding. My middle name is Stanislaus. I use Stan.”
“Then it’s okay if I call you Stan?”
“Sure. They shortened it when my grandparents came from Byelorussia in 1916.”
“From what? Wrennchowski?” He’s spelling my name out in lead letters to identify the image.
“Nobody remembers. Could have been Rabinowitz for all we know.”
“That’s ‘A.’”
“I beg your pardon?”
“B-u-s-c-a-r-s-e-l-a.”
“That’s quite a name yourself.”
“I think it’s two names run together. My family comes from a small mountain village in Ecuador. I think a few too many first cousins got married, half the town had the same last name and there was no way to tell anybody apart.”
“Hold still. Deep breath and hold it.” I oblige. Crrzzzap! “Okay, you can step down.”
“How is that possible?” I ask.
“What?” he says, pulling out the X-ray film and handing it through the door to a lab assistant. “Rush that back to me in Room E-Six.”
“That nobody knows your real name.”
“Oh, my grandmother was only four years old when they came and if she ever knew the old name she took that secret to her grave with her fifteen years ago.”
“Oh, sorry—”
“She had operable cancer, too. But the damn Upper East Side doctor didn’t bother to do what he should’ve until it was too late.”
“You mean, you know that now.”
“Yeah. ‘Oops. Your grandma’s dead and I could’ve prevented it—sorry. And oh by the way here’s your bill for twenty-three hundred dollars.’“
“So that’s when you decided to become a doctor?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Hmm. You see those shadows?”
“Yes.”
“Those are the scars from your exposure several years ago. The lesions don’t seem to have advanced beyond their
“No, none of mine are typical. It says you had an X-ray done two weeks ago at Bronx Community Hospital.”
“Yes.”
“We’ve tried to contact them, with no results. Now, we can either wait, or we can take another one, which I wouldn’t recom—”
“Take another one. Please. I want a completely separate opinion.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, let me see how soon we can have the room.”
He leaves me alone in the pit of my fears for a few naked minutes. He comes back and says we can go in a couple of minutes. Then he takes out a light purple stethoscope and starts warming it in his hands.
I say, “I thought all stethoscopes had to be regulation black.”
“Please, this is conservative. I could’ve chosen magenta or orchid, but I thought lavender went better with my scrubs. Deep breath.”
He raises the back of my gown and presses the stethoscope to my ribs, so I guess he means me. I oblige, staring blankly ahead.
“Again. Uh-huh. Again.” He moves it over a bit, then down, then he steps back and unplugs his ears. “There’s certainly a lot of wheezing, but not more than any former heavy smoker.”
He asks me about the blood. I tell him it’s happened a few times since I’ve been out here, like when a truck passes me on the road or the wind shifts and I get a lungful of incinerator ash from Kim Tungsten.
“I need to listen in front.”
Maybe I’m just kind of slow today, but it doesn’t really register. So he gently pulls down the front of my gown and places the thing on my chest. “Breathe.” I oblige. He’s in so close I can smell his cologne. Something leathery. Not my favorite. He straightens up.
“Let’s go for the X-ray.” He helps me off the examination table and leads me out into the hall. And suddenly I am very aware of a chill breeze blowing up my back, and I feel pretty silly holding my two hands behind me, one high, one low. I wonder if Judgment Day feels anything like this.
He stands me up behind the big screen and stays close to me, making adjustments. I read his ID badge three times.
“Please tell me your name is not Alan Wrennch,” I say.
“Well, I’m better off than my brother, Monkey,” he says. “Just kidding. My middle name is Stanislaus. I use Stan.”
“Then it’s okay if I call you Stan?”
“Sure. They shortened it when my grandparents came from Byelorussia in 1916.”
“From what? Wrennchowski?” He’s spelling my name out in lead letters to identify the image.
“Nobody remembers. Could have been Rabinowitz for all we know.”
“That’s ‘A.’”
“I beg your pardon?”
“B-u-s-c-a-r-s-e-l-a.”
“That’s quite a name yourself.”
“I think it’s two names run together. My family comes from a small mountain village in Ecuador. I think a few too many first cousins got married, half the town had the same last name and there was no way to tell anybody apart.”
“Hold still. Deep breath and hold it.” I oblige. Crrzzzap! “Okay, you can step down.”
“How is that possible?” I ask.
“What?” he says, pulling out the X-ray film and handing it through the door to a lab assistant. “Rush that back to me in Room E-Six.”
“That nobody knows your real name.”
“Oh, my grandmother was only four years old when they came and if she ever knew the old name she took that secret to her grave with her fifteen years ago.”
“Oh, sorry—”
“She had operable cancer, too. But the damn Upper East Side doctor didn’t bother to do what he should’ve until it was too late.”
“You mean, you know that now.”
“Yeah. ‘Oops. Your grandma’s dead and I could’ve prevented it—sorry. And oh by the way here’s your bill for twenty-three hundred dollars.’“
“So that’s when you decided to become a doctor?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Hmm. You see those shadows?”
“Yes.”
“Those are the scars from your exposure several years ago. The lesions don’t seem to have advanced beyond their
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