Hot Springs (9 page)

Another nurse brought them to an examination room, where they had to wait again, which they both did quietly. The doctor knocked and entered. He was young, with a reddish nose and glasses, and looked like a third-rate comedian, but he didn’t try to be funny. He listened to Emily’s chest, poked a tongue depressor into her mouth, shined his light into her eyes, then peered into her ears.

“Well,” he said.

“It’s been like four days.”

“How’s her appetite?”

“What appetite?”

“I see. Aren’t you hungry, Emily?”

She didn’t answer.

“Emily?”

“Try calling her Pearl,” said Bernice. “I know, it’s weird.”

“Aren’t you hungry, um, Pearl?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“Do you have any favorite foods?”

“Pop-Tarts,” she said. “And spaghetti.”

“But not together.”

“No,” she said. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Wise.” He returned to Bernice. “It’s an infection. Otitis media. You’ll just want to keep an eye on her temperature, make sure she’s well hydrated.” He studied her forms for a moment, then looked up. “Do you have a regular pediatrician?”

“Oh, sure,” said Bernice. “Back east. We’re just out here visiting right now.”

He wrote something on a pad. “Give her these, too.”

“Give them to her where?”

“In the ear. It’s an ear infection.”

“It is?” Relief flooded her—just knowing something specific was so much better than the vague feeling of dread she’d been living with, the expectation of calamity and failure. “How did that happen?”

“Impossible to say. Kids get them. But she should be over it soon enough.”

She wondered if the red spot on his nose embarrassed him. She wondered if maybe he wasn’t such a good doctor, what with working at this Jack-in-the-Box clinic. “But other than that, she looks pretty good to you?”

He nodded. “Oh, yes, I’d say so.”

“Nothing I should be, like, watching out for or anything?”

“Keep her oil changed and new tires on her and she’ll run forever.”

She examined the prescription he’d torn off. “And I just take this someplace?”

“That’s right. I’ve got some samples I can give you, too.” He dug around in a drawer and came up with two little cardboard boxes. “That’ll start you up. She should be feeling better in a few days.”

“Where would you suggest?”

“For what?”

“Where would you suggest I take this?”

“Any pharmacy will do. Albertsons.”

He had a wedding ring on. She thought about his wife, his house, the life that she was only seeing the very tip of. “Do you like Eddie Murphy?” she asked.

His eyebrows lifted, little furry drawbridges.

“Not the later stuff,” she said, “but back when he was funny. You can rent it on video. He did one skit where he pretended to be white for a day, and suddenly he found out that everyone else was in on something.” Vasily had had a fascination with Eddie Murphy, in particular the movie
48 Hours
, but also compilations of old
Saturday Night Live
routines, and she’d sat next to him for repeated viewings, the two of them smoking cigarettes, he barking his hyena laugh. “Like, he gets on a bus and there’s one black guy sitting reading a paper, and then at the next stop that guy gets off, and as soon as he does, the bus turns into this big party where they’re serving drinks and there’s balloons and confetti.”

“Balloons?”

“Exactly. And when he buys a paper—this was before he got on the bus—the guy at the newsstand won’t take his money. White people don’t have to pay for things, it turns out.”

“I don’t watch that much television.”

“Just once, I’d like to get on that party bus, that’s all. But I guess if I want that to happen, I’ll have to disguise myself like I’m white.”

The doctor was now thoroughly confused. “But you are white.”

“I know, I know.” How to explain it to this person? It was impossible. He was a member of it, that other world they wouldn’t let her be a part of. Or was it just that she’d chosen not to be? “Listen, I’m sorry. Thanks for these.” She put the samples into her purse.

“Would she like a lollipop?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Bernice. “Maybe we should ask
her
.”

He bent down in front of Emily. “Would you like a lollipop?”

“Yes, please,” she said, and Bernice was filled with pride at how polite her child was, even if this had nothing to do with her at all.

The doctor stood back up. “They have a jar of them out by the desk,” he said. He tore off a sheet of paper from his clipboard and held it out. “Give this to them, too. And remember, plenty of fluids!”

The bill came to an even one hundred dollars. She paid with her credit card. When she got herself situated, she’d have to contact Visa, let them know she’d moved. All those things she’d done to establish herself—cable, phone, her Pikes Peak district library card—all those things that made her
her
, she’d simply walked away from. Again. She wanted to be someplace. To be there, and to belong there. She signed the slip, handed it back to the receptionist.

“Thank you,” she said to Emily as they exited the building into the hot sunlight. “You were really good with all that.”

“You’re welcome,” said Emily, taking her hand. “Do you feel better now?”

The next day they all piled into Gillian’s Neon and drove to Nogales. They parked on the U.S. side in a big lot for five dollars and then walked to the border. As they were waiting to go through the gate, a Mexican boy of about twelve came sprinting past them, pursued energetically by a border-patrol guard who managed to catch him halfway up the block. The guard picked the kid up under one arm and hauled him, laughing, back to the other side. It was clear this was a game for the kid, and Bernice found it reassuring that the patrols weren’t under a shoot-to-kill order. Not yet.

“What are they doing?” asked Emily.

“Well, we’re here, in the United States. Over there, where we’re going, that’s another country. It’s a lot poorer in Mexico, so those folks want to be over here.” They were moving along toward the entrance, shuffling with the crowd.

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why is it poorer?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Because life isn’t fair. Some people, like us, get all kinds of nice stuff. Other people have to live on tortillas and work for fifty cents an hour.”

“Mexico used to be part of Spain,” Gillian explained. “And Spain is a very poor country. I’ve been there. The people who settled Mexico brought their way of life with them.”

“Where are you getting your information?” said Bernice. She wondered if the Paxil Gillian was on—she’d seen a huge vial of it in the medicine cabinet—was making her stupid.

“I did a Eurail pass the summer after my junior year.”

“I don’t think Mexico is poor because of
Spain
. Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t,” said Emily.

“Don’t what?”

“Say that.”

“Isn’t she—you know?” Gillian gave her the kind of look that Bernice associated with sex talk, or perhaps money.

“I have no idea what you are trying to say.”

“Technically, I mean. If your mother is, then isn’t it sort of automatic?”

“Are you trying to say ‘Jewish?’” Emily sucked more water from the bottle Bernice had given her. Her skin still looked ashy—almost green—but now that Bernice knew the problem, she felt far more in
control about everything. An ear infection! Kids got them all the time! “Sure,” said Bernice. “Absolutely. She’s exactly as Jewish as I am.”

“Jesus loves me,” said Emily, brightly.

“Antibiotics love you,” said Bernice.

“It’s pronounced differently over here,” said Gillian, brightly. “It’s
hay-zoose.
”

“Gesundheit,” said Bernice.

They emerged into a very different scene from the one on the U.S. side. The streets were strewn with trash, and there were dogs everywhere, those yellow, lowest-common-denominator ones that were the product of mixing and mixing breeds until you had more or less reinvented the Ur-dog, the one that had first hung around some Stone Age campfire whining for bones and begun the long process of training mankind to take care of it.

They did what they were supposed to do in a border town choking with hand-painted pottery and cheap leather goods and wrought-iron knick knacks. Gillian wanted to go into all the shops, while Bernice was mostly interested in finding a bottle of tequila—the thing she’d agreed to in the first place—and going back. She didn’t like being away from the apartment in case Landis might call. But on the other hand, if he did call, it occurred to her that she shouldn’t answer anyway. This had been her advice to Gillian about Kirk, and another reason for the trip to Nogales—a way to get her mind off him and not to be there in case he called, which Bernice had assured Gillian he would.

Finally, they headed to a restaurant Gillian knew about and recommended. It was on the second story, above a courtyard, and one wall was built right into the rock of the adjacent hillside. Men with guitars wandered from table to table singing the “Ay yi yi yi” song and asking for tips, and Bernice wondered at what point it was that her life had turned into a bad play with no director.

They ordered off the English menu, a blackboard that the waiter brought over and held up for them. There was no pasta, but Emily liked corn chips and Bernice had discovered that she’d also eat guacamole, so they got some. When it came, Emily lowered her head.

“Stop doing that,” said Bernice.

Emily’s eyes were closed, her small face scrunched up with intensity.

“What do you pray for?” asked Gillian.

“That the cook washed his hands,” said Bernice. “That the avocados were picked by union labor.”

“No, seriously.” Emily had finished and now picked a chip out of the bowl. “What?”

“I prayed for Mommy.”

“Which Mommy is that?” asked Bernice. “Because this one doesn’t need praying for, as I think I’ve mentioned to you before. I can’t speak for that other lady you used to live with, though. She might be in all kinds of trouble.”

Emily looked at her the same way Mrs. Charno had back in seventh-grade French class when Bernice had pretended not to be able to read the passage called “Dimanche en Famille,” even though they both knew she was just doing it to be difficult and make points with her classmates.

“Both of you.” She smiled. “In heaven, it’s always sunny, and you don’t have to eat asparagus.”

“You don’t like asparagus?”

“I like Archibald Asparagus. Do you know Archibald Asparagus?”

“Do you know what she’s talking about?” asked Bernice. “Because I sure don’t.”

“I think it’s something from a kids’ show,” said Gillian. “Is that right?”

“Emily,” said Bernice. “Or Pearl. Listen to me. That could be Tucson you’re describing. Do you understand? You don’t have a demon in you, you have an ear infection. You don’t have to eat anything you don’t want to, ever. And sunny days—well, you’ll have a lot of them. And then sometimes it will rain, but then that will just make you appreciate the sunny days even more when they come back. But most important of all is this: You are not a Christian. I know they told you Jesus wants you for a sunbeam, or whatever, but it isn’t true. Say it after me, OK? I am not a Christian.”

“Bernie?” said Gillian. “Maybe you’re being a little hard on her.”

“Later on, if she has to be something, she can go ahead and decide for herself, but this has to be stopped right now.”

“I can’t,” said Emily.

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t say that.”

“Sure you can. Just open your mouth and repeat after me: I am not a Christian.” She pronounced each syllable individually. “See?”

Suddenly, Emily exploded. It was remarkable, really—zero to sixty in less than a second. A sound came out of her so anguished and high pitched, that for a moment Bernice thought the child must have been bitten by a snake. It repeated a few times, blasts on a factory whistle, before she moved on to something more recognizably like crying, her entire body heaving, wracked with sobs. Her nose had started to run, her face was red, and her little hands were clenched into frustrated fists, which she pounded against her own chest. It was as if for the past week the child had held on to every bit of her frustrations and emotions and was now letting them out in one great torrent.

Everyone in the restaurant turned to look at them. “Oh, boy,” said Gillian. “You really pushed her button.”

Bernice was alarmed. “Do you think she’s OK?” She put an arm around Emily, who didn’t acknowledge her and just continued crying, though now her wailing had turned to something almost like a whisper, in between short gasps. “Baby, are you OK?”

Gillian drank some of her water. “You know, in a way, this is the most normal I’ve seen her be. I mean,
this
I recognize. That other stuff, the junior Pat Robertson act, that’s strange.”