'Don't worry,' she said, turning quickly and facing me. Her voice had risen, a sour reed solo superimposed on the Sacher-torte music.
'Don't worry,' she repeated, 'I won't get in your way. You want something, just ask. Cause you're the doctor And I'll do anything that'll help that poor little baby-contrary to what you think, I care about her, okay? Fact is, I'll even go down and get you coffee if that impresses you and keeps your attention on her, where it should be.
I'm not one of those feminists think it's a sin to do something other than push meds. But don't pretend to be my friend, okay? Let's both of us just do our jobs without talky-talk, and go about our merry ways, okay? And in answer to your question, I was out at the house exactly two times-months ago. Okay?'
She walked to the opposite end of the station, found another form, picked it up and began reading. Squinting, she held it at arm's length. She needed reading glasses. The smug smile returned.
I said, 'Are you doing something to her, Vicki?'
Her hands jerked and the paper dropped. She bent to pick it up and her cap fell off. Bowing a second time, she retrieved it and stood up rigidly. She was wearing a lot of mascara and a couple of specks had come loose below one eye.
I didn't budge.
'No!' A whisper with lots of force behind it.
Footsteps turned both of our heads. The maintenance man came out into the hall, pulling his vacuum. He was middle-aged and Hispanic, with old eyes and a Cantinflas mustache.
'Sumtin' else?' he said.
'No,' said Vicki. 'Go.'
He looked at her, raised an eyebrow, then yanked on the machine and towed it toward the teak doors. Vicki watched him, hands clenched.
When he was gone, she said, 'That was a horrible question! Why do you have to think such ugly thoughts why does anyone have to be doing anything to her? She's sick!'
All her symptoms are some sort of mystery illness?'
'Why not?' she said. 'Why not? This is a hospital. That's what we get here-sick kids. That's what real doctors do. Treat sick kids.'
I maintained my silence.
Her arms began to rise and she fought to keep them down, like a subject resisting a hypnotist. Where the cap had been, her stiff hair had bunched in a hat-sized dome.
I said, 'The real doctors aren t having much luck, are they?'
She exhaled through her nose.
'Games,' she said, whispering again. Always games with you people.'
'You seem to know a lot about us people.'
She looked startled and swiped at her eyes. Her mascara had started to run and the knuckles came away gray but she didn't notice them; her glare was fixed on me.
I met it, absorbed it.
The smug smile came back on her face. 'Is there anything else you want, sir?' She pulled bobby pins out of her hair and used them to fasten the wedge of white starch.
'Have you told the Joneses your feelings about therapists?' I said.
'I keep my feelings to myself. I'm a professional.'
'Have you told them someone suspects foul play?'
'Of course not. Like I said, I'm a professional!'
