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to have created some closeness between the patients. It brought
a common thread to their consciousness. They are probably all lying
to someone close about their whereabouts this morning. Yet they
all know the truth about each other with out even knowing each
other’s names. There is one old native American man sitting
in the row across from Veronica. He is wearing a cheap light blue
suit and his face is wrinkled with deep lines. His face is a map
to his harsh history. There is a beautiful blonde woman in her
twenties that Veronica thinks she recognizes from a Fox TV series.
She is wearing gym clothes (she probably lied about having gone
to the gym.) Next to her is another face, and across to their right,
there is another long bench with a face, another face, and a few
more faces. Most people are reading fashion and health magazines,
but some eyes are also surveying each other – peeking at
their peers from behind colorful, square shields of glossy magazines.
Veronica notices a young black boy with an afro and huge curious
brown eyes sitting by himself. “David Harper,” the receptionist calls, and the boy stands up and follows the receptionist down the hall. He is alone in the lab and is holding a beaten-up Raggedy Ann doll close to his chest. Tears are running down his face. Veronica wonders whether he should see a more conventional doctor, one that can prescribe him Ridelin or Prozac. The woman puts her cell phone away, and turns to the man sitting beside Veronica. “So why are you here? You don’t strike me as the type that would need to learn how to stop crying?” She develops an awkward yet flirtatious smile, second-doubting her invasive question. “Well, I guess I put on a good show, then. I’m here for the same reason you are. It’s hurting my career, if you know what I mean.” “Your career?” the woman questions. |
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