by Kim Savage
“Thanks,” I call. “For the blanket.”
You stop.
Inside me, the spark throws heat.
“You’re wrong, thinking I’m not happy that you’re back,” you say to the floor. “It’s exactly what I wished for.”
I squeeze a pillow against my chest hard and stare at the river. The sun drops, filling skyscraper windows and washing over the MIT dome. Then it falls into the river and sets it ablaze, then slips beneath the black water. The whole thing takes five minutes, maybe six.
A doctor’s appointment could be the beginning of the end. A missing mole, the wrong belly button, a comparison of ear shapes.
It’s like Mrs. Lovecraft says: in this city, pretty doesn’t last. But I think it will be worth every minute.
* * *
I have no idea what a doctor’s office is supposed to look like. Momma was excellent at forging my school vaccinations, but mainly, I was healthy and lucky for it. When I got true-sick, like the time my appendix popped, Momma brought me to the emergency room at the hospital. This doctor’s office is in Brookline in a building with a doorman and a marble-floored lobby stuffed with plants. Mrs. Lovecraft hits B for basement, and things change fast. In the hall, bare bulbs sizzle on the ceiling, and I can barely read the office numbers. It doesn’t matter though, because the door we approach is unmarked. Mrs. Lovecraft looks over her shoulder before turning the knob, then dips her head into her chest and pushes me gently into the waiting room.
The rug is stained and the plastic orange chairs are empty. I sniff: mold and cigarette smoke. The receptionist desk is empty. I’m about to ask Mrs. Lovecraft if maybe the appointment is tomorrow when a man appears around the corner and introduces himself as Dr. Krebs.
He has long hands and his lab coat is dirty.
I follow Dr. Krebs into an exam room where the equipment looks hella old, and also, why the metal stirrups? I turn to ask Mrs. Lovecraft if this is Temple’s doctor, but she’s backed her way out of the room and shut the door. Dr. Krebs pats a cushioned table and I stare. He pats it again, and I realize he’s telling me to sit, so I hoist myself up. He slaps a blood pressure cuff around my arm and sticks a thermometer in my mouth at the same time. When the cuff releases, he pulls out the thermometer and says, “Last period?”
“I don’t get my period,” I lie, because it’s none of his business.
“Sexually active?” he says.
I look at him in horror. Where is Ginny when I need her?
“You know my story, right?”
He peers over his glasses at me. His eyes are rimmed pink and the lashes are sparse and that face has a lot of rodent going on.
“Are you sexually active?” he repeats.
“No,” I say.
“Have you been sexually active?” he says.
“Shouldn’t Mrs. Lovecraft be in here?” I say. I do not like this man, and I don’t especially want Mrs. Lovecraft in here, but I’d also like these questions to stop.
“I’ll give Mrs. Lovecraft my thoughts following the exam.” He hands me a paper smock and tells me to undress except for my bra, which I should leave unhooked.
“What kind of an exam is this?” I ask.
“A thorough one. Look, Vivienne. The sooner you undress, the sooner you’re on your way. We both have a job to do. Let’s do our jobs.”
My job is to be Vivi. Is his job to make sure? I wait for him to leave and yank my sweater over my head. He returns before I finish tying the smock. Holding up one long yellow hand, he says “No need,” grabs my wrists and stretches my arms like wings, examining.
“Lie back, please.”
Five seconds later, that yellow hand is in places I swore no man would ever go again. He keeps asking me to scoot down. I shut my eyes so tight they water. Finally, he’s done.
“What was that for exactly?” I hiss, grabbing for my clothes. Vivi Weir might tolerate being groped, but Jolene Chastain freed herself from bad men, and she isn’t having it.
He snaps off his rubber gloves and tosses them in the trash. “To determine if you’re pregnant, and if you have any communicable diseases.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a routine exam, Vivienne. You can get dressed.”
I get dressed, trembling to get in character, because Vivi couldn’t have stood Dr. Krebs’s grabby hands the way Jolene did—Jolene, who’s had worse and got stronger for it. When Mrs. Lovecraft walks in, I leap for her, wrap my arms around her neck monkey-style, and cry. She strokes the back of my head and shushes me.
Dr. Krebs turns away coldly.
Mrs. Lovecraft unwraps my arms and smooths her hair. “I think we’ve had enough for one day. I’ll call you from home and we can discuss the results.”
“Sounds just right.” Dr. Krebs sheds his lab coat like he wants to shed us. He is acting like a TV doctor forced at gunpoint into fixing a criminal’s wound, and I resent that, because he doesn’t know jack about me, and I sure hope it isn’t going to be like this with every doctor/person who doubts that I am who I say I am, because then it’s only a matter of time before their suspicions infect the Lovecrafts.
You might be infected already.
Mrs. Lovecraft extends her hand. “Thank you, Dr. Krebs.”
Dr. Krebs shakes it, then pumps my hand with a smirk. “Welcome back, Vivienne. I hope you enjoy your new home.”
We slip into a car that Mrs. Lovecraft has called up on her phone. City driving makes her nervous, she explains, so she leaves her big SUV home, in case Slade should need it. Which makes little sense, since Slade is apparently nocturnal. I’m starting to realize Slade’s purpose seems to be to guard the Lovecrafts when they are home, which I guess is reasonable if your house is the kind of place children get stolen from.
As soon as we’re buckled in, she starts.
“Dr. Krebs is not our usual family doctor. He’s a friend of a friend, but he came strongly recommended, and he’s discreet. It’s better to avoid the more public places people expect us to go. Until we get our proper footing, see?”
I don’t answer, because my head is against the glass and Dr. Krebs’s manual explorations have me bugging. In Immokalee, I could shake bad thoughts by replacing them with good ones. The antidote to bad men like Dr. Krebs is Wolf. Wolf in our tent and the tire covered by the crusty tablecloth printed with strawberries. You couldn’t set things on it, if we’d had things, because of the hole in the middle. The tire-table sat between his bed and mine, and by bed I mean crushed cardboard boxes covered with blankets. Mine has—had, I have to think Wolf is using it by now—that old foam egg crate underneath, which Wolf found but insisted I use. Two beds were silly, because not a night went by when I didn’t end up freezing and curled next to Wolf, nose pressed to his skin, making sure he knew how much I liked it, because Wolf is not a boy who likes his own skin. If Wolf could, he would take off his own skin and leave it on a bus seat. Climb right off that bus and walk away from it.
Mrs. Lovecraft gazes ahead in her dark sunglasses.
I clear my throat. “The doctor had cold hands,” I say.
The corners of Mrs. Lovecraft’s mouth curl. She lets go of a laugh, a loose, beautiful sound, not like any I’ve heard before. The relief is sweet and I am glad I chose to say something dopey, because dopey is right, dopey works with these people.
“What Dr. Krebs lacks in bedside manner he makes up for in discretion,” she says, giggling.
That word: discretion. Twice now she’s used it. It’s not often I have to look a word up, but I will when we get home. That is not, however, the question I want answered right now. “Can I ask you a question?”
“What is it?”
“Is Temple glad that I’m back?”
Mrs. Lovecraft’s forehead falls. She reaches for my hand, and hers is cool but mine is hot with fear. Is this where she says it’s not working out? That I’ll have to go away?
“We couldn’t be happier,” she says, still smiling.
I may not know every word
, but I am a close listener, and We is not She. Mrs. Lovecraft sees I’m upset. She twists to face me and pulls my hands to her chest.
“Oh, hey! Did I tell you we have something wonderful planned for tonight?”
We have something wonderful planned. Still, We. When will We narrow down to You?
“Vivi?” Mrs. Lovecraft waves her hand in front of my face. “We’re going to the symphony!”
* * *
There is a lot to this symphonying. A man came to fix Mrs. Lovecraft’s hair right at the kitchen counter, which was both gross and fascinating. When he saw mine, Mrs. Lovecraft murmured, “Whatever you can do,” a reference to the baby bangs I cut a month ago using nail scissors and a cracked compact mirror. The answer was a few passes with an iron that made things worse. In the end, he used extra-strength goop to slick back the bangs, and bobby pins from his magic black bag to tack my hair into a “messy bun” at the back of my head. I like the feel of it when I move. I can see myself in the door of the wall oven, and pulling hair away from my face shows off stuff I’ve never noticed. Like, that the line from my ear to my chin is pretty, or that my hazel eyes, while wrong, are also big and bright.
We are late because you have the responsibilities that make you you, which means precalculus homework, a makeup cello lesson, and a meeting with someone called an organizational specialist. Mr. Lovecraft shoves the sleeve of his tux up to check his watch for the third time. He is a man tuxes were made for, but I try not to notice his hotness because he is my dad now and that is wrong. I shimmy around, uncomfortable sitting on the counter stool in a white collared dress that I would not have picked, but that is clean and nice, and thank God I figured out how to get tights on because Vivi was definitely a tights-wearer. When you finally come downstairs, you take my breath away. My expectation of fancy symphony clothes involved satin; and maybe, fur, and this is what I imagined you’d be wearing, but you are schooling me and I like it. Your black sweater is supertight, and you’re wearing a full, silvery-gray, stiff skirt, which is the opposite of tight, so tight on top, fairy godmother on the bottom, and bam: you are perfection. Instantly you teach me that my ideas of elegant are babyish, and I have a lot to learn from you, and I will and this is good.
“Darling, you’re perfect,” Mrs. Lovecraft says, fingertips floating to her neck.
Mr. Lovecraft rises from his stool. “And we’re off!”
Mrs. Lovecraft swoops to you, clutching a glittery bag with one hand and kissing you lightly on the forehead while you text and ignore her. Watching that kiss pokes me, as do all mothery things that Momma’s last boyfriend took away from me, and I cannot get out of my own way about this, and I should because your eyes are suddenly on me.
“You look nice,” you toss out, like you just remembered I’m here. I spent my day in a paper smock and stirrups thinking about Wolf but mostly about you, while you were at school, back in with your friends and things, and I am less important than I was yesterday. You said I was what you’d wished for, but you don’t act like it. You’re more interested in your phone.
“Are you mad about something?” you say flatly.
“No,” I stammer, uncurling my balled fists. “I mean, what?”
You look to your mother. “She looks mad. Not now, but before.”
Mrs. Lovecraft’s brows pitch downward for a second. Then she laughs nervously and ducks into the hall.
“Vivi, I bought you a coat,” she calls out. “You’ll need to rip the tags off.”
You squeeze your eyes and cock your head, studying me. I don’t want to be studied. I slide off the stool to follow Mrs. Lovecraft out the door. I don’t need to wait for you; we’re not attached at the hip. My loyalty’s not to you, it’s to your mother and father—my mother and father.
Christ.
As we reach Symphony Hall, I start to shiver. It’s the dress’s fault. I don’t love wearing dresses, and even with the babyish tights, I’m cold. Spring in Boston is colder than it ever feels in Florida, and one winter on these godforsaken streets was enough for me. The snow that came days before Christmas was exciting for five minutes, until I realized snow can kill you when you live in a tent. But I don’t live in a tent anymore, I live with these people, and we are seconds from warmth. I’ve got this.
You give me a strange smile across the seat. I smile back coolly.
We park in an underground lot that surfaces on Massachusetts Avenue and wait until a cop whistles, signaling that we can cross. I stay close to Mrs. Lovecraft’s heels as we enter under a neon sign that reads POPS in shouty red bulbs. A million people jam into the fancy lobby, and is this how we keep a low profile? Walls are painted gold, and stairs wind up, carpeted with velvet. I am inside a massive jewel box, with columns and high arched doorways and whirling servers balancing champagne on trays. The Lovecrafts hand me a program that says this is a special night for Boston executives: Presidents at the Pops. Would Vivi have come to this? There are a few kids, in ties and froufrou dresses and patent leather shoes. As we mingle our way through the lobby, Mrs. Lovecraft comes close to my ear, saying Boston is more like a big town than a city. This is an explanation for the people who stop us every couple of steps to chat. I am introduced as the Lovecrafts’ “miracle,” and I feel you stiffen every time it’s uttered. You do not like this kind of attention, wouldn’t court it if you had a choice, and this is going to be a problem for us.
A woman with bright lemony hair and a chiffon pouf on one shoulder leans over me.
“I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it!” the lady exclaims, the champagne glass in her hand doing dangerous circles.
“Lanie!” Mr. Lovecraft says, sliding between the pretty lady and me and kissing her cheek. “You girls remember your third-grade teacher, Mrs. Higgins?”
My schoolteachers in Immokalee had big butts and angry lines between their eyebrows and didn’t hang out at schmaltzy events. This woman has white-tipped fingernails and she smells good.
“Retired now.” Mrs. Higgins points the glass at me. “But I’ve never stopped thinking about you.”
Mrs. Lovecraft starts in about the importance of taking my “reentry” slowly, but Mrs. Higgins isn’t listening. “You were a joy in class, Vivi. Always so inquisitive, so open!”
I smile, and the effect is of a rabid dog.
Mrs. Higgins taps a nail to her forehead. “It’s coming back to me now! A star reader, you were!”
My cheeks burn.
“You had the funniest habit of twisting your hair when you were thinking hard,” Mrs. Higgins adds, narrowing her eyes.
“We should probably be heading in,” Mr. Lovecraft says, looking around. “The lights just flickered.”
Mrs. Higgins juts her hip and leans back. “I’ll never forget how adorable your costume was for the wax museum project! Do you remember what you wore?”
I feel your hand slip into mine. “Do you, Vivi?” you say.
My mouth twitches. This is a trap.
“You looked like the biggest dork, in a turtleneck and glasses, pretending to be Steve Jobs!” you say suddenly, laughing and swinging my hand. And you are in Mrs. Higgins’s face, talking about how some science lesson she taught in third grade was the basis for an obsession with physics that drew you to fencing and …
… and I’m not following. Because all I can think of is how you rescued me from closer examination. There is love in the Lovecrafts’ eyes, for each other and for you, and I have the sense you just did something wonderful. These are pretty people who wear their kindness on their pretty sleeves, and these are my people. They are named correctly, they understand the craft of love, and I am further away from Tent City than I ever imagined. Mrs. Lovecraft pulls me closer and Mr. Lovecraft puts his arm around his wife and around you, and the four of us politely excuse ourselves from tipsy, dangerous Mrs. Higgins and make our way into the music hall.
I look up. My library is beautiful, but this place is beautiful-magical, a pop-up book of fairy tales, where Cinderella lost her sh
oe. It is made of cream cheese ribboned with gold. Crystal chandeliers drip from a honeycombed ceiling. Statues rise from shallow caves in the walls, and on the stage, empty white chairs and music stands crowd the floor. People fill every seat, even the three levels of balconies surrounding us, above.
You tug my hand. “Time to sit.” You lead me down a long aisle to seats so close we can touch the stage. We settle in chairs around a small table. “You don’t remember this place, do you?”
I pretend I can’t hear you above the roar of people.
“Our families came to the Presidents at the Pops together every spring,” you continue. “We sat in floor seats just like these every year.”
I let you pour me fancy water from a green bottle.
“It was a long time ago,” I say.
“A lifetime,” you say.
You fill in my blanks and it throws me. I’m relieved when the musicians appear onstage to applause. The conductor walks out last in a tux. He has a big personality but a little body, and he makes me smile when he talks to the audience, because he seems kind. He shrugs and raises his baton, and I become rigid in my seat, waiting, and the music is loud, and it fills my entire body. This is not the radio or the TV or the old laptop at Tent City someone jerry-rigged and I close my eyes and let it fill me. I feel the Lovecrafts watching, but I don’t care. They get pleasure from seeing me happy, and maybe Vivi liked music too, and if she didn’t, a girl can change.
Singers march out and line up in back. The conductor explains that the theme of the night is show tunes, and this is special. They launch into a bunch of songs that everyone seems to know, and the music swells, the end of one song running into the other, and the audience is supposed to sing along, so we do. To help us cheat, the words are projected on the wall behind the singers, and this is cornbally, old-fashioned fun, a sing-along with five hundred of your closest friends, and I can do this. Mr. Lovecraft has a smooth, deep voice, and I like hearing it rise above everyone else’s, and we sway together as we sing. You hold back. Everyone knows your voice is better, and you use about 20 percent of it, which is classy and sad at the same time. Or maybe you can’t use your whole voice because of the nodules thing, who knows? My heart is softening, and this is good but also dangerous. To have fun is to let down your guard.