Josie Tolin<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Every week that summer the old woman hobbled into my office with a huge bag and a new ailment. Her concerns were understandable at first. When she complained her heartbeat felt irregular, I held a stethoscope to her chest to check for palpitations. \u201cIt\u2019s cold,\u201d she said as I listened, so I breathed on the little metal circle and tried again.<\/p>\n
\u201cAll normal,\u201d I said. She blinked, picked up her bag, and left.<\/p>\n
Late June she griped about the discoloration behind her ear. I shined my tiny white light on the problem area. A brownish lump stared back at me. \u201cThat\u2019s a mole,\u201d I said. I flicked off my flashlight and slid it into my pocket. \u201cWe\u2019ll keep an eye on it to see if it changes shape.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll see you next week then?\u201d she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder and darting out the door before I could tell her that wouldn’t be necessary.<\/p>\n
She started to visit more frequently for even less pressing matters. \u201cThe weather is humid,\u201d she\u2019d say as she barged into my office. I\u2019d ask her about her health, and she\u2019d tell me everything was fine, except for her hair, which stuck up like a cockatoo\u2019s in the damp heat. Her hair, she explained, was thick and wiry like her mother\u2019s: that\u2019s why she wasn\u2019t balding like everyone else her age. I sighed and told her not to come in unless she had an illness and she stormed out and came back the next day with red pox Sharpied onto her arm.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cShe won’t quit,\u201d I told my wife over breakfast-for-dinner. I shoved a French toast stick into my mouth and chewed.<\/p>\n
\u201cTell the secretary not to let her in.\u201d My wife shrugged. \u201cIt\u2019s a simple solution, really.\u201d She chased a piece of scrambled egg around the plate with her fork, stabbing it, swallowing.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I repeated. \u201cI mean, what if something goes terribly wrong and I shoo her away and she dies because no one\u2019s listening?\u201d<\/p>\n
My wife sat there, massaging the bridge of her nose.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s in the bag?\u201d I finally asked the old woman during her next visit. That morning, she\u2019d forced me to sniff her toes three times before I convinced her there was nothing to worry about: feet just smell worse in the summer.<\/p>\n
She pulled a sweater box from her tote as if she\u2019d been waiting for me to ask. \u201cA sweater box?\u201d I said, crossing my arms, swiveling unimpressed in my doctor chair. She lifted the lid without answering. Inside was a dead cat with an open mouth, its fur caked and gnarled like the threads of an old bathmat. I turned to face the wall, taking the five deep breaths my therapist had recommended. When I swung back around she\u2019d already stowed the box in her enormous bag. She\u2019d looked docile then, cross-legged on the examining table with her hands folded in her lap.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat the fuck?\u201d I said. \u201cSorry, I mean, what the hell? Sorry, I mean — ”<\/p>\n
The old lady didn\u2019t flinch. \u201cLike Schr\u00f6dinger\u2019s Cat, you know?\u201d<\/p>\n
I snorted. \u201cYou\u2019re carrying around a dead animal, not a quantum physics theorem.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut in this moment you don’t know if it\u2019s alive or dead.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI saw it. It\u2019s dead. I know what dead things look like. It\u2019s dead dead dead.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don’t know that. The box is closed. The cat is out of your sight.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShow it to me again.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat won\u2019t help my point.\u201d The old woman stood to leave.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cYou won\u2019t believe what she did yesterday,\u201d I said to my wife over dinner-for-breakfast. I twirled spaghetti around my fork, slurping the coil from its prongs.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d my wife asked between milkshake gulps.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe showed me her dead cat. She keeps it with her, boxed in her bag.\u201d<\/p>\n
My wife shrugged again. Those days, nothing surprised her. \u201cShe\u2019s insane.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah,\u201d I parroted. \u201cReally insane.\u201d<\/p>\n
My wife tapped her fingernails on the counter, waiting for me to say something else. I grabbed my car keys from their hook and left without making eye contact.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cThe mole is changing shape,\u201d the old woman said.<\/p>\n
\u201cLet\u2019s see.\u201d I grabbed my mini flashlight and shined it behind her ear. She was right — it\u2019d grown from dime- to quarter-sized in a matter of months. I shivered.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
August ended the day the melanoma biopsy read malignant. I walked her out to the exit sign. \u201cThanks,\u201d I said, \u201cfor keeping me company this summer.\u201d The words felt stupid even then, but I meant them, I think. The old woman looked down at her shoes and nodded.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
She killed herself with the radio on in her bedroom that night, or so I was told by my secretary, whose cousin was friends with the neighbor who\u2019d found her dangling from the ceiling fan. Small town news travels in a strange way.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s like she needed a doctor\u2019s permission to die, I thought as I read the obituary in bed by lamplight. I placed the newspaper on my nightstand and told my wife what\u2019d happened. She was grateful but wouldn’t say it. \u201cSometime soon,\u201d she said, \u201cwe\u2019ll go a night without talking about the bag woman. The bag woman was — the bag woman is<\/em> — not so good for our sex life.\u201d She slid in earplugs, rolled over, and pretended to sleep. I stared at the ceiling and thought about how every moment in my entire life had led to that one.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n The old woman still wouldn’t leave me alone. I saw her in the bathroom mirror as I brushed my teeth before bed and on the train to Chicago for a medical conference. One moment she was in the waiting room reading People <\/em>magazine with her legs crossed. The next, she wasn’t. She was everywhere and nowhere. She was alive and dead.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n JOSIE TOLIN <\/strong>is a flash fiction enthusiast and Indiana native. She holds a B.A. in English and Spanish from the University of Michigan – Ann Arbor.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Josie Tolin Every week that summer the old woman hobbled into my office with a huge bag and a new ailment. Her concerns were understandable at first. When she complained her heartbeat felt irregular, I held a stethoscope … Continue reading