She’d always appreciated irony. So now she smiled—ironically, of course—as she thought about Richard Garza. An internist. An oncologist. He’d been young when she’d first gone to him. She’d liked that his last name was Garza. She’d liked that he spoke English as if he’d majored in it. She’d liked his face, his eyes, his warm, steady hands. She’d liked that he spoke Spanish as if he’d been raised in Mexico. She’d liked that he had olive skin and dark eyes and a Mayan nose. She’d liked that he asked questions and looked at you and didn’t pretend to know everything. She’d liked that he faxed her information about health issues that affected her. She’d liked the way he touched her when it was necessary that she be touched. A good doctor. An internist. An oncologist.
Mister had insisted he wasn’t the right man for the job—as if Mister knew.
“He’s not a woman’s doctor, Grace. Don’t you need a woman’s doctor?”
“A gynecologist?”
“Yeah, that.”
“If I need a gynecologist, then I’m sure he’ll send me to one. Besides, when I get cancer, I won’t have to change doctors.” She’d said that—laughing—years ago. And now, as she let that memory linger, she laughed again. She’d always appreciated irony.
The receptionist smiled at her, holding a question, but not asking it.
Grace signed in her name on the sheet. The waiting room was mostly empty—too late, everyone had gone home. She thought of pouring herself a cup of coffee, despite the fact that she’d already had too much of it for one day. Coffee. Her love for it had rubbed off on Mister. When he’d opened up his coffee shop, she hadn’t approved. “It’s your fault, Grace. Where the hell do you think I got the idea?” She took a deep breath, took in the smell of some kind of antiseptic cleaner and coffee. Not particularly good coffee, she could tell. But it was a doctor’s office, not Starbucks. She’d skip the coffee.
She sat down in the almost empty waiting room and looked at her watch. She thumbed through the stack of magazines. People, Newsweek, Business Week. Why couldn’t doctors order magazines like the Nation or Mother Jones or El Andar? She put the magazines aside. There was no reason to care about them.
She studied her watch. She was early for her 5:30 appointment. She was always early. Too afraid of being late—that’s what Sam had always said, “If you’re late once in a while, nothing bad will happen.”
“Nothing good will happen, either, Sam. What’s so great about keeping people waiting?”
“Important people keep other people waiting all the time.”
“Important people are rude.”
“Important people are busy.”
“Well, I never want to be that busy.”
He’d kissed her. That’s what he’d always done when he was losing an argument.
She’d been thinking about him lately. Could almost smell him. Too much. Too much of Sam. But it was better to think about him than think about the news Richard Garza was about to give her. She concentrated—turned her thoughts toward Mister. And then, as she whispered his name, she remembered that afternoon when he’d come home and confessed he’d gotten an F in English. He was in the eighth grade. He’d gone to his room and sat for what seemed like hours. When he came out, he said, “This is a list of books I need to read.” He’d looked at her and said, “Take me to the library.” And he’d read them all. And never stopped reading after that. Years later he’d confessed, “I was getting back at you.”
“For what?”
“You loved books. So I decided to fight you.”
“What made you decide to stop fighting me?”
He’d smiled at her. “I figured out I’d never win.”
Maybe he’d gotten tired of never winning. Maybe he’d gotten tired of trying to please her. Anyway, Grace, you can’t be pleased. Isn’t that what he’d accused her of? And he was more right than wrong. She’d wanted to tell him that he pleased her more than he could imagine, but that’s not what she’d said to him. What had she said? She couldn’t remember now.
“Grace Delgado.” She looked up at the woman who called her name. She walked down the hallway into Dr. Garza’s office, and for an instant she wanted to turn back. She took a deep breath. No one can run from a storm. She smiled back at Dr. Garza’s nurse.
“How are you Grace?”
“Fine, Flora. Fine.”
“How’s your son?”
It comforted her, this small talk. “Oh, he’s the same.” She knew the routine. She got on the scale as she talked.
“I love his coffee shop.”
“He works hard.” She watched Flora’s hands as she pushed the weights of the scale.
“Work, Grace, it saves us and it kills us.” She wrote down her weight on the form. “You’ve lost a little weight.”
“A little.”
“Gain it back, damnit. You’re making the rest of us look bad.”
Grace laughed. She looked at the scale before she got off. Five pounds. Without even trying. Women her age didn’t lose weight without trying.
As she got off the scale, she caught sight of Richard Garza. “Grace? Como estas?”
His Spanish comforted her even more than the ritual of small talk. “Encatanda de ver nacida.”
He smiled. “That’s nice. Didn’t know you were so poetic.”
She shook her head. “Something I read in a novel.”
She followed him into his small office. Neither of them said a word as they settled in. He took out her file, flipped it open. She knew he was studying the files more out of nervousness than anything else. He looked at her, smiled, then quickly looked back at the files. He’d keep his head in those files all evening if she’d let him. “No matter how hard you stare at those damn things, the results won’t change.”
He put the file down. “Grace, I wish I had better news.”
“Just don’t lie to me.” She had the urge to laugh. “Not that you’re any good at it. Bet your wife wins all your arguments.”
He bit the side of his mouth, then nodded.
She could see there were tears in his eyes. She thought more of him for their presence. Sam, he’d have cried, too.
“I wish there was—Grace, it’s not the end. I think we should—”
She placed her finger on her lips, stopping him in mid-sentence. “Richard. Let’s save the talk for another day.”
“Grace—” She saw his lips moving, but she didn’t hear a thing. She wished Sam were in the room so he could hold her.