Dr. Dan Ryan’s office is large and modern, the walls decorated with posters listing the signs and symptoms of a dozen different diseases. Dee Dee reads them over while she and Gypsy wait for the doctor to make his entrance. Psoriasis causes joint pain. Hypoglycemia causes excessive sweating. Dee Dee takes careful mental notes.
“Well, I’ll be,” she says. “No matter how long you live, you just keep learning.”
Gypsy, who is busy tearing a callus from her right palm, refuses to quit pouting.
“I still don’t see why I’ve gotta wear this dumb bandana,” she says.
“There’s nothing dumb about it,” Dee Dee says. “Light blue compliments your eyes. Besides which, you can’t go around in that silly hat every day of your life. A doctor’s office is a dignified place.”
Gypsy starts to protest, stops when the door swings open and Dr. Ryan steps into the room.
“How are we doing today?” he asks.
“Good,” Gypsy tells him.
“Oh, you’d say ‘good’ if you were drowning in quicksand,” Dee Dee says. “Let the doctor decide how you are.”
Dr. Ryan grins at Gypsy.
“Well, good isn’t a bad place to start,” he says. “What brings you here today?”
There’s something about him that Dee Dee instantly dislikes. She doesn’t approve of his grass-stained tennis shoes, the gel in his spiky white hair, the metallic-smelling aftershave. A doctor should be plain, neutral. You shouldn’t notice anything about him at all.
“Oh, you’re going to earn your money today, Doctor,” she says.
She lists Gypsy’s ailments, from asthma to cancer, eczema to paralysis. Dr. Ryan’s eyes grow wide. Dee Dee wonders if he saw yesterday’s episode of Mornings with Anne-Marie.
“Well, let’s have a look at you,” Dr. Ryan says, adjusting his stethoscope. He listens to Gypsy’s heart, looks inside her ears, sticks a tongue depressor in her mouth and asks her to cough, does a double-take when he sees her blackened, crumbling teeth. He has her push against his hands with all of her might, turn her head as far to the left and right as it will go.
“Any of that hurt?” he asks.
“Nope,” Gypsy says.
“She’s been in pain her whole life, Doctor,” Dee Dee says. “She wouldn’t know the difference.”
Dr. Ryan jots a few notes on Gypsy’s chart.
“She has quite a history,” he tells Dee Dee. “We’ll need her full medical records.”
He must not watch Anne-Marie, Dee Dee thinks. Probably out getting in an early round of golf.
“That’s the problem, Doctor. We’re transplants. Maybe ‘refugees’ is the word. All her records got washed away in Katrina. But I got every detail stored up here,” Dee Dee says, tapping her skull. “Anything you want to know, just ask.”
“Sounds like the two of you have been through the ringer,” Dr. Ryan says.
“And we’re stronger for it, God willing.”
Dr. Ryan runs the backs of his fingers over his clean-shaven cheeks while he considers his next step.
“Do me a favor, Gypsy. Stand up for me.”
“But I told you, Doctor,” Dee Dee says, “the girl’s paralyzed.”
“Still, I’d like to see her try.”
Dee Dee moves to Gypsy’s side, places a hand under her elbow.
“No, no,” Dr. Ryan says. “I need her to do it alone.”
“My girl hasn’t stood on her own two feet since…since forever.”
Ryan crouches in front of Gypsy, pats her arm.
“Why don’t you try it for me?” he says. “I’ll catch you if you fall.”
“All right,” Gypsy says. “I’ll try.”
She’s trembling, biting at her lower lip.
“Good girl,” Dr. Ryan says.
He positions himself behind the wheelchair. Gypsy pushes on the armrests, rises without so much as wobbling. Dee Dee, tears in her eyes, lets out a little gasp.
“Excellent,” Dr. Ryan says. “Now, can you turn so that you’re facing me?”
Gypsy looks at her mother. Dee Dee appears panic-stricken, as though her daughter is navigating a ledge thirty stories above street level.
“Go ahead, now,” Dr. Ryan says. “Give it a shot.”
Gypsy pivots one foot, then the next. Her slippers make a dragging sound on the floor as she shuffles 180 degrees. Her movements are stiff, unnatural, but she has little difficulty reversing direction. Dr. Ryan flashes a big smile.
“Your legs look strong to me,” he says. “I don’t see any reason why you can’t walk.”
“I told you why,” Dee Dee says. “I told you plenty of reasons why. Don’t forget, I been there since the beginning. I been through it all with her.”
Gypsy sits back down, awkwardly, looking as though she’s been reprimanded. Dr. Ryan crosses his arms, leans back against a counter lined with canisters of cotton swabs and syringes.
“I tell you what, Gypsy,” he says. “We’re going to try a brand-new test. You aren’t afraid of the dark, are you?”
“No sir.”
“What kind of test?” Dee Dee asks, suspicious.
“It’s totally safe, and totally painless,” Dr. Ryan says, speaking directly to Gypsy. “We use it to check for nerve damage. All you have to do is keep your eyes on a small circle of light while it moves around a dark room. Any time the light vanishes, you clap your hands. Simple, right?”
Gypsy nods.
“I guess that’s okay,” Dee Dee says, trying to hide her scowl.
“Very good,” Dr. Ryan says. “I just need to move you to the testing room at the end of the hall.”
Dee Dee stands, picks up her purse.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Blancharde,” Dr. Ryan says. “You’ll have to sit this one out.”
Her stare stops just short of a snarl.
“I never sat out a thing in my girl’s life.”
“I’m sorry, but the testing room will only accommodate a single patient. We won’t be long.”
Dee Dee debates whether or not to walk out right then and there, but Gypsy, who has taken a liking to this new doctor, says: “Don’t worry about me, Mama. I’ll be fine.”
Before Dee Dee can respond, Dr. Ryan is holding the door open, and Gypsy is wheeling herself into the hall.