The testing room looks to Gypsy like any other doctor’s office. In fact, it is nearly identical to the one they just left: same table covered with the same brown paper, same posters on the walls, same canisters on the counter beside the sink.
“Before we begin,” Dr. Ryan says, “I just need to ask you a few more questions.”
“Okay,” Gypsy says, “but Mama’s the one who knows everything.”
“Some questions only you can answer.”
Gypsy blushes, fusses with her bandana.
“On a scale of one to ten,” Dr. Ryan begins, “how much pain would you say you’re in right now?”
“I don’t got no pain at all.”
“Are you hungry?”
Gypsy rolls her eyes.
“Always,” she says. “Problem is, I can’t eat nothing but that chocolate drink with the vitamins in it. And sometimes a banana for dessert.”
“Why not?”
“Real food makes me throw up. ’Cause of my condition.”
“What condition is that?”
“You heard Mama. I got all kinds of conditions. It’s like I collect ’em.”
“Okay, but what would you say is wrong with you?”
Gypsy shrugs.
“I guess I’m broken. All the way broken. Like all the little parts that make me up are rotting and I can’t do nothin’ about it except slow it down.”
“What your mother called a chromosomal defect?”
She nods.
“I see. Do you have any trouble sleeping?”
“Oh no. Mama gives me pills for that.”
Dr. Ryan finds her near-toothless smile charming. There’s nothing at all self-conscious about this girl; she just wants to live.
“Do you spend any time alone?” he asks.
“You mean without Mama?”
Dr. Ryan nods.
“Sometimes at night,” Gypsy says. “Before bed.”
“And what do you do then?”
“I like to go on the computer. Facebook, mostly. I’ve got friends from all over. My goal is to have one in every state. That way, if I ever get to travel…”
Her voice trails off as she considers the likelihood.
“Now, Gypsy,” Dr. Ryan says, “I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be completely honest with me. Can you do that?”
“Yes sir.”
“Do you ever act differently when you’re alone in your room?”
“Differently how?”
“Than you would when you’re with your mother. For example, do you ever get up and walk around?”
Gypsy’s response comes fast: “I can’t walk.”
“But we just saw you walk.”
“That was baby steps.”
“If you can take baby steps, then you can take real steps.”
Gypsy looks confused, maybe hurt.
“You think I wouldn’t tell my mama if I could walk?”
“No, I’m not saying that. But maybe you wouldn’t want to disappoint her?”
“Mama wants me to walk. She wants it more than anything.”
Gypsy is rattled now, as if she suspects Dr. Ryan of leading her gently toward betrayal. He decides to dial it back.
“Of course she does,” he says. “So why don’t you surprise her?”
“Surprise her?”
“I want you to practice walking, every night in your room. Just a little at a time until you get the hang of it. And then, when you’re ready, you walk out to breakfast like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”
Gypsy nods, smiles: she likes having a goal.
“Perfect,” Dr. Ryan says. “Now for the test.”
He shuts off the overhead, takes a pen light from his jacket pocket. Gypsy follows its tiny beam around the far wall. She claps hard any time it disappears. She wants Dr. Ryan to know she is trying.
* * *
They return to the original office, find Dee Dee pacing the floor.
“Well?” she asks.
“Inconclusive,” Dr. Ryan says. “If you don’t have her records, I’ll have to order a new battery of tests.”
“Your going to make her go through all that again?” Dee Dee says. “I told you, I got it all memorized, down to the last decimal point.”
“I’m sorry, but we need to have the results of her tests on record.”
“You want to torture the girl over some paperwork?”
“Of course I don’t want to,” Dr. Ryan says. “The question is, do you?”
Dee Dee feels her face flush with heat.
“Come on, Gypsy. We’re going.”
They’re halfway down the hall when Dr. Ryan hears Dee Dee say: “That man doesn’t have the slightest idea what he’s talking about.”