Alone in the Wild(35)

April glances at Maryanne and nods. It looks like a curt nod, but it’s simple efficiency, as she strides past us to set down her bag. Maryanne could be any patient in the clinic, just another job in April’s day, no greeting required.

We’ve fielded complaints about my sister’s lack of bedside manner. I direct the residents to Dalton, who reminds them that we spent the last fucking year without a fucking doctor, and now we have a fucking multi-degree neurosurgeon, and they’re complaining because she doesn’t ask how they’re fucking doing—which, considering she’s a fucking doctor, she’s going to find out anyway, isn’t she? That’s verbatim, although he may find an opportunity for another profanity that I’ve missed.

I think we should work on this with April. Dalton says no. Not a “Fuck, no” or even “Hell, no,” which means he isn’t adamantly opposed to a little gentle guidance, but since it’s not a lack of compassion, residents should adjust their expectations instead. As Dalton says, “They want a fucking hug? Talk to Isabel’s girls.” He has a point. He also said, “Would they complain so much if April was a man?” Ouch.

He’s right. I’m not sure I would have advocated for a softer touch if she were a man, and that stings. Especially when, as a cop, I’d been accused of not being “warm” enough, while no one ever said that to my male colleagues. It burns to realize I fell into the same trap, but it’s a reminder I need sometimes. Just because I advocate for gender equality doesn’t immunize me against promoting stereotypes. Even Dalton, who has never treated me differently than he would a male colleague, had an all-male militia until I arrived, and he’d never considered how that might discourage women from joining.

With Maryanne, though, I am glad of my sister’s cool professionalism. As April conducts a preliminary examination, Maryanne visibly relaxes. This is familiar. It’s what she would have expected for a routine physical. Check heart, check eyes, check throat, check teeth …

April checks the last as perfunctorily as the rest, without even a moment’s pause at the filed teeth. But then, after the quick assessment, she says, “Dental work will be required,” and Maryanne cringes, just a little.

“There’s a cavity at the back,” April says. “Possibly two. We have medication to help with those if they cause pain eating. The front teeth will require caps.”

“Caps…”

“Unless you planned to grow new ones, which I would not advise.”

Maryanne snorts a laugh at this, and I relax. My sister has been attempting humor lately. That’s one of the biggest hurdles with her condition—she struggles to understand jokes, and her silence marks her as humorless. She’s working on that. The problem, of course, is that with her absolute deadpan delivery, people usually aren’t sure she is kidding.

“I hadn’t considered caps,” Maryanne says. “That would work, I think.”

“It would. I have one on my left upper lateral incisor. Casey chipped off the corner. She threw a baseball for me to catch, and her aim was atrocious.”

“What?” I say. “When was this?”

“When you were three. You must remember, Casey.”

“Not if I was three, I don’t.”

“That may explain why you never apologized.”

“I’m sure I did at the time.”

“No.” She pauses. “You did cry. Quite a bit. I suppose that’s an apology.” Her tone says she’s granting me the benefit of the doubt here. A lot of benefit for a lot of doubt.

“Well, I am sorry,” I say. “Very sorry.”

“I suppose an apology twenty-nine years late is better than none at all.”

Maryanne laughs, though this, I know, is not a joke.

“April’s right,” I say. “Caps will fix your teeth.”

“They will cover the damage,” April says. “They will not ‘fix’ them. Nothing can be done about that. They’ve been filed. Intentionally. Whoever did that to her needs to be arrested, Casey. It’s assault, at the very least.”

“I did it to myself,” Maryanne says, her voice very quiet.

April frowns. “For what purpose?”

“April…” I say.

“No, it’s all right,” Maryanne says. “I know you need to hear my story, Casey. Whether it’s to help with this baby or the poor dead woman or the hostiles in general, you need it. I’m just not sure it will make much sense. It’s like … a fever dream. I’d never done drugs. Well, nothing stronger than marijuana, but we didn’t consider that any more a drug than alcohol. I certainly never experienced hallucinations with it.”

“You wouldn’t,” April says. “Marijuana is not a hallucinogenic drug.”

Maryanne meets my gaze and the corners of her lips quirk, as if she’s figuring out my sister. She just says, calmly, “No, I suppose it isn’t. But I had friends who experimented with hallucinogens. Sometimes, what they experienced wasn’t so much a hallucination as a waking dream. It was real. Very real. That’s what it was like for me. It was real, and I had no sense that it wasn’t normal, that this wasn’t who I was.”

She stops. Squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. “No, that’s not … That’s not quite right. In the beginning…”