Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Maddy did not shower or change her clothes, and her mother is not pleased. Embarrassed to be associated with Maddy’s appearance and odor and wanting to make a point, her mother sits three seats to the right of Maddy in Dr. Taber’s waiting room, leaving two empty chairs between them, as if the receptionist and the mother of the toddler squatting over a farm-animal puzzle can’t figure out their relationship. Or care. Maybe if Maddy stays in this grimy outfit all summer, her mother will continue to leave her alone.

Clipboard in her lap, Maddy begins filling out the intake forms handed to her by the receptionist. She remembers the ridiculous top page from last year.

Do you brush and floss your teeth daily?

She hasn’t gotten around to unpacking yet; her electric toothbrush is in one of her duffel bags.

Yes

Do you wear sunscreen when you are outdoors?

Never.

Yes

Do you always wear a helmet when riding a bike?

She rode a Citi Bike from somewhere in Brooklyn back to her apartment at three in the morning a few months ago, and she did not wear a helmet. The bikes don’t come with them, most don’t fit her big head, and she wouldn’t use a rental helmet that had been on someone else’s sweaty, possibly lice-infested dome even if they did.

Yes

Do you always wear a seatbelt in the car?

Yes

That answer is the God’s honest truth. It’s not like she has a death wish.

How many hours do you sleep at night?

None, seventeen, it depends.

8

From there, the questionnaire gets weirder.

Are you missing a kidney, testicle, eye, or any organ?

Testicle

What type of milk do you drink? (circle one)

Whole 2% 1% Nonfat None

How many ounces of milk do you drink a day?

Do you drink or eat three servings of calcium-rich foods daily, such as milk, cheese, yogurt?

She pauses, unsure of how to answer. Hasn’t cow’s milk been shown to be saturated with hormones, cholesterol, and something that causes acne? She wonders if her pediatrician’s been bought off by some dairy lobbyist. Sure, you might die of colon cancer or a stroke with a face full of zits, but you’ll have bones like oak trees, and we’ll have summer homes in the Hamptons. Drink up .

Got integrity?

Assuming this is an outdated form based on an ancient food pyramid, she circles 1% , guesses 8 , and writes Yes .

Are you happy with your weight?

What kind of evil trickery is this? Show her a girl on this planet who answers a genuine yes to this question, and Maddy will spit in her eye. She tugs the bottom of her tank top down over her belly.

Yes .

The next sheet is clearly a depression survey, and cold liquid panic floods her body. They didn’t give her this form last year. She glances up at the receptionist. Her expressionless face is pointed at her desktop computer. Her mother’s is glued to her phone; she’s probably scrolling Facebook, liking photos of other people’s flawless children.

Pen hovering, Maddy reads down the page, her inner voice rattling off her real responses, answers that will have to be edited before they reach her hand.

0. I do not feel sad

1. I feel sad sometimes

2. I feel sad most of the time

3. I feel sad all of the time

0. I look forward to the future

1. I feel anxious about the future

2. I believe my future is bleak

3. I am hopeless about the future

0. I never feel bad about myself

1. I sometimes feel bad about myself

2. I regularly don’t like myself

3. I hate myself

No zeros. None. It’s a dumb quiz probably created by a women’s magazine or more likely a pharmaceutical company, trolling for higher profits. She thinks about the year she just survived, away from home for the first time. Adam broke up with her, they got back together, and he broke up with her again. She didn’t make any real friends, she didn’t like her roommate or her classes, and she got less-than-impressive grades. She has no idea what she wants to do with her life or even later today.

So yeah, her life is kind of depressing at the moment. Plus, who can feel hopeful about the future when the planet is dying? She’s simply feeling what a normal person would feel under these crappy circumstances. She picks at the black crud caked beneath her thumbnail as she decides what to do. She tilts the clipboard so no one can read her answers, an unnecessary precaution since no one is sitting anywhere near her, and circles zeros down the page, throwing in a couple of ones so she doesn’t appear unrealistically perfect.

0. I never have any thoughts of killing myself

1. I have thoughts of killing myself but would never carry them out

2. I would like to kill myself but haven’t made a plan

3. I want to kill myself and know how I would do it

She dwells on this last set, rereading each choice as if considering which appetizer to order off a take-out menu, hungry and torn between all of them.

“Madison?”

Her head jolts up. The receptionist is looking at her. Maddy circles 0 and stands up. As she passes through the waiting room door, she imagines the question they should’ve asked.

Are you the kind of person who would lie on your medical forms to avoid further inquiry?

Yes

In exam room two, Maddy sits on a strip of parchment paper like she’s the centerpiece displayed on a dining room table runner, watching Dr. Taber read over her intake forms. He’s slender with a neatly trimmed white beard, wearing light-blue scrubs and dark-blue Crocs, stethoscope slung around his neck, dressed for the part. His shiny bald head is mottled with dark-brown age spots like islands on a map. His eyebrows bounce up above the frames of his black-rimmed glasses several times as he reads, but he says nothing. She fidgets and switches the cross of her legs, causing the paper beneath her to crinkle like a bag of chips, but Dr. Taber doesn’t look up.

Bored of studying him, she lets her eyes wander the exam room. The posters on the wall opposite her are all aimed at little kids. A chubby toddler blowing on a dandelion. You’re Growing Like a Weed. Elmo eating his vegetables. A glass of milk sporting a smiling cartoon face and muscular arms. Protein Power . More pushy dairy propaganda. She’d like to rip that bullshit poster off the wall but doesn’t have the guts or the energy. Maybe she just needs a tall glass of milk.

“So, Madison. You’re nineteen now. Growing up.”

He smiles and stares at her, eager, as if there were a question in there expecting an answer.

“Are you attending college?” he asks.

“NYU.”

“Great school. What are you majoring in?”

“I haven’t picked one yet.”

“That’s fine. I see you’ve gained some weight since last summer,” he says, now referring to her chart.

Despite having no urge to eat at the moment, she did gain about twenty pounds this year, mostly around her thighs and butt. And belly. And she can see it in her face. Basically everywhere but her elbows. She blames the whole drama with Adam. And the waffle food truck that’s always parked in front of her dorm. Again, Dr. Taber seems to be waiting for a response when he didn’t ask a question.

“That’s not uncommon, especially for girls your age. Back in my day, they called it the Freshman Fifteen.”

He smiles at her, pleased with himself, as if his anecdote were cute or funny, a joke they should share. She remains tight-lipped, not amused or willing to play along. He returns to the pages on the clipboard.

“It looks like you’re feeling a little blue?”

Here, his intonation is unquestionably a question, and she feels pressured into some kind of reply. She hates herself for not circling all zeros. She shrugs.

“Also normal for girls your age. When was the first day of your last period?”

She shifts slightly in her seat, annoyed by the crunching sounds of the paper beneath her.

“Uh, I don’t know.”

“If your moods are cycling with your period, it’s probably just PMS. Have you had a gynecological exam yet?”

Her mouth hangs open, wordless. Her eyes dart about the room, in part avoiding his, but also scanning for stirrups.

“Uh, no,” she says, locking eyes with Elmo.

“Are you sexually active?”

She wants to kill her mother for making her come to this appointment.

“Not at the moment.”

“I’m going to write you a GYN referral,” he says as he scribbles something on a prescription pad. “It’ll be good to get you squared away.”

She gives him the tiniest closed-mouth smile, feigning agreement. He claps his hands, startling her.

“Good, let’s have a listen.”

He sets her chart and papers down and approaches her with his stethoscope at the ready. She inhales and exhales as he listens to her heart, relieved that he’s moved on. She’s not going to go see a gynecologist, especially since she and Adam are broken up. She hasn’t had sex in months and has no prospects on the horizon. It would be like Dr. Taber scheduling a haircut for his chrome dome, pointless and ridiculous. Humiliating even.

Plus, PMS? Please. This brilliant doctor’s absurdly dismissive diagnosis is every dude’s unenlightened conclusion when faced with any unpleasant, and likely totally justified, emotional reaction from a girlfriend.

She’s hormonal.

Must be on her period.

As she sticks out her tongue and Dr. Taber examines her throat, she tells herself that she has to endure only a few more minutes of this hell before she can get her lollipop and go home.