minutes late.”
Ten minutes late? That would destroy her schedule. She had patients scheduled from now until six o’clock tonight at fifteen-minute intervals, and there were
always
walk-ins.
Carla said, “Okay, I’m coming.” Tina stood with her arms folded, not leaving until Carla made a move. Why a five-foot-tall, hundred-pound twenty-five-year-old intimated large-and-in-charge Carla was beyond her comprehension. Maybe it was the way Tina called her “Mommy,” constantly reminding her of her responsibilities. Then again, Tina called all women “Mommy,” and all men “Poppy.”
Carla would not get the ten seconds of privacy she needed to quit and hide her World Class Poker CD, the disc that had become her second husband and new best friend in the last couple of weeks. From the first game—which she’d started playing reluctantly, only because she promised Bess she would at least try it—Carla was hooked. The money wasn’t real. The other players weren’t real, just impressive 3-D animations. If she won a big hand, netting thousands from an opponent, Carla felt sweet and visceral victory, not the guilty conscience of taking an actual person’s rent money. The game was pretend, and yet the thrill of winning was real.
At forty-two, Carla learned something new about herself: She liked to win. She
loved
to win.
The game was her secret. How could she explain to Claude or Tina the excitement of being a calculating, ballsy, ruthless mercenary? She was the Black Queen, a tower of confidence who made other players quake in her presence. In real life, she was an overworked, unappreciated mother and wife.
Change your name, change your personality. At age twenty-six, when she became
Dr
. Carla Smith, a new seriousness came with the suffix. When she’d become Dr. Carla
Morgan
, a wife, she transformed again, halving herself to be one with her husband. Then came Manuel and Ezekiel (aka Manny and Zeke), and Carla became Mommy, a champion worrier and humorless taskmaster. The Black Queen, the name she gave her cyberself, was young(er), wise, tough, smart, selfish, and greedy. She didn’t care about hanging arm fat, dire financial straits, raising boys in a complicated world, a Mexican standoff marriage, three patients in exam rooms, a tongue-clicking R.N. The Black Queen was Carla’s best—and worst—self.
Taking the charts from Tina, Carla exited her office, careful to close the door firmly behind her. Her pediatric clinic was located on the ground floor of Long Island College Hospital on Atlantic Avenue, serving the medical needs of downtown Brooklyn for half a century. Many of the clinic’s patients were uninsured, coming in for health crises only. It pained Carla that her walk-in patients were nearly always black and Latino from neighborhoods that were miles and light-years away from the hospital’s Brooklyn Heights location.
In exam room one, Carla smiled as she entered. A little boy was in a striped shirt of faded colors, filthy sneakers with new white laces. He smiled back. He sat on the examining room table, legs dangling. His mother, in the room’s one chair, wore work clothes, a poly-blend cobalt skirt suit. She’d had to leave work early to be here today, probably exasperated for the disruption. Tina followed her into the room and closed the door.
“Hello, Jamal. How are you feeling today?” Carla asked, while skimming his chart. Six years old. Average height, weight. Sketchymedical history. Fewer than annual checkups, immunization schedule incomplete.
“Itchy,” he said, scratching his head.
The mother said, “I’ve been washing his hair with dandruff shampoo.”
Tina clicked her tongue. “Did you examine his scalp, Mommy?”
“Yes, I did,” said the woman, sounding offended to be asked.
Carla put on some gloves and tried to appear calm. Despite years of experience dealing with blood, plasma, excrement, vomit, boils, broken bones, open wounds, she was still grossed out by
Ten minutes late? That would destroy her schedule. She had patients scheduled from now until six o’clock tonight at fifteen-minute intervals, and there were
always
walk-ins.
Carla said, “Okay, I’m coming.” Tina stood with her arms folded, not leaving until Carla made a move. Why a five-foot-tall, hundred-pound twenty-five-year-old intimated large-and-in-charge Carla was beyond her comprehension. Maybe it was the way Tina called her “Mommy,” constantly reminding her of her responsibilities. Then again, Tina called all women “Mommy,” and all men “Poppy.”
Carla would not get the ten seconds of privacy she needed to quit and hide her World Class Poker CD, the disc that had become her second husband and new best friend in the last couple of weeks. From the first game—which she’d started playing reluctantly, only because she promised Bess she would at least try it—Carla was hooked. The money wasn’t real. The other players weren’t real, just impressive 3-D animations. If she won a big hand, netting thousands from an opponent, Carla felt sweet and visceral victory, not the guilty conscience of taking an actual person’s rent money. The game was pretend, and yet the thrill of winning was real.
At forty-two, Carla learned something new about herself: She liked to win. She
loved
to win.
The game was her secret. How could she explain to Claude or Tina the excitement of being a calculating, ballsy, ruthless mercenary? She was the Black Queen, a tower of confidence who made other players quake in her presence. In real life, she was an overworked, unappreciated mother and wife.
Change your name, change your personality. At age twenty-six, when she became
Dr
. Carla Smith, a new seriousness came with the suffix. When she’d become Dr. Carla
Morgan
, a wife, she transformed again, halving herself to be one with her husband. Then came Manuel and Ezekiel (aka Manny and Zeke), and Carla became Mommy, a champion worrier and humorless taskmaster. The Black Queen, the name she gave her cyberself, was young(er), wise, tough, smart, selfish, and greedy. She didn’t care about hanging arm fat, dire financial straits, raising boys in a complicated world, a Mexican standoff marriage, three patients in exam rooms, a tongue-clicking R.N. The Black Queen was Carla’s best—and worst—self.
Taking the charts from Tina, Carla exited her office, careful to close the door firmly behind her. Her pediatric clinic was located on the ground floor of Long Island College Hospital on Atlantic Avenue, serving the medical needs of downtown Brooklyn for half a century. Many of the clinic’s patients were uninsured, coming in for health crises only. It pained Carla that her walk-in patients were nearly always black and Latino from neighborhoods that were miles and light-years away from the hospital’s Brooklyn Heights location.
In exam room one, Carla smiled as she entered. A little boy was in a striped shirt of faded colors, filthy sneakers with new white laces. He smiled back. He sat on the examining room table, legs dangling. His mother, in the room’s one chair, wore work clothes, a poly-blend cobalt skirt suit. She’d had to leave work early to be here today, probably exasperated for the disruption. Tina followed her into the room and closed the door.
“Hello, Jamal. How are you feeling today?” Carla asked, while skimming his chart. Six years old. Average height, weight. Sketchymedical history. Fewer than annual checkups, immunization schedule incomplete.
“Itchy,” he said, scratching his head.
The mother said, “I’ve been washing his hair with dandruff shampoo.”
Tina clicked her tongue. “Did you examine his scalp, Mommy?”
“Yes, I did,” said the woman, sounding offended to be asked.
Carla put on some gloves and tried to appear calm. Despite years of experience dealing with blood, plasma, excrement, vomit, boils, broken bones, open wounds, she was still grossed out by
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