Inside the O'Briens by Lisa Genova

the woman in that bed was a haunted corpse.
    â€œShe was real skinny.”
    â€œUh-huh. How about any aunts, uncles, cousins on your mom’s side? Any health issues there?”
    â€œMy mother’s family stayed in New York when she moved to Boston and married my father. She didn’t speak to them. I’ve never met any of them.”
    Why is this doctor so interested in the health of his mother and her family? What does any of this have to do with his knee? Joe looks at the wall behind Dr. Hagler, at her framed diplomas and certificates of excellence. Yale School of Medicine. A residency at Johns Hopkins. A fellowship at the National Institutes of Health. Dr. Hagler might be book smart, but she’d sure make a shitty detective. These questions are a fat waste of time.
    Joe reads Dr. Hagler’s framed credentials again. Neurology residency. Neurology fellowship. Wait, she’s a neurologist ? He thought he was seeing a movement specialist. An orthopedic doctor. Why the fuck is he talking to some brain doctor?
    â€œLook,” says Joe, offering to help her out. “I twisted my knee a few years ago, and it’s never been the same. I think that’s what’s causing my balance and falling problems.”
    â€œOkay, let’s have a look at a few things.”
    Finally, but he can’t see how this lady is even remotely qualified to evaluate his knee. Dr. Hagler rises to her feet, leaves her clipboard on the counter, and stands directly over Joe. She holds her hands out in front of her in closed fists, as if she’s about to play a game of Guess Which Hand.
    â€œLook at my hands, and then look at the finger that pops up.”
    Dr. Hagler points her right index finger, then her left, then left again, right, left, right, right. Joe follows all this pointing with his eyes. No problem. It’s a Whac-A-Mole game with eyes and fingers instead of a mallet and moles.
    â€œGreat. Now, are you a righty or lefty?”
    â€œRighty.”
    â€œHold your left hand flat, palm open, like this.”
    Dr. Hagler demonstrates.
    â€œThen, with your right hand, I want you to touch your left hand with a fist, then a karate chop, then a clap. Like this.”
    She shows him the sequence several times through. He copies her once.
    â€œGreat, now do that over and over. Ready, go.”
    Fist, chop, clap. Fist, chop, clap. Fist, clap. Wait. Fist. Wait. Chop. Wait. Clap. Fist. Fist. No. Fist. Wait. Fist, chop, fist.
    Man, it’s harder than it looks. Dr. Hagler performed the movements one after another without pausing between sets, without breaking the steady rhythm, without error. But she probably does this with patients all day long. She’s well practiced. He’d like to see her try her hand at loading and unloading a gun. And what does any of this friggin’ nonsense have to do with his knee?
    â€œNow I’d like you to get up and walk heel-to-toe across the room and back.”
    Joe’s been on the other end of this request more times than he can count. He wonders whether he’ll be asked to recite the alphabet forward and backward next.
    â€œWhat is this, an OUI?” he asks.
    Joe spreads his arms out like airplane wings and walks heel-to-toe across the room. No problem. He rushes things and gets a hair sloppy on the way back, but nothing he’d book anyone for. Again, no problem.
    â€œGreat. Now I want you to tap each finger to your thumb, starting with your index finger down to your pinkie and back. Like this.”
    Joe touches each finger to his thumb. He’s slow, careful, and deliberate in choosing and landing each finger, wanting to be sure he nails it.
    â€œYes, that’s it. Now try doing it a bit faster, and keep repeating it.”
    She demonstrates. It’s Joe’s turn, and this time, he trips up and can’t recover. His fingers go out of order or freeze up.
    â€œI’m no Beethoven,” says Joe.
    He looks at Rosie, and