better go see what was happening with Peter. His name was coming up in too many conversations. It was a bad sign.
For the first time she felt a twinge of doubt. What if he had gone bad? Would she know it?
Maggie called Peter when she got home. “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” he said. His voice sounded slushed.
“Didn’t see you at church.”
“I’ve got a cold; I took medicine.”
She felt irritated with him, but that wasn’t fair. Maybe he had taken medicine; maybe he was sick; maybe it would all turn out right. Maybe she was just being pessimistic. She crawled into bed, waiting for it to be 5 o’clock. A person shouldn’t go to bed before five, she thought, but by 3:30 she was asleep and slept right through until 10 o’clock in the morning, right until five minutes past the moment that she was supposed to meet up with Iphigenia.
Chapter 16
Maggie wasn’t a fast runner, but she could get dressed quickly, so less than ten minutes passed between when she woke up, slid into her clothes and went power walking up Main Street.
Poor Iphigenia looked like a wilted fern, her normally vibrant hair flattened like a frightened dog’s ears, lines appearing on her face that had never been there before.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Maggie said. “Let’s go get this over with.”
The breeze was surprisingly strong for April; winter hanging on for dear life. Already flowers that had bloomed only a week before were fluttering all over Main Street.
“Tscha,” Iphigenia said. “I was hoping you wouldn’t come. What’s wrong with your hair? Let me fix it before we go.”
“Don’t put this off any longer,” Maggie said. “Let’s get this done and then we can go out and celebrate.”
Doc Steinberg’s office was only two blocks away. It was in a large Victorian house, painted yellow, with a big American flag flying out front. It had belonged to the Steinberg family for years. Maggie had gone there, her mother had gone there. Doc Steinberg had driven her to the hospital with her daughter’s body. She’d stayed with Maggie through that entire terrible night, holding her hand when the ER doctor pronounced Juliet dead, holding her when she called to donate her daughter’s organs, driving her home, where Winifred and all the other members of her community were waiting for her, mourning.
The receptionist was a woman whose name Maggie could never remember, though she’d known her for years. That was the problem, that she’d known her for so long it would be embarrassing to call her by the wrong name. Victoria or Veronica?
Normally the wait for Doc Steinberg was excruciating, but they were the first appointment of the day and she swept out to see them. At the sight of her tall white-robed figure, the luxurious brown hair—because Doc Steinberg would not be pressured into highlights—Maggie felt a twinge of panic herself. Doc Steinberg was a good doctor, but she had no bedside manner at all. She believed in no sugarcoating.
Iphigenia could barely stand.
“I’ll just walk her in,” Maggie said.
“Of course.”
Poor Iphigenia clutched her arm, shivering with fear. “You can do this,” Maggie said, though she was beginning to doubt it herself, and then she left her friend and went back into the waiting room.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then another fifteen minutes. Maggie talked to Veronica/Victoria about the Spring Fling, which always took place the first week in May. Then they talked about Bender’s funeral, which Veronica/Victoria had gone to. “Humanist,” she sniffed. “No mention of God, and no buffet.” They sealed his cremated remains in a special tube, which they put into the river, though supposedly the widow had reserved some, to have made into a ring. “They crush the ashes, like a diamond.”
Maggie thought she heard Iphigenia crying. For all she’d tried to reassure her friend, the thought of cancer terrified her. The body rebelling. Everything in disarray. Cells going after one
For the first time she felt a twinge of doubt. What if he had gone bad? Would she know it?
Maggie called Peter when she got home. “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” he said. His voice sounded slushed.
“Didn’t see you at church.”
“I’ve got a cold; I took medicine.”
She felt irritated with him, but that wasn’t fair. Maybe he had taken medicine; maybe he was sick; maybe it would all turn out right. Maybe she was just being pessimistic. She crawled into bed, waiting for it to be 5 o’clock. A person shouldn’t go to bed before five, she thought, but by 3:30 she was asleep and slept right through until 10 o’clock in the morning, right until five minutes past the moment that she was supposed to meet up with Iphigenia.
Chapter 16
Maggie wasn’t a fast runner, but she could get dressed quickly, so less than ten minutes passed between when she woke up, slid into her clothes and went power walking up Main Street.
Poor Iphigenia looked like a wilted fern, her normally vibrant hair flattened like a frightened dog’s ears, lines appearing on her face that had never been there before.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Maggie said. “Let’s go get this over with.”
The breeze was surprisingly strong for April; winter hanging on for dear life. Already flowers that had bloomed only a week before were fluttering all over Main Street.
“Tscha,” Iphigenia said. “I was hoping you wouldn’t come. What’s wrong with your hair? Let me fix it before we go.”
“Don’t put this off any longer,” Maggie said. “Let’s get this done and then we can go out and celebrate.”
Doc Steinberg’s office was only two blocks away. It was in a large Victorian house, painted yellow, with a big American flag flying out front. It had belonged to the Steinberg family for years. Maggie had gone there, her mother had gone there. Doc Steinberg had driven her to the hospital with her daughter’s body. She’d stayed with Maggie through that entire terrible night, holding her hand when the ER doctor pronounced Juliet dead, holding her when she called to donate her daughter’s organs, driving her home, where Winifred and all the other members of her community were waiting for her, mourning.
The receptionist was a woman whose name Maggie could never remember, though she’d known her for years. That was the problem, that she’d known her for so long it would be embarrassing to call her by the wrong name. Victoria or Veronica?
Normally the wait for Doc Steinberg was excruciating, but they were the first appointment of the day and she swept out to see them. At the sight of her tall white-robed figure, the luxurious brown hair—because Doc Steinberg would not be pressured into highlights—Maggie felt a twinge of panic herself. Doc Steinberg was a good doctor, but she had no bedside manner at all. She believed in no sugarcoating.
Iphigenia could barely stand.
“I’ll just walk her in,” Maggie said.
“Of course.”
Poor Iphigenia clutched her arm, shivering with fear. “You can do this,” Maggie said, though she was beginning to doubt it herself, and then she left her friend and went back into the waiting room.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then another fifteen minutes. Maggie talked to Veronica/Victoria about the Spring Fling, which always took place the first week in May. Then they talked about Bender’s funeral, which Veronica/Victoria had gone to. “Humanist,” she sniffed. “No mention of God, and no buffet.” They sealed his cremated remains in a special tube, which they put into the river, though supposedly the widow had reserved some, to have made into a ring. “They crush the ashes, like a diamond.”
Maggie thought she heard Iphigenia crying. For all she’d tried to reassure her friend, the thought of cancer terrified her. The body rebelling. Everything in disarray. Cells going after one
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