M.I.N.D. by Elissa Harris

through my skin and make me look like the Joker? What if I had implants like Leanne’s Aunt Jodie (dental, not frontal)? Would they rip right through my jaw?
    â€œI de-accessorized in the waiting room,” I reply. But did I really? What about my anti-frizz? What about my deodorant? Are they extraneous? What if the patient is unconscious? Should everyone be required to carry a card listing their accessories?
    â€œAre you pregnant?”
    She’s kidding, right? Though to be honest, I’m kind of flattered that someone actually thinks it’s possible. To be pregnant implies having done it, and doing it implies that someone thought about me in that way.
    â€œI’ve been very careful,” I reply smoothly. Ha. If I were any more careful, I’d be in a coma. Which makes me think about Amanda. Which makes me sad. I glance back at the massive machine in the middle of the room. It’s crouched like an animal eager to devour its prey—its prey meaning me. Great. Now I’m sad and scared.
    I strip down to my undies and put on a starchy white gown. Next, I’m instructed to lie on a table that looks like a long grotesque tongue. While fumbling to keep the gown closed, I suck in my breath and climb aboard. “For your ears,” Tattoo Girl says, handing me two small white foam cylinders. “It gets pretty noisy.” The tongue begins to slide into the gaping mouth behind me, and I start to squirm. “You’re going to have to keep perfectly still,” Tattoo Girl says as slowly, inch by inch, I’m swallowed away. “I’m going on back with the technician,” she calls into the tunnel. “By the way, are you claustrophobic? Holler if it gets to be too much. There’s an intercom inside.”
    What? She’s asking me this now?
    Wait! Stop! Can we talk about this?
    Okay, so maybe I am a tad claustrophobic.
    I feel like I’m in a really bad horror movie. This is my eighth MRI, and it’s exactly like I remember: cold and narrow with no ambience whatsoever. I’m trying to ignore the squeezing in my chest, but I swear, I can feel the tube getting smaller and smaller, closing in on me, sealing off my air. I want out. Now. Please? Besides, this is a total waste of time, it’s all my mother’s doing, she’s a crazy paranoid. She should be having her brain examined, not me. I shift my gaze to the left. Whew. There it is. The intercom. All I have to do is scream and I’m outta here. I mean, come on! Aside from a mild case of switshetshela, my brain is just fine, thank you very much. When I happen to be in it, which isn’t all the time.
    Perhaps another MRI isn’t such a bad idea.
    I twist my head and stare at the intercom, but I remain silent.
    â€œKeep your head straight,” comes a voice from the speaker. A male voice, I realize. Is there a camera in here? Funny, I don’t remember a camera in my last MRI. I smooth my hair. Not an easy feat, considering the lack of wiggle room.
    â€œPlease stay still,” says the voice in the walls.
    I can do this, I tell myself. I take a deep breath. Rock-a-bye baby in the treetop… I close my eyes and imagine I’m a tiny baby lying in a cradle, loved and protected, safe and snug.
    And down will come baby, cradle and all…
    I take another breath. “Bombs away!” I call down to my feet. My very cold feet. I’m not just speaking figuratively—it’s like the Arctic in here. At least Tattoo Girl let me keep my socks on. I wiggle my toes, not that it helps. A shiver passes through me, under my antiseptic gown.
    Then comes a machinery noise, like something you’d hear after being abducted by cannibals—cannibals preparing to grind you into sausage. Do cannibals use cutlery? Forget “Rock-a-Bye Baby,” hello “Hey Diddle Diddle.” Did the dish really run away with the spoon? Can you tell I’m nervous?
    Must distract myself! What