The Portable Veblen by Elizabeth Mckenzie

so hard she left teeth marks in it.
    The risks had been known. She returned outside.
    “No, not at all, I think everyone should have one.” Paul was scanning the first page. “Measles, scarlet fever, tick fever, tonsillectomy, appendectomy, and histoplasmosis, all before you were fifteen?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Mmmm.” He continued. “Possible exposure to gamma radiation from a Nevada test site?”
    “Yes, it’s well documented. I was part of a class action suit.”
    “Mmmm. Thyroidectomy for papillary and follicular carcinoma, I-131 ablation—neck injury, acute degenerative arthritis of neck resultant . . . pancreatic insufficiency—how did you become aware of that?”
    “I had tests! How else would someone become aware of it, through a crystal ball?”
    “Ciguatera poisoning, with permanent irreversible anticholinesterase?”
    “Yes. I assume you know what that is?”
    “I do, though in all my years in medicine I have yet to hear of anyone with this condition.”
    “What do you mean by that?”
    “Nothing, just that it’s rare. Let’s see, then atrial fib, tetany, transient Cushing, psoriasis, double vision, empty sella, secondary hyperparathyroidism, primary aldosteronism—” Paul stopped reading. “Well. Very complicated. Very—impressive.”
    Linus sat entirely still, clasping his hands together, as if praying.
    “I’m thinking there’s an eye test you could have, but it must be performed when the scotoma is present,” Paul offered.
    “But it is present,” Melanie cried. “I told you, it’s right here, right now.”
    Paul’s voice was pinched. “Yes, you’ve had a complicated history of vasomotor instability with severe neurological manifestations, including paralysis and ocular difficulties, haven’t you?”
    “Exactly.”
    “Well, then, I will write down the name of this test, and I suggest you ask your doctor about it.”
    “I see. I see exactly.” Melanie smacked her lips and rose from the table, with the imperious and sullen bearing Veblen ascribed to Napoleon departing for Elba.
    Veblen and Paul and Linus remained, in punishing silence. An intonation, an insufficiency of deference, or the way Paul’s lips looked slightly pursed as he read—something had inevitably gone wrong. Linus twisted his napkin and tossed it onto his plate. “Excuse me a moment, folks,” he said, getting up and following his wife.
    “Oh, man,” Veblen said.
    Paul glared at her. “What the hell?”
    Veblen looked sidelong into the house. No wonder translation came naturally to her. In the past, when her mother yelled at someone in a public place and ran away, Veblen would swallow her shame and go up to the person who had been yelled at and say, “I’m sorry. What she was really saying was that she’s not feeling well and that when you took her parking place, she felt like youdidn’t care.” When her mother yelled at someone in a restaurant and stomped out, Veblen would remain behind a moment and tell the waiter, “What my mother meant was that being corrected on what type of salad dressing to order reminded her of being scolded all the time by her mother, who was really mean.”
    “What she’s really saying—” Veblen stopped. What was she really saying? “She reaches this point of certainty that new people won’t like her and then she kind of freaks, but it’s temporary.”
    “Oh. Wow.”
    “You’re doing great,” whispered Veblen. “Really great. It’s going to be fine.”
    She reached across the table for his hand, squeezed it. She’d brought a boyfriend home only once before, resulting in the flash incineration of his male pride and a near immediate breakup.
    Linus appeared. “Veblen?” With unnatural cheer and strained, clasped hands he said, “Would you go in and talk to your mother? You are so good with her.”
    She excused herself from the table and went inside, scared that Paul might be wearing thin with less than an hour of exposure. This pattern, of going