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2 021 : met hod a nd mad nes s
Exes and Ohs We pass a man in a white lab coat and light blue scrubs with fluffy brown hair, a scruffy beard, sea-foam green eyes, and the bone structure of a Gucci model.
hair and straighten my blouse. I wonder if doctors are just naturally beautiful or get a twenty percent employee discount on botox and rhinoplasties.
“Dad, that doctor looks like he belongs in Grey’sAnatomy?” My dad laughs but doesn’t disagree.
I find my way back to the room and turn to see my mom chilling on the hospital bed. She looks like someone just played a game of Tic-tac-toe with a permanent marker on her face. Even with the black markings, she still looks like an ethereal angel in her flowing white hospital gown.
On our way to the kitchen, we pass rooms 133-135. Room 133 is vacant, so my mom doesn’t have any loud neighbors partying next door, keeping her up late after her surgery. Room134, Jay Gatsby’s Room, is completely dark, except for a faint green light blinking in the corner. In Room 135, the walls dance with shadows of wires that look like garden snakes, and there is a soft hiss of a ventilator. On the kitchen counter, a silver tray of shiny glazed donuts, delectable coffee cakes, and chocolate chip cookies bigger than my hand make me salivate. I ignore the wild animal screeching and clawing inside my stomach and instead fill up a clear plastic cup to the brim with ice and a splash of water. “You want some water with that ice?” My dad picks up a Ginger Ale. Chewing ice was a trick I learned to dodge snacking, which my family never picked upon. My dad assumed I chewed ice because I had an iron deficiency. While my mom shrugged it off as a bad habit. I turn away from the sparkling platter of confectionaries and shove a couple of cubes in my mouth, focusing on the cold, crisp crunch breaking into little flakes against my porcelain teeth. As I make my way back to Room 132, I get closer to Dr. Pretty Boy. I blush and comb my hands through my 34
I reach for my pink compact mirror from my purse to touch up my face, and, as I look into the mirror, I imagine a set of exes and ohs sculpting my face. Some to pin back my elf looking ears. Maybe some fillers to make my lips plumper. An injection to make my forehead free of wrinkles, and possibly surgery to make my jaw more defined and also a – “Good morning everyone, I’m Dr. Evans, and I will be conducting a rhytidectomy today on Ms. Heather Gray.” I click my mirror shut and flash my pearly, freshly whitened teeth at him, and flick my newly dyed blonde hair. Dr. Pretty Boy, formally known as Dr. Evans, strides through the door. “Oh,” Dr. Pretty Boy smiles just like Patrick Dempsey and turns to me, “Are you here to get a rhinoplasty today as well? Ha Ha. Kidding. Kidding. Anyway, so...” And I mentally draw an ex over the center of my face like a target. — Brooke Littman, XII: short story
