Sunday With Ingrid
“Open, please,” said Dr. Binkerman. He peered inside her mouth, felt around in back, where the screws were, with his rubbery fingers. “Been wearing the appliance?” he said.
“Uh-huh,” said Ingrid.
“Every night?” Dr. Binkerman drew back, looking at her whole face for the first time, fingers out of her mouth now so she could speak clearly.
“Uh-huh,” said Ingrid, although every night would be pushing it, if by “every night” Dr. Binkerman meant every single night, night after night after night ad nauseam. Ingrid didn’t want to get to the nauseam stage, so she never wore the thing on sleepovers, for example, or when she fell asleep reading, or on Friday nights, when she gave herself a regular breather as a reward for getting through the school week; and there might have been other random misses from time to time. She was only human. Still, what business was it of his?
“Keep it up,” said Dr. Binkerman.
Keep it up. He said that every time, and every time Ingrid replied, “I will.” But this time, for no reason, she said, “For how long?” The words just popping out on their own, the way words sometimes did.
Mary Jane, sticking X rays up on the light box, paused for less than a second, just a tiny hitch in her movement. Dr. Binkerman blinked. “How long?” he said.
How long? Had Dr. Binkerman lost track of the whole point of this? “Till everything’s all straight,” she said. “Till I’m done.”
Tags: Down the Rabbit Hole
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