balls of his feet, his hands in his pockets. I wonder what the hell I am doing. I accuse Gracie of being self-destructive by bringing a child into the world when she barely has the judgment to pick out her own clothes in the morning, but am I any better? I am taking myself apart brick by brick instead of using my sister’s method and running myself over with a steamroller.
I check to make sure Weber is lodged firmly in line, and then pull the letter out of my pocket. I wrote it less than an hour earlier, and the words still catch in my throat. I have no pen, but in my head I add, Things are only getting worse. I smooth my hand over the piece of paper, pressing it flat against the wooden table. I study my handwriting. I wait to feel the peace that writing these letters sometimes gives me.
Instead I am distracted by the sound of someone directly behind me crying. A woman is sniffling into a handkerchief, not making even the slightest effort to muffle the noise. I tell myself that this is my own fault. If I had been paying closer attention when looking for a seat, I never would have sat down next to a crier. I would have steered in the direction of some happy family whose hands were sticky from melting ice cream cones. Some cluster of people I could ignore, and who would ignore me. But now I have a dilemma. Do I pretend I don’t hear this woman sob, or do I turn around and say something? She is sitting beside me on a picnic bench. As a doctor in training, I should want to help a person in trouble. It may even be my responsibility. During a white-coat ceremony on the first day of medical school, we all took an oath to that effect. The oath said something about devoting ourselves to the service of mankind both day and night, when it’s convenient and when it’s not. I didn’t pay attention to the exact content of the words when I repeated them, because the oath seemed too ridiculous to take seriously. How could I promise to do anything for the rest of my life?
The woman gives an extra-large sob, a watery noise that makes me think of a goldfish named Crocodile that Gracie and I had as a pet when we were children. All day long Crocodile would race around his small bowl, making waves lap against the rim of the bowl. Gracie and I laughed and clapped at his speed, not realizing at the time that Crocodile wasn’t playing or showing off, but desperately trying to find an escape from his too-small bowl. He did finally make his way out. Two years after we won him at a school fair, we found him lying on his side on top of Gracie’s bureau one morning, a few inches from the bowl. He was stiff and dry and cold. Crocodile was our first and last pet. Dad was too traumatized by Gracie’s days of crying after Crocodile’s death to even think of bringing another pet into the house, and besides, Mom was allergic to cats and dogs and any other animal that might make a mess of the carpets.
I don’t think it’s polite, or appropriate, to cry in public. It’s a pathetic attempt to grab attention from a group of strangers. And besides, if a person does choose to cry in public, Dairy Queen is the last place that he or she should choose. Dairy Queen is an ice cream store; it is meant to be a happy place. It’s filled with children and families and couples who simply want to consume too much cholesterol and too many calories in the bright summer air without feeling bad about anything. And this woman, sobbing and whimpering, is obviously out to make everyone around her feel bad.
I look down at my letter and mouth the words “Dear Abby.” Then I hear Weber’s voice behind me. “Are you all right? Miss? Are you hurt? My girlfriend’s a doctor—”
“No doctors,” the woman says through her tears.
“She’s right here. It’s no problem,” Weber says. “Babe?”
I hate it when he calls me babe. How dare he do this to me? I turn around slowly. For the hundredth time I am convinced that it is time to finally end things with Weber. There is only the matter of how and when to do it. Should