The fish tank spanned nearly an entire wall of the waiting room. Fish the color of Easter candy swam lazily about the tank, sometimes pecking at the surface, making miniature bubbles. Mom flipped through a magazine, nervously thumbing the pages without focusing on them. The bottoms of my legs stuck to the leather couch and made squishy sounds as I tried to pry them free. I slipped my foot out of my flip-flop and ran my toes over the soft shag carpet. It was cream-colored and spotless. I wanted to lay on my belly and feel that softness against my face.
Two other patients waited with me. They were both adults, a man a lot older than my mom, and a woman a little younger. They checked their watches and sighed deeply, as if waiting for a late bus. Neither of them, I noticed, seemed to have anything wrong with their skin. At first, I took this to be a good omen. Dr. Blank had already cured them of their skin diseases, and these patients were simply here to give thanks. But they did not look grateful; they looked sour and gray. This made me wonder what secrets lay buried beneath their clothes. I pictured scabs and scales and boils erupting underneath their neat shirts and slacks. I began to have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
The office door slid open silently, and a shocking white uniform brightened the doorway.
"Mr. Casey?" the uniform called out, and the older man stood and toddled through the door.
Before shutting the door, the uniform looked over at me and smiled. I inhaled sharply as I noticed the scaly dark patch of skin marring her right cheek. Couldn't Dr. Blank help his own employee, I wondered? A second, more chilling thought shot through my brain. What if that scaly patch of skin was the result of Dr. Blank's treatment? Not waiting to find out, I pried myself free of the deep leather couch, slipped back into my flip-flops and headed towards the exit.
"Miss Heslin?" The scaly-faced uniform had crept back into the doorway, smiling and waving me in like a stewardess pointing out emergency exits. Mom stood and took firm hold of my elbow, leading me to what could very well be my death. I held my breath and looked down at the uniform's squeaky white shoes, afraid she could read the questioning gaze in my eyes.
Dr. Putz had been plucked out of the Blue Cross bible of practitioners. Dr. Blank, however, had come from much higher authority - a passenger in the backseat of my dad's cab. He had come home the week before and plopped down a torn piece of paper onto the kitchen table.
"I got you a new doctor. A good one, too."
"Okay."
"Yeah. You're goin' to the city. There's no good doctors in Jersey."
"Then, why didn't we go there in the first place?" I wondered aloud.
"Well, ya gotta be fair. Give Jersey doctors a shot. They gotta make a livin', too."
I didn't quite follow my dad's logic, but I was relieved to be making a fresh start with a new doctor. I wanted to stay positive, but my experience with Dr. Putz had left me bankrupt in the high hopes department.
"So, who recommended this doctor, Dad?"
"A friend."
"Which friend?" I persisted.
"You don't know the guy."
"Yeah? Do you know the guy?"
"Course I do."
"Where'd you meet him?"
"In the cab. I had him in the cab, all right?" Dad answered in exasperation.
"So, he was your customer, not your friend?"
"Yeah, yeah. Big deal. Ya wanna go to this doctor or not?"
"Yeah, okay."
Everyone was Dad's "friend", whether he knew their full names or simply referred to them as "pal". My head always cocked suspiciously when he threw that term around like a tennis ball, bouncing it on the walls of our apartment.
The back of Dad's cab had produced almost every referral my family ever needed. For medical advice, Dad would pick up a fare in front of a hospital, hoping to score someone in the know. That could mean a recently discharged patient, an orderly, or, (hopefully) a nurse. Then, the questions would begin:
"I got this rash on my elbow. You ever seen anything like that before?"
"My kid's got this turn in his left foot. You think he needs to see a specialist?"
"I got this bill from GHI. Says it won't cover my daughter's braces...."
Dad had two jobs. He worked at the Department of Health during the day, and drove a cab in the city on nights and weekends. Sometimes, he didn't come home for three days straight. It was easier for him to catch a few hours sleep at the garage than to come home between shifts.
When I was little, I would sit in the drafty window waiting for the long nose of his Impala to round our corner. I would count the cars and guess when his would appear. If the car did not materialize as predicted, I would begin to panic. I was afraid of the cab, and all of the horrible things that could happen to my father behind its wheel. Even though Dad always kept a billy club tucked under his seat, I imagined all of the people and things a billy club couldn't beat.
I had good reason to be afraid of the cab and the "friends" my dad drove around in it. Dad was careful not to talk about his job in front of us, but I overheard plenty. When I was nine, there had been some hushed conversations that made my stomach quiver.
"I maybe got myself into some trouble last night." Dad told Mom when he thought we were asleep.
"What kinda trouble?" Mom's voice shook and I pictured her sucking hard on her Salem Light.
"Picked up two working girls and their john...." I thought of two ladies wearing suits with feminine little silk ties around their necks, toting briefcases, Nike sneakers carrying them through traffic, accompanied by their friend John. But the tight strain in Mom's tone made my toes curl.
"What did you do, John?" She accused.
"Jesus, I didn't do nothin'. Wouldya let me finish?" I pictured his tired eyes fighting to stay open.
"Go ahead," she said, but I didn't think she wanted to hear the rest.
"Somethin' didn't seem right. They wanted me to take 'em to a real deserted block on the lower east side. I didn't like the way they were whisperin' and lookin' at me."
They were both quiet for a moment. I didn't realize it, but I was holding my breath.
"I knew somethin' was gonna happen once we got to that block. I saw a cop car on Broadway, and I pulled up next to it and stalled the cab out."
"And then?"
"Then nothin'. They didn't do nothin' but curse and stiff me for the ride."
"So what's the big deal?" Mom sounded annoyed at the fear that Dad had brought up into her stomach.
"The big deal is, a cabbie got killed at that same address I was supposed to take them to."
"Oh my God."
"Shot twice in the head. So I went down to the police and told them what I know."
"Whaddya know? You don't know anything." Her voice raised and I heard Dad slurp from his can of Bud.
"I know what I saw and what I felt. So I told the cops. They showed me some pictures. I fingered one of the women."
"Are you crazy?"
"That cabbie coulda been me. I can't say nothin'."
"But what if they find out it's you?"
"Don't worry about it. Nobody's gonna find out. Besides, they probably won't need me to say nothin'. They have prints all over the cab."
"John, I don't know."
"Yeah, well. Just thought you should know about it. Don't worry about it. It'll all work out."
My father was always doing this. He would drop a bomb into your lap and empty out all his worries into your brain. Then, he'd say casually, "Don't worry about it," walk away and snore his way through dreamless sleep.
I didn't really understand what my father had been involved in, but I did understand that what he did was dangerous, and there were people out there who might want to hurt him. That night, I lay awake and listened to him snoring heavily in bed, while my mother chain-smoked in the kitchen. Eventually, I drifted off into a fitful sleep, dreaming of working girls with guns hidden in their briefcases.
Sometimes, the cab was as much a source of awe as it was fear. Dad was always coming home with a story about some celebrity he drove, and Mom was always doubting him.
"Guess who I had in the cab today?"
"Who? Who?" I would bounce with excitement as my mother rolled her eyes.
"Jackie O," he said proudly, clearly impressed with himself.
"Oh," I muttered, with a vague image of a woman wearing a suit and a funny hat, holding a little boy's hand.
"Boloney!" Mom burst his bubble with her doubt.
"Whaddya mean, boloney? I said I had Jackie O in my cab."
"Today?"
"Yeah, today. Just this morning."
"That's impossible, John."
"Whaddya you know?"
"Cause I just saw her on the television, over there in Europe somewhere." Mom gloated.
"Oh. Yeah. Well. She had them big glasses on. Looked just like her anyway."
"I bet."
Most nights, when I couldn't sleep, I lay awake and wondered about Dad's life in the cab away from us. I had been in the back of his cab only twice. I used those brief experiences to help paint a picture of his long hours behind the wheel.
On a cool spring day, Mom packed Chris and I up and headed for the train. Chris was still in a stroller drinking out of a bottle, and I was four.
"We're going to Aunt Mal's," Mom explained as we walked to the train that would take us to New York. I puzzled over this, because we had never before gone so far without Dad.
We boarded the first car of the PATH train, and Mom let me stand at the fron so I could stare into the dark tunnel that would swallow our train. I was secretly afraid of the train and the blackness that pushed down on us from all sides. Watching the light of the train cut through the darkness made me feel better.
The first stop was Christopher Street. I grabbed Chris' hand and shook it vigorously up and down, congratulating him for having a train station named after him. I was also a little jealous. Nothing was named Noreen. I couldn't even find a keychain with my name on it. And I had tried. It was the mission of every adult relative to find me a souvenir with my name written boldly across it.
We rode the train all the way to the end - 34th Street. Mom lugged us up onto the street and I breathed in the fresh air of car exhaust and hot dog stands. I clapped my hands over my ears against the overwhelming honks and shrieks of the city. So many legs and shoes and hips breezed past me, and I wanted to follow them all on their way.
Mom smirked down at me as Chris dozed in his stroller. I was anxious to see how we would get out of all of this chaos and make our way to Aunt Mal's.
Mom stuck her hip out and raised her hand up in the air. She was standing dangerously close to the curb. I tucked myself behind her as a cab came screeching to a stop right at her heels. Mom opened the back door and ordered me into the backseat. She picked Chris up and folded his stroller into a straight line.
"Where to, Miss?" A warm voice full of mischief asked from the other side of the plexiglass partition.
"How'd you do that?" I bounced on the backseat as Dad gave me his sheepish grin. Mom and Chris sat down beside me. Mom shrugged her shoulders as Chris lay groggy in her arms.
"Magic.' Dad snapped his fingers, and then went back to business.
"Where to, ladies?"
"Aunt Mal's house in Queens."
"Aunt Mal's house it is."
Dad snapped on the meter and drove us through the Manhattan maze all the way out to Queens. He dodged cars and pedestrians, zooming in and out of lanes like we were being chased. I fidgeted and flitted about the backseat, watching Dad snake through the dangerous traffic.
Much too soon, we pulled up in front of Aunt Mal's apartment. Mom leaned down and handed me a quarter.
"Give your father his tip," she whispered. Proudly, I plunked the quarter down into Dad's palm.
"Thanks, lady." Dad winked at me.
We got up out of the cab and I leaned into the window and pecked Dad on the cheek.
"I'll pick ya up tonight," he said, before he sped away.
The cab ride was all I talked about to Aunt Mal that day. I couldn't wait for Dad to come back and carry us off in the cab again. Much to my disappointment, he came back for us in the Impala. The car ride home was slow and boring. We sweated and sat in traffic. It felt a little bit like driving with Clark Kent after having flown with with Superman.
"You don't have a father!" Joey taunted.
"I do so!" I defended.
"Oh yeah, then why don't we ever see him?"
"Cause he works, that's why!"
"Yeah, well my dad works, and he still comes to my games'n stuff."
"Well, my dad works two jobs," I shouted, thinking this would be enough to quiet him.
"Yeah, right. I'll believe it when I see it."
Kids in my class always doubted my dad's existence. He never came to teacher's nights or basketball games because of work. I said I didn't mind, but I would have loved to see him encouraging me from the stands just once when I was standing at the foul line or on the pitcher's mound.
One snowy Saturday morning when I was 10, Joey, Michael and I were in my apartment, getting ready for our biddy basketball game. The gym was about fifteen blocks away, and the sidewalks were sleek with ice. Mom was about to call us a cab when the phone rang. The three of us held our breath, wondering if it was the call to cancel the game. I was relieved to hear my mom say,
"All right, John," and knew the game would go on as scheduled.
"All right you kids, go on outside and wait for your cab. It'll be here in a minute."
We rushed outside and waited on my stoop, making predictions about the upcoming game. A cab cut through the snow and ice and slowed in front of my house. It didn't look like one of our regular cabs, and I noticed it said NYC on the side. I slowly made my way down the stairs with the boys following, and almost slid down the steps when I saw my dad behind the wheel.
"Come on!" I shouted to the boys. "It's my dad!" Joey looked skeptically until we piled into the backseat and I kissed Dad through the partition.
"Dad, this is Joey and Michael."
"Hello, boys."
"Hi, Mr. Heslin," they said in unison, suddenly shy.
"Sit back and hold onto your hats."
Dad sped around the icy corner and headed down to River Road. It was a small, two-lane street that curved inches above the choppy Hudson River. Joey and Michael clung to the side of the cab as I glowed with pride. They plastered forced smiles onto their petrified faces, and I saw Dad's sly grin in the mirror. I could tell they thought my dad was cool, and they were maybe just a little bit scared of him. I felt like a real person, with a dad driving a cab and taking me to biddy basketball.
Dad pulled up in front of the gym and shook the boys' hands. I got out and waited for my dad to follow, but he stayed behind the wheel and kept the cab running.
"Aren't you coming in?"
"Nah. Gotta get back to work. I'll catch you another time."
"Okay," I shrugged, not wanting to show my disappointment.
"All right. See ya later." He sped off through the snow as I walked over to Joey and Michael.
"Your dad is so cool!" Joey said.
"Yeah! You see the way he takes those curves. Man, I think I'm gonna puke!"
"I know! Me too! Cool!"
"Yeah," I said coolly. "He's all right."
Joey and Michael had blabbed about our ride to the entire team, and everyone wanted to know when they could get a ride. I played harder and faster that day, knowing that now all the kids knew I had a dad. Even though Dad hadn't set foot in the gym, he had come to my game, sort of.
Life in the cab wasn't always death-defying or action-packed. Mostly, it was exhausting. Dad would come home blurry-eyed after having worked two or three days straight between his two jobs. He would stagger up the steps, grocery bags bulging out of his arms, and grunt hello to all of us. His patience was short and his sighs were deep and heavy. Dad immediately changed into his pajamas, which consisted of a thin pair of cotton pajama bottoms pulled practically up to his nipples, a white guinea-t, and black dress socks pulled up his shins. I could gauge his mood by his dress socks. If he left them on, I knew he was in no mood to talk or even acknowledge us. When tips had been good and he had gotten more than two hours of sleep, however, he would sneak his socks off, ball them up and throw them in my face.
"Gross!" I would shriek and fling them back at my father.
"Wassa matter? Ya don't like feet?" Dad would chuckle. In fact, I did not like feet. I thought they were the most disgusting part of the human body.
"Maaa! Dadddy's throwin' his dirty socks at me!"
"Jesus, John. Wouldya leave her alone? Geesh!"
I waited on those nights, quietly watching Dad's feet for a sign of his mood. Those socks, however, usually stayed glued to his feet.
Dad always came home around eight, and lounged on the couch with a few Budweisers watching television. Then, as we were all getting ready for bed, he'd fix himself something to eat. I never understood how he could eat steak and noodles or spaghetti and meatballs right before going to sleep and still stay so skinny.
I often begged to stay up and watch television with Dad. When the socks came off, I knew it was usually safe to whine my way into late-night television. After eating, Dad rarely stayed awake long enough to watch an entire program. He would, however, struggle against sleep to watch Taxi. Even if Dad wouldn't let me stay up to watch it, I loved drifting off to sleep with its theme music whistling in the living room. I imagined that all of those crazy cabbies on the show were my dad's real-life friends, and I dreamed up dialogue for them.
"Hey Tony, my son's got a bully pickin' on him at school. Think you could teach him a few moves?" or, "I'm a little short on cash this week, Alex. Can you spot me a twenty 'til pay day?"
I pictured Elaine helping Dad shop for my birthday gift, and Louie barking out insults if Dad were a few minutes late. It made me feel safe to dream my dad into a better life - one with friends and laughter and lightness, and yes, a theme song.
Mom and I waited in the frigid exam room. The furniture was modern and sleek, but there were no pretty pictures on the wall to act as distractions. Instead, I noted a sterile tray with sharp instruments, and glass containers filled with cotton swabs and gauze pads. My palms sweated profusely and left damp handprints on the paper covering the exam table. Mom rifled through her purse, avoiding the sharp instruments and my accusing gaze. I had already sworn off any doctor who dared to go digging into my skin again.
The door swung open and Dr. Blank burst into the room. I inhaled deeply and held my breath. Dr. Blank had his face buried in my chart. He wore a metallic light fixture around his forehead.
"Miss Heslin...." he started, his face still obscured by the chart.
Dr. Blank flicked a switch on the band around his forehead, and the light shot on. I blinked against its surprising brightness. Mom fidgeted and remained silent next to me as Dr. Blank moved my face from side to side, scanning my skin. I felt naked under his gaze. His features were a blur behind that shining light.
"Uh hmm.... Acne. Yes." His voice purred like a cat. My arms broke out in goose bumps and a shiver crept up my spine. I felt like a specimen on display under a microscope. My skin crawled under the scrutiny.
"Did no one ever tell you not to pop your pimples?" the voice behind the light accused.
"No," I said, confused by the question. I stammered and sweated out my stress. "I mean, yes, I've been told that, but no, I've never popped my pimples." This was true. Seventeen Magazine had warned me against this early on. They promised permanent scarring if this cardinal rule of skin care was broken. Despite never having popped a single pimple anywhere on my body, however, there were reddened pits littering my cheeks. It had been a year since I had seen Dr. Putz. The only change I had seen in my skin since then were the angry red holes that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in my face.
"Well, dear, someone's been popping your pimples. And they have permanently scarred you."
Dr. Blank's voice oozed like oil. Although I couldn't see any of the features on his face, I imagined him to have a slick pointy mustache that he twirled between his fingers. I didn't trust his voice, or the fact that he hid behind that flood light on his forehead, but I decided to tell him about Dr. Putz's weekly treatments.
When I finished the story, Dr. Blank vibrated with "hmm's and ahh's". The light bore a hole through my eyes, and I was beginning to get a headache.
"Mrs. Heslin," Dr. Blank turned his spotlight onto my mother. I saw her blink against the harsh light. I stared hard at Dr. Blank, but all I saw were halos of light.
"You have quite the lawsuit on your hands. That doctor of yours has marred your daughter's skin. And I'm afraid there's nothing that can be done about it."
Dr. Blank turned away from us and scribbled on a piece of paper. He had said nothing of how he would help me, or where we could do from here. I stared blindly at his back, willing the words that were stuck in my throat to come out - do something! I wasn't sure if I was talking to him or me. While I wanted him to help me, I equally wanted to rear my foot back and kick him in the seat of his pants.
He wrote furiously and then swiveled back in my direction. He held out two prescriptions and plopped them down into my palm. The halos of light were almost fading, and I was anxious to get my first look at Dr. Blank's face. I blinked my eyes feverishly, hoping to further diminish the blind spots.
"Stop at the desk on the way out. I'll see you in a month." And then, like a cyclone, he blew back out of the office.
Out on the street, my vision cleared and I was finally able to read the prescriptions I was still clutching in my hand. I read them both and laughed out loud.
"What's so funny?" Mom wanted to know. I balled the prescriptions in my fist.
"I've tried these both already. Dr. Putz gave them to me. They didn't work." I stuffed the prescriptions down into my pocket, but I knew I would let Mom fill them once we got home.
Maybe they would work this time.
I could see Mom biting her lip and looking at me out of the corner of her eye.
"What?" I asked, somewhat annoyed.
"Whaddya think about what he said?"
"What did he say?"
"About the lawyer."
"Yeah, I can see it now!" I snorted. "'Uh, your honor. I was ugly to begin with. But this doctor made me even uglier. Just look at me. Oh, the horror!' No thanks. I'll pass on that." Mom walked quietly beside me. I knew she felt bad, and I felt bad about her feeling bad.
"What did he look like, anyway?" I asked.
"You know, I have no idea! I barely got a look at his face."
During the three months that I was under Dr. Blank's care, I never got a look at his face. His nose was always buried in a chart or I was blinded by his light. It didn't matter anyway. He was missing the magic I was chasing.
Dad's step was a little quicker when he came home that night. He came right to my room with his keys still jiggling in his hand.
"Well? How 'bout that doctor my friend recommended? Somethin' else, huh?"
"Yeah, Dad. He was somethin' else."
"What'd I tell ya. Ya want a good doctor, go to the city."
"I know, Dad. All the best doctors are in the city."
"You'll see. Everything'll be better now. He'll fix ya up."
"I know. Thanks, Dad."
I heard his keys tinkle together as he put them on the kitchen table. I wondered if there were some way I could affix a light to my forehead. I could blind everyone who stared at me, and then my face would be nothing but a big blank spot.
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