Nice Big American Baby

She was right about the clinic. It was cold and it was ugly. She signed in with the receptionist and we sat in the waiting room. The room was gray and bare; the chairs were old vinyl that stuck to your thighs. The lights buzzed and seemed to flicker unless you were looking directly at them.

We sat side by side and stared straight ahead as if we were watching a movie.

There was one other woman waiting. She had enormous breasts. I could not help noticing.

I took my mother’s hand. It was very cold, but then her hands were always cold, even in summer, cool and smooth with the blue veins arching elegantly over their backs. Her hand lay limply in mine. I had made the gesture thinking it was the right thing to do, but now that I had her hand I didn’t know what to do with it. I patted it, turned it over.

My mother looked at me strangely. My hand began to sweat.

There was noise, activity somewhere; we could hear voices and footsteps, the crash and skid of metal, the brisk tones of people telling each other what to do. But we could see nothing but the receptionist in her window and the one woman who looked asleep, sagging in her chair with her breasts cupped in her arms like babies.

I need to use the restroom, my mother said, and pulled her hand away.

The receptionist directed us down the hall and around the corner. We went in, our footsteps echoing on the tiles. It was empty and reeked of ammonia. The tiles glistened damply.

Here, do something with yourself, my mother said, and handed me her comb. She walked down to the big handicapped stall on the end and latched the door.

I combed my hair and washed my hands and waited.

I looked at myself in the mirror. The lights were that harsh relentless kind that reveal every detail of your face, so that you can see all sorts of flaws and pores you didn’t even know you had. They made you feel you could see your own thoughts floating darkly just under your skin, like bruises.

Mother, I said. I watched her feet tapping around.

Lisa, she said, there’s a fish in the toilet.

Oh, please.

No, I mean it. It’s swimming around.

You’re making it up.

No, I’m not. Come see for yourself.

Well, it’s probably just some pet goldfish someone tried to flush.

It’s too big to be a goldfish. More like a carp. It’s bright orange. Almost red.

You’re seeing things—maybe it’s blood or something, I said; then I wished I hadn’t. The clinic was attached to the county hospital; all sorts of things were liable to pop up in the toilets: hypodermic needles, appendixes, tonsils.

No, no, it’s a fish, it’s beautiful really. It’s got these gauzy fins, like veils. I wonder how it got in here. It looks too large to have come through the pipes. It’s swimming in circles. Poor thing.

Well, then, come out and use a different one, I said. I suddenly started to worry that she was going to miss her appointment. You’re just stalling, I said.

Come in and see. We have to save it somehow.

I heard her pulling up her pantyhose, fixing her skirt. Then she unlatched the door to the stall and opened it. She was smiling. Look, she said.

I followed her into the stall.

Come see, she said. Together we leaned over the bowl.

I saw only the toilet’s bland white hollow and our two identical silhouettes reflected in the water.

Now where did he go? my mother said. Isn’t that the strangest thing?

We looked at the empty water.

How do you think he got out? she said. Look, you can see, the water’s still moving from where he was. Look, look—little fish droppings. I swear. Lisa, honey, look.

My mother is going crazy, I thought. Let’s go back to the waiting room, I said.

But I still have to use the bathroom, she said.

I stood by the sink and waited. You’re going to miss your appointment, I said. I watched her feet. Silence.

I was making her nervous. I’ll wait for you in the hall, I said.

So I left, leaned against the wall, and waited. And waited. She was taking a long time. I started to wonder if she had been hallucinating. I wondered if something really was wrong with her, if she was bleeding internally or having a weird allergic reaction. I didn’t think she was making it all up; she couldn’t lie, she was a terrible, obvious liar.

Mother, I called.

Mom, I said.

I went back into the bathroom.

She was gone.

The stall doors swung loose, creaking. I checked each cubicle, thinking she might be standing on the toilet seat, with her head ducked down the way we did to avoid detection in high school. In the handicapped stall the toilet water was quivering, as if it had just been flushed. I even checked in the cabinets under the sink and stuck my hand down in the garbage pail.

I stood there, thinking. She must have somehow left and darted past me without my noticing. Maybe I had closed my eyes for a minute. She could move fast when she wanted to.

Had she climbed out the window? It was a small one, closed, high up on the wall.

She had escaped.

I walked slowly down the halls, listening, scanning the floor tiles.

I thought of her narrow back, the gaping mouth of the toilet, pictured her slipping down, whirling around and vanishing in the pipes.

I tried to formulate a reasonable question: Have you seen my mother? A woman, about my height, brown hair, green eyes? Nervous-looking? Have you seen her?

Or were her eyes hazel?

I came back to the waiting room with the question on my lips—I was mouthing the words she’s disappeared—but when I got there the receptionist was leaning through the window calling out in an irritated voice: Ms. Salant? Ms. Salant? They’re ready for you, Ms. Salant.

The receptionist was opening the door to the examining rooms; the nurses and technicians were holding out paper gowns and paper forms and urine sample cups. Ms. Salant, Ms. Salant, we’re waiting, they called; people were everywhere suddenly, gesturing impatiently and calling out my name.

So I went in.