Flowers in Her Hair

"In California, the leaves never fall, the trees never change, but everything else does. Everything changes except the trees." Lisa kept whispering the words to herself, trying to remember who had said them. Walking and whispering, unaware that her own world was about to change completely, she drifted down a sterile corridor with the speaker's name on the tip of her tongue. Midway through her life, more or less, Lisa MacLean had reached a certain plateau—or so she thought. Wandering absentmindedly into a large room, she slowly flipped her fingers along a row of folders. A row of jackets, to be precise. Film jackets crammed into the film library of the radiology department where Dr. MacLean worked: a dusty, overstuffed room in the back of a small, overstuffed department in the middle of an old drafty hospital in San Francisco. She consulted the number scribbled on a battered scrap of paper in her hand and ran her fingers along another row of jackets, searching. Hundreds of thousands of films—broken ankles and brain tumors and strokes and mammograms—and she just wanted one folder. Except that she kept tripping on her new shoes. The rubber soles made embarrassing squeaking noises on the overwaxed floors, so she tried to walk lightly and softly, which was impossible. Twenty years earlier, little Lisa MacLean couldn't even walk and chew gum; now she could navigate a 14 French catheter into the femoral artery, up the aorta, and into a tiny renal artery with great skill. But her clumsy feet still sent her tripping and sliding as she searched. Her mind wandered too—it seemed to go off on its own more each day. Which made the search even longer, what with the slipping and wandering. But she found her folder: moderately full, a bar code on the cover and a series of scribbled diagnoses inside. She snatched it out quickly and deftly spun it in her hand, causing her to truly slip, cartoon-like. As Lisa skidded across the floor, the folder jumped right out of her hand, as if jinxed by contact with her skin. X-rays spilled across the floor, spreading under cabinets, and right up to the toes of the file clerk Juanita. "Dr. MacLean, why don't you let me look for you?" asked Juanita, typically exasperated. Lisa smiled her crooked smile. "I didn't want to trouble you, really." She continued smiling as she scooped up the films from the floor, careful to retrieve every one. A lost X-ray, she knew, was a lawsuit waiting to happen. Clutching the folder close to her chest, Lisa walked, loudly now, back to her office. Her office was really just a small desktop with a few view boxes and three tiny drawers. She shared the room with two radiology colleagues. Lisa stuffed the torn paper in the jacket cover and threw the folder under the desk, eager to return to a stack of ultrasounds awaiting her interpretation. She hated falling behind, and she was determined to catch up quickly—except that the phone was ringing and she had this damn meeting with the lawyers downtown in two hours and it was not going to be an efficient day. The phone wouldn't quit, so she picked it up. "Dr. MacLean here." "Got an OB case for you in room 2." Lisa stared at her stack and dreamed briefly of Duke's Barefoot Bar on the beach in Oahu before hurrying to room 2. Jennie was her favorite ultrasound technologist; Lisa wouldn't keep her waiting. As she approached, Jennie was hanging fresh films from the printer and ranting into a phone. "So you're saying that Joey doesn't get it at all, is that it?" said Jennie. She stuck her tongue out, then covered the receiver and whispered "fucking teachers" to Lisa before resuming: "Well, maybe that's crap, maybe you don't get it." Lisa smiled and watched the action. Jennie had an endless reserve of venom stored just to protect her children. Right behind Jennie's teeth, Lisa thought, two little glands had sprung up when the twins had popped out. Lisa had seen Jennie defend her kids against stupid teachers and an absent father for years. "I have to go. We'll settle this tomorrow." Jennie hung up and exhaled slowly, fangs receding. She looked up at Lisa, who grinned and asked, "How are the kids?" "Don't ask. How's the boyfriend?" Lisa lost her smile. "Don't ask. Really, don't ask. Inside the small, cold room a patient lay on a gurney. The patient rubbed her pregnant belly and stared at the ceiling, practicing her breathing. Jennie leaned over her, introducing Lisa as "El doctor." As Jennie scanned, ticking off the fetal organs in order, Lisa stared at the screen. The probe moved across the patient's abdomen in waves, fluid motion revealing the fetus in segments. Thoracic spine, lumbar, as the images flowed, up and down and over, placenta anterior, cervix, Lisa watched the little head move and the tiny fingers flex, and she fell into a dreamy trance. Thirty-four weeks of life floated and kicked and slept soundly with a wisdom Lisa envied. Four-chambered heart, kidneys, there was great comfort in this face, lips—Lisa got a direct view of the face, frozen for a moment and facing toward her. A little hand drifted up into the image and flexed its fingers. Waving. Looking right at Lisa from the dark wetness and waving through the camera. And then the probe moved on, femurs, three-vessel cord. Lisa felt the corners of her mouth rise slightly, her eyes glazed and her precise mind wandered again. "Lisa?" "Hmm." The images stopped. Jennie looked over at her. "You're smiling again. Every time lately, you start smiling." Lisa smiled harder. "He waved. Didn't you see it?" Jennie returned to her exam, the images started again. "He's a she, and it's called fetal tone, not a wave." Bladder, liver. Jennie continued, "When are you going to get it over with and have one of these yourself?" The words came out, effortlessly, carelessly. "I can't." The images froze again, right on the fetal heart, steady and strong. She had barely whispered, so quiet, but Lisa couldn't believe it. No one knew, not even her mother, and now Lisa had told Jennie, of all people. Lisa stared straight ahead at the heartbeat. Ventricles and atria, relentless, with such a long road ahead. She felt Jennie lean over onto her. Just for a second, Jennie's temple on Lisa's shoulder, and Lisa closed her eyes. Then just as quickly, Jennie pulled away the probe and wiped the patient's abdomen, speaking in Spanish, promising a picture to take home. Lisa hurried back to her desk, shaking a bit. Not a good day. Jennie was there in a moment, avoiding Lisa's eyes, handing her the films and paperwork. Lisa closed the door and leaned back, looking up at Jennie. "Don't look at me like that, Jen." Jennie's face scrunched, her pudgy Latino features crinkling. "Oh shit, Lisa, really?" "Yeah, really. And while I'm blurting everything out, let's finish it. You can stop asking about Frank." Jennie's face changed. Her ears actually perked. "I haven't seen him in two months." "No, get out!" Jennie's mouth fell open; she looked properly shocked. "You're a big fat phony, Jen, just go ahead and let that smile loose. You never liked him, no one does." Jennie grinned. "Of course I don't like him. Of course no one does. He's an ass. But why haven't you seen him?" Lisa closed her eyes. "Because I kicked him out. It's a long messy story, and I have all this work to do and this stupid meeting with a bunch of lawyers." Jennie's eyes widened. "You're being sued too?" "No, I'm not being sued." Lisa hesitated. "At least I don't think so. Actually, I'm not sure. I haven't had time to even look at the films. I suppose they just need my testimony about a chest case." In fact, she had no idea what they wanted from her. "You need to get out." Jennie nodded. "Yes, you need to go out with your friend Jen and have a few drinks and relax. I know, I've been there." Lisa smiled. "I know, you've been there, you've told me a thousand times. What about the twins?"