Joyce's imagination (narrated by Rebecca, aged 12)

 

All that afternoon, I kept glancing at Joyce out of the corner of my eye, tempting myself to see the person she’d been on the staircase that first day. I thought she must be a little like those brain teaser pictures the art teacher showed us at school. There was the girl sitting innocently cross-legged on her denim bedspread in front of me, and then there was the other one, who stood before crowds speaking in tongues and waving her own blood in the air. I kept waiting for that one to appear, and even though Joyce’s bandage was gone and her lip was healed, I couldn’t help bringing it up one more time. 

 

“I never could’ve done what you did. I’d be too afraid that God would hear, or that the devil would pop out and take me.”

 

Joyce shook her head. “You could’ve. Anyone could.”

 

“Plus, I never would’ve thought of it in time.”

 

“You could now. If someone was chasing you.”

 

“I doubt it.”

 

Joyce flopped back on her bed. “Do you really think I’m like that? It’s just drama camp. I’m not actually like that at all.”

There was a small brown birthmark beneath her eye, just along the lash line, and she wiped at it like she was annoyed.

 

“I don’t mean anything bad by it. But if Tanya and Deanna were coming after me I would’ve just given up. I would’ve tried to say all that stuff you said and nothing would come out.”

 

“Okay,” she said, sitting up. “You’re wrong about that. Let me give you an example.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead. “What do you want to be when you’re older?”

 

“I think I’m going to be a dentist.”

 

I had stumbled across this response when I was in sixth grade. I’d just been to the dentist when my teacher asked us to name our future careers, and after all the wannabe actresses, dancers, and big-league baseball players, my answer had gotten the teacher so excited that I’d claimed I wanted to be a dentist ever since. It was random, but at least I didn’t have to think about it. Plus, people always seemed impressed when I said it. 

 

“A dentist?” Joyce yowled. “You noodle! O-kay. A dentist. So close your eyes. You’re a dentist.” I felt her hands suddenly pressing down on my shoulders. “Now, picture what you see as you walk into your office in the morning.”

 

 

I felt Joyce’s breath close to my hair as I tried to concentrate. I opened the door to the office and saw chairs in the waiting room. Magazines on the table. A water cooler. I waved to the receptionists.

 

Joyce’s voice had become slow and soothing. “I want you to look at yourself. Notice what you’re wearing.”

 

I was wearing a long white coat, and I decided there was a drill in my hand.

 

“Okay. Your first patient just came in. He’s a little boy and you know exactly what to do to help fix his teeth. Imagine how you feel.”

 

How did I feel? Strange. Nervous again. I put down the drill. It wasn’t working. I wasn’t a dentist.

 

“Okay,” I said.

 

“Okay?” Joyce jiggled my shoulder. “Now open your eyes and tell me who you are.”

 

“I’m Rebecca Lucas.”

 

Joyce gave me an encouraging look, nodding.

 

“I work as a dentist.”

 

“Dr. Rebecca Lucas,” she corrected.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay, so you’re confident and powerful. You can feel your dentist-ness all the way from your toes to your fingertips.”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“I’ll be your next patient.” Joyce dropped her head into my lap. Crossing her arms over her chest, she blinked up at me. Her hair spread across my lap and over my legs. I felt my heart thudding in my stomach.

 

“What should I do?”

 

Joyce spoke in a little girl’s voice. “How are my teeth, Dr. Lucas?” She opened her mouth and I saw the orangey-red tomato juice still on her tongue.

 

“Hmm.” I leaned forward. “Say ‘Ahhh’.”

 

Joyce stuck out her tongue. “Ahhhhh.”

 

“Good.” I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands. One was trapped beneath her hair and when I tried to pull it out I heard the strands ripping. I felt none of the authority of a dentist, but I didn’t want to disappoint her. I tried to force cheery concern into my voice.

 

“Now, Joyce,” I said. “Have you been brushing twice a day?”

 

“Yes. After every meal.”

 

“What about flossing?”

 

“I looove flossing. When I’m done flossing my teeth, I floss the dog’s.”

 

“Awesome.” I ventured to put a finger on her chin. “Now I’m going to check if you have any cavities. Can you open wide again?”

 

Joyce closed her eyes and I looked inside her mouth more carefully. I took my time, peering at a dark filling in a molar, the tiny red punching bag at the back of her throat. I noticed how her saliva made the insides of her cheeks shiny, and I carefully pressed a finger against a slippery front tooth.

 

“Does that hurt?”

 

“No.”

 

Using my index finger, I pushed her lip up on the right side. Pink gum, small white tooth. I could feel her take a deep breath

beneath me.

 

“This one might need a filling,” I said, tapping my nail against her tooth.

 

“Impossible Doc. My teeth are clean.”

 

“Ahh. Right. I was just kidding. You don’t have any cavities. Do you want them polished?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“I’ll just get my assistants to do it,” I said. “Tanya! Deanna! Can you get in here?”

 

Joyce shrieked with laughter and sprang from my lap, grabbing my neck with her arm. “No polishing! No polishing!” she

shouted into my hair. She was stronger than me and I ended up flat on my back. She held my wrists, and laughing, climbed onto my stomach.

 

“I can’t believe you would hire my arch enemies,” she said, bouncing. “Okay, next game. This one is called ‘Escaped Mental Patients’. It’s really fun. I learned it at camp.”

 

It felt like being a little kid again. At first we just ran around the room, grunting and blurting things out. “Jellybean bunkhouse,” Joyce cried.

 

“Sassafras,” I shouted. “Eeenie beanie BUM!”

 

Joyce pushed her nose right up to the wall like she was trying to smell it. She ran her hands up and down the lines of striped wallpaper, and then pretended to give it a lick. Meanwhile, I’d crawled onto her bed and was trying to fold my body into a somersault. When she crawled over to watch me, she tapped me on the shoulder. “Be very quiet,” she whispered, eyes wide with fear. “They’re coming for us.”

©Lauren Frankel 2014