Heptadecagon

Rita always knew what to say, how to say it, and when to say it, but as she sat in her car in the parking lot of her local Kroger store ("Right Store, Right Price"), words refused to move from her brain to her mouth. "What did you say?" Rita asked her brother, Robert, who called her most mornings with a news update. Those updates spanned the gamut: from non-news about current celebrities to the antics of his twin 10-year-old sons, to things that their parents had said to him. Lately, the last category contained preposterous news. "The shit old people say," Robert always said. "Who knew?" "Yep. She said it. Mom said it. To me. On the phone. Yesterday." Robert's clipped words meant only one thing: he was driving into work, probably surrounded by loads of traffic. Rita gazed out the window at the fog that hung in the air. She was so tired of the heat and humidity that draped every landscape and just as tired of hearing all the cr...

Marissa sat, cemented to the seat of her car, trying to decide whether or not to go into her parents' house. She'd always hated that house--the muddy siding and dark rooms never welcomed her in--and she'd much rather sit in the warmth of the summer sun than walk into whatever waited for her inside. Although she couldn't be completely certain, she was pretty sure the two scenarios she envisioned were both something she really could live without. And what did she envision? An irate husband, one who had convinced himself she'd been unfaithful last winter, even though she hadn't, and a mother who couldn't acknowledge that times had changed, that she needed help. She imagined them sitting at the mahogany dining table, fingers wrapped around condensation-laced glasses of lemonade, whispers of the television in the background. Both of them with legs crossed and eyebrows furrowed, waiting for the moment Marissa opened the sliding door. Yeah, I could use a ...

Marissa wasn't worried. Even though she'd been telling her Dad for two years to get his mole checked, she knew it probably wasn't metastatic melanoma. She wasn't sure how she knew, but she just did. But if it she was wrong, well, he was over 80 years old and had lived a good life. Not that she wanted to be callous about the situation, but in her line of work, she'd seen sadder stories than her father's. "What else do you know, Dad?" "Not much. They didn't tell me anything." "Well did you ask for the pathology report?" Marissa shuffled some items on her desk, searching for Trevor's itinerary. He was due in from the airport this afternoon, and she didn't want to make him wait for a ride. If she wasn't mistaken, she'd need to leave soon, and therefore, she needed to quickly end this conversation with her father. "No, I didn't ask for the pathology report." "Why not?" "I just ...

Frank's hands shook as he picked up the receiver. The caller ID showed the number of his dermatologist. He'd been in last week to have a mole removed. If the news were good, the office wouldn't be calling would it? "Hello?" Even he could hear the tremble in his voice. "Hello. Mr. Costello?" "Yes. Speaking." He sat down at the kitchen table. "Hi, this is Dawn from the Skin Center. Dr. Yarrow wanted me to tell you that the mole you had excised looks like melanoma. You need to have more taken out next week to be sure that we've gotten all of it, okay? And it looks like here we have two openings on Thursday, at either 9:30 a.m. or 1:30 p.m. Which one would work for your schedule?" Dawn's voice is pleasant, Frank thought. But that's a lot to take in. Let me think. Let me think. Frank tossed the times around in his head and then consulted his calendar. "I think the 9:30 slot would work well. Thank you." ...