Heptadecagon

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 ...

He calls only when he needs something. An explanation. A favor. She finds herself cringing when the caller ID shows his number. Can I not take this call? She tosses the thought around in her head. Her husband knows what she is contemplating and tells her to ignore the call. "I can't," she says and  shakes her head. "I just can't." Visibly wincing as she says hello, she wonders what it will be this time. Do they need a place to stay for the night? Does he have a question about some medicine that he's been prescribed? "Hey, do you have a minute?" he asks. "Sure," she says and sits back against the recliner. "I need you to do something for me." I knew it, she thinks and looks over to her husband, who flashes a quick smile. He can't hear the conversation, but again, he knows. He's been through this with her for the last several years. "What do you need?" "I went to lunch with Mr. Dotson the o...

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." ...

She stood at the back of the old, wooden chapel, shivering from the cool breeze that snaked through the loose front doors. The day had dawned bright and a little too cold for her tastes, yet nothing problematic. And it didn't matter of course--she was anxious to be done with the day. To get everything over. To finally be married instead of getting married someday . And, she was ready. She had been ready for a long time. The music filtered through the double doors that separated the narthex from the nave. She imagined the faces of her friends and family--sitting quietly in the oak pews--and smiled. It was going to be a good day. No, make that a great one. To her left, stood her dad. He cut a fine figure in his gray tuxedo and freesia boutonniere. His right leg tapped a staccato beat and his fingers drummed against each other as he accessed her, indicating he was nervous. Why? She thought. He had no reason to be nervous. Not this time. She looked into his eyes, where she thought s...