The Portable Veblen: Shortlisted for the Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction 2016. Elizabeth McKenzie
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“I can’t tell you how pleased I am to hear a doctor say that!”
“Now, the cause could be nonorganic—” Paul began.
Veblen winced.
“Nonorganic? Psychosomatic, is that what you’re saying?”
“No, not in that sense—”
“What do you mean? If a migraine falls outside their specialty, many physicians don’t realize that it is no longer considered psychosomatic.”
Veblen said, woodenly, “Mom, let’s eat.”
“I can’t speak for ‘many physicians,’” Paul said, “but I’m a neurologist and—” He stopped abruptly to sip his champagne, temples pulsating. His jaw was seizing like a tractor, and Veblen’s stomach ached. “You sound like you know more about it than I do,” he said, mildly.
Perfect answer!
“That’s very likely true, which is a sad story in itself. I have this central stationary scotoma when in hot or warm showers, and with exercise. I see a blur, followed by an irregular opaque gray area. Rest restores normal sight. But if I walk on a cold day, the central scotoma is lighted and nonmoving.”
“Interesting,” Paul said.
“Oh, another piece of the puzzle!” Melanie exclaimed, almost gaily. “Two years ago, I found an area on my chest that was dead—numb without feeling. Located right here—” She pointed to an area at the top of her left breast. “It was about five by five centimeters. That large! It remained dead until about six months ago, when suddenly … Remember, Linus, I realized that my dead spot had feeling again. Is that related?”
“Mmm. Could be,” Paul said.
With that, Melanie swiveled in her chair and reached for a few typed sheets of paper that had been stapled together, hidden behind a ceramic bowl full of miniature pinecones.
“This is a complete list of my medical history,” she announced.
Paul looked surprised. “My, arranged almost like a CV!” he said.
“You don’t need to ridicule me,” Melanie said, making Veblen jump up and retreat into the kitchen, breathing short and fast. She bit her forearm so hard she left teeth marks in it.
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