“Sorry we’re late,” I said.
“Late for what?” she said.
“A cleaning?” I said.
“You’re not on the schedule today,” she said, clicking through windows on her computer. “The Girl’s next appointment is in December.”
“Oh,” I said. “Any guesses about where we should be?”
She didn’t know either.
After saying a quick hello to another parent I knew who was waiting for one of his kids, because he was able to remember the details of her appointment, we made our way back to the car. After everyone was buckled up, I tried to work the problem.
“OK, not the dentist,” I said. “Maybe the eye doctor?”
The Girl, who’d been effusing about how relieved she was to not have to endure the horrors of fluoride, disagreed. “We should just go home,” she said.
But I knew, somewhere out in this town of ours, there was an appointment with some sort of medical professional with her name on it. So I called my husband, who called the optometrist while I started the car.
The advantage of living in such a small city is that any one point isn’t really that far from any other point. When we first moved here, we had to make a trip from our Center City house to our real estate agent’s office to sign some papers. She apologized when she described where it was, which was “all the way out in the West End.” It didn’t even take five minutes to drive there.
The Girl, the Boy, and I flung ourselves up the steps to the eye doctor’s when we arrived. We were really late by now. This receptionist also knows me by face if not by name because my eyes are like the Boy’s teeth, which means I’m in there frequently.