It was a long time coming. Little Gabrielle Baker, who’s not so little anymore, sat in the doctor’s office playing a game on her phone. She sat on that pleather mattress — not pink, not orange, not brown — doctor’s offices have, swinging her long legs, looking quite a bit less nervous than her stepmum.
That stepmum was talking incessantly, telling her how fine everything was going to be, telling her, in fact, just often enough that it was betraying her doubt.
But then in walked the allergist, who is happily my friend Sarah, and stepmum could shut up.
“Are we ready?” Sarah said, with a big smile on her face. “Did you bring it?”
I handed her the bag of sweetened flaked coconut she’d asked me to bring.
“Let’s do this,” Sarah said.