“It looks like we have a little extra time,” she said. “Perhaps I could take a question from the studio audience.” She looked at the cameraman, who held a finger up to his throat as if to slit it. “NO, NO, NO,” he mouthed.
“Hello,” she said, pointing at a woman in the front row, her glasses perched atop a stiff hairdo, her thick legs swathed in support hose.
“I’m Mrs. George Fillis from Kernville,” the woman said nervously as she stood up, “and I’m thirty-eight years old. I just wanted to say how much I enjoy your show. I . . I can’t believe how much I’ve learned. I know I’m not the brightest bulb,” she said, her face pink with shame, “that’s what my husband always says—and yet last week when you said osmosis was the movement of a less concentrated solvent through a semipermeable membrane to another more concentrated solvent, I found myself wondering if…well…”
“Go on.”
“Well, if my leg edema might not be a by-product of faulty hydraulic conductivity combined with an irregular osmotic reflection coefficient of plasma proteins. What do you think?”
“A very detailed diagnosis, Mrs. Fillis,” Elizabeth said. “What kind of medicine do you practice?”
“Oh,” the woman stumbled, “no, I’m not a doctor. I’m just a housewife.”
“There isn’t a woman in the world who is just a housewife,” Elizabeth said. “What else do you do?”
“Nothing. A few hobbies. I like to read medical journals.”
“Interesting. What else?”
“Sewing.”
“Clothes?”
“Bodies.”
“Wound closures?”
“Yes. I have five boys. They’re always tearing holes in themselves.”
“And when you were their age you envisioned yourself becoming—”
“A loving wife and mother.”
“No, seriously—”
“An open-heart surgeon,” the woman said before she could stop herself.
The room filled with a thick silence, the weight of her ridiculous dream hanging like too-wet laundry on a windless day. Open-heart surgery? For a moment it seemed as if the entire world was waiting for the laughter that should follow. But then from one end of the audience came a single unexpected clap—immediately followed by another—and then another—and then ten more—and then twenty more—and soon everyone in the audience was on their feet and someone called out, “Dr. Fillis, heart surgeon,” and the clapping became thunderous.
“No, no,” the woman insisted above the noise. “I was only kidding. I can’t actually do that. Anyway, it’s too late.”
“It’s never too late,” Elizabeth insisted.
“But I couldn’t. Can’t.”
“Why.”
“Because it’s hard.”
“And raising five boys isn’t?”
The woman touched her fingertips to the small beads of sweat dotting her forehead. “But where would someone like me even start?”
“The public library,” Elizabeth said. “Followed by the MCATs, school, and residency.”
The woman suddenly seemed to realize that Elizabeth took her seriously. “You really think I could do it?” she said, her voice trembling.
“What’s the molecular weight of barium chloride?”
“208.23.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“But my husband—”
“Is a lucky man. By the way, it’s Free Day, Mrs. Fillis,” Elizabeth said, “something my producer just invented. To show our support for your fearless future, you’ll be taking home my chicken pot pie. Come on up and get it.”
Amid roaring applause, Elizabeth handed the now-determined-looking Mrs. Fillis the foil-covered pie. “We’re officially out of time,” Elizabeth said. “But I hope you’ll tune in tomorrow as we explore the world of kitchen conflagrations.”
Then she looked right through the camera lens, and almost as if she divined it, directly into the astonished faces of Mrs. George Fillis’s five children sprawled in front of the TV in Kernville, their eyes open wide, their mouths agape, as if they had just seen their mother for the very first time.
“Boys, set the table,” Elizabeth commanded. “Your mother needs a moment to herself.”
Chapter 30
99 Percent
“Mad,” Elizabeth began carefully a week later, “Mrs. Mudford called me at work today. Something about an inappropriate family photo?”