Bone Rights

"Thank you for waiting, Mrs. Harper. We got your test results back and, unfortunately, I have to inform you that, with your condition, you are infringing upon bone rights." Doctor Gladstone takes off his glasses and sighs like he is delivering news of an incurable disease.

"Like mineral rights? Do you mean someone else's rights to my bones?" I sit in a paper gown on the exam table. As I pull out my cell phone, the gown crinkles loudly.

"No, this is simply referring to a bone's right to livable conditions where they are and not subject to abuse from their host."

"Abuse? What are you accusing me of?" I toss the phone back into my purse and cross my arms.

"For your condition, where there has been significant abuse—that cannot be attributed to overuse or working conditions—the bone can exercise its right to extraction. We've seen this outcome connected to excessive alcohol consumption over many years."

"Well, that's absolutely ridiculous." I hop off the exam table.

"Mrs. Harper—your scans show significant damage to your hips, especially your right one. It is exhibiting signs of necrosis. Do you understand what that means?"

"Doctor, bones don't have rights. They belong to me and I think I'd know how they're doing." With a tinkling laugh, I grab my jeans and shimmy into them like a second skin.

"I understand this is hard to process and it's all new," the doctor continues, "but you will need to return in two weeks. At most. If we act now, we can save you from a worse alternative."

Pulling off the paper gown, I replace it with my own top and shove my feet back into my sneakers. The doctor trails after me, trying to convince me to stay, that I need to take bone rights seriously, but I stop thinking of them as soon as I leave the parking lot.

###

I give the other Mrs. Harper a perfunctory kiss on the cheek when she arrives home. She works in sales and has long hours and usually returns after the children are in bed.

"Slow day?"

"The slowest. I'd rather be with my girls, anyway."

 We had two beautiful girls late in life, both already in the 2nd grade. Our two children spin in circles in the living room, showing us what their science teacher taught them about gravity and 'in-her-sha'. Their heads wobble and dresses swirl and I wait for them to fall. The youngest of the twins is clumsier, more prone to bruise like an overripe pear. I wonder where I'll find her latest one when I help them with their pajamas.

I raise my eyebrows at Mrs. Harper. She nods and I pour a second glass of wine.

We all laugh as the girls fall to the ground in a small heap of wiggling limbs. The twins laugh in enjoyment; they'd be happy anywhere. I laugh in relief, glad they fell on the rug and not the unforgiving tile for once. The other Mrs. Harper laughs in surprise and clutches her wine like a life raft.

I don't mention my visit to the doctor and she doesn't ask.

###

A couple weeks later, I pull into the HEB parking lot when the doctor's number flashes on the console again, for the second time in as many minutes. I decline.

He'd called almost every day these past two weeks, leaving me increasingly long voicemails. What a strange doctor.

Since that appointment, I'd buried myself in the familiar. My morning run of 3 miles in 21 minutes. The children dropped of precisely at 8:15AM. Successfully avoiding Marge in the drop-off line so she couldn't force me into the PTA bake sale. Cooking the family dinners in the afternoons. Only organic and fresh, of course. Monday was salmon with kale salad. Tuesday was ground turkey with quinoa and brussels. And so the routine went until I awakened in a fresh sweat at 2AM, when I'd wheeze and grab my cell phone to swallow internet searches like medicinal bleach. Priding myself on my self-control, I never swiped the screen on.

Pushing the cart up to the checkout lane, I think how my hips didn't bother me, even the right one. Sometimes, if I sat awhile, maybe it would hurt a bit. But whose hips didn't bother them at over 40?

I smile to myself, paying for my wife's favorite Barolo, table water crackers, and 20-month-aged prosciutto. My hips had given me two children. I had run marathons. So what if I enjoyed a few adult beverages?

Loading the trunk of the pearl SUV, I drive back to the empty house. The children wouldn't be back for hours. The other Mrs. Harper is at work.

The doctor's number flashes over the car screen. I am going to savor every minute of alone time. As I went to decline, the car answers the call for me.

"What the hell?"

"Mrs. Harper, thank you for taking my call."

"I didn't take it. The stupid car—"

"Knows it's nearly too late. I'm not sure you're even eligible for a replacement at this point, but we can make your case together.

"I'm tired of this joke"—I am beginning to think it wasn't a joke, that I should have scoured the internet for answers, but it is also too late to admit that to him—"and I don't appreciate you continuing to bother me about this."

"The car has determined that your nervous system is producing distress calls, which are sensed by your seat."

Betrayed by technology. I sigh. This conversation should come with a two-drink minimum.

"I must beg you, Mrs. Harper. Come into the office immediately. We'll handle this together. It's okay you didn't believe me, but you must do something now."

I wonder, for a moment, if I should admit that he might be right. If I should forget the dinner party that we'd planned all month. If I should let them deal with my hips, even though nothing really hurt and it couldn't possibly be that bad since I would have felt it.

I would have known. Like when I knew I could complete 26 miles in under 4 hours, or how I knew I was pregnant with the twins before the doctor did, or how I knew my wife was going to say yes to my proposal.

Shaking my head, I say, "That's all well and good, doctor, but I have a party to host."

###

The party is at a happy din—calm chatter about school schedules and grilling utensils—and I refuse to let my tone rise and shatter the mood for everyone else.

Our home is full of neighbors, my least favorite being Marge. I did not share Tequila Tuesdays or Taco Thursdays, or any other alliterative nights with her. She'd badgered me into the corner, to get me to commit to baking brownies or some other sugary good, and I had let the term 'bone rights' slip and now she wouldn't let that drop either. I would have bet money that she'd never heard of it. Perhaps she's lying.

Curling my arm, I tuck myself further into the corner of our open floor living room and away from Marge who pursues with lack of understanding that the further a person moved away, the polite thing—the obvious thing—would be to leave that person alone. Her stream of words continue and I am nearly knocking into our Ficus tree while she explains what she'd heard on 60 Minutes.

"I've heard of bone rights," Marge says, sipping her drink. "Pretty rough stuff. Laws were only passed in the last few years that gave bones any rights. Usually, their signals petition for replacement which is all well and good, unless replacement is denied, which means they can protest, and then when all else fails—"

"Oh hey, Marge." My wife's interruption forces Marge to take a breath.

The other Mrs. Harper hugs my side in hello and I think I feel my hip squeeze as well.

###

My hip ached the rest of the weekend. I imagined it had something to do with the cold front rolling in. The weather is turning.

With the kids back at school and the wife back at work, I prepare for Martini Monday. A chilled bottle of vodka and a lemon were all I needed. The alcohol pours thick. I skin the lemon, spritzing the glass and swirling the peel along the edges before dropping it in with a satisfying plop. I set my phone on the counter to silent.

Sitting on the kitchen island stool, I was bringing the dainty glass to my lips when I feel a swift and deep throb in my side. I sit the glass down and press the heel of my hand hard into the spot, sliding it up and down until the muscle cramp passes.

Once it subsides, I curl my hand around the glass. My fingertips puncture the condensation. My hip twinges, but I refuse to be interrupted again. I take a sip, the clear liquid burning like the touch of an old lover.

The pain in my side redoubles, refusing to be ignored, and I set the glass down hastily, spilling some. Walking further into the living room, I plan to sit on the couch and grab something to help roll out my hip muscle when it spasms and my leg gives out.

I hit the tile and I know I will not avoid bruises. My cry lingers in the empty house.

Crawling across the thick rug to the couch, I lean back against it and stretch my right leg out. No signs of hemorrhaging. I laugh, the house echoing the angry sound back.

"Protest? Bones can't protest." I pant and I'm seeing spots. White dots scattering and returning, turning the living room into a shimmer.

I eye my drink in the kitchen. I'll show it a protest.

Army crawling along the floor, my right leg dangling from the fire engulfing my hip, I make it halfway across the room when a new kind of pain drags a strangled cry from my lips. I'm panting, pressing my hands to my belly, and the room feels like it’s running out of air.

I roll up the hem of my dress, wondering what could feel so... unearthly. It feels like something is turning, like the way the twins would somersault in my belly. Only it feels sharp, as if instead of the tumble of their bodies, it’s the claws of their fingers trying to dig their way out.

Black underwear covers part of my hip and I yank the side down, exposing the skin. There's nothing. It's all in your mind. The doctor convinced you something was wrong and now you're exhibiting symptoms of this false disorder. Yes, yes...

Laying on my back, it looks like the ceiling is flashing in out of existence as the shimmer grows. You should give that doctor a handshake. He's got no idea how hard it is to shake you.

I place my hands on the cold tile, intending to give him that call, when the agony begins in earnest. I'd thought the last few minutes were bad. But this is it. Something roils beneath my skin. I'm not sure how long I flop, a gasping fish, until it calms enough for me to move. Something is wet.

Shifting to my side, I'm desperate for relief and afraid to look, afraid to raise my dress again. I slowly pull it up, an inch at a time revealing paler flesh that stretches and stretches. My hands shake and my eyes water as I refuse to blink.

The soft fabric rolls up easily and I pause barely below my hip. The same voice that told me to look before, that my mind was definitely playing tricks, was sure looking now would only make it worse.

You don't want to look. No, pour yourself another drink and wait for someone to come home. It doesn't really hurt that bad, and if it did you would know. You would—

I yank the dress the rest of the way and the hem snaps. I groan at the sight.

It is no small piece of bone protruding from my side, it's the span of my closed fist. Blood wells out of the sides, an eruption of tissue. I expect the bone to be brilliant white, but it has a pinkish tinge.

It's trying to escape!

I want to shove it back into my side, put it back where it belongs. It's not meant to go anywhere, it's mine goddamn it. For better or worse, I'll use it as I goddamn please.

The pain begins again and I watch the bone move. It slides out, inch by inch, twisting, arcing out of me. It moves toward my thigh, splitting my skin further as it follows its predetermined path. I'm almost detached, finding its assured movement almost calming, when the top of my leg hurts and I have a moment—I'm a 50s housewife and I'm looking down at my body scraped over the tile and where does it think it’s going, I learned something about—and I hear a loud pop and scream as the bone snaps away from something inside.

My right leg dangles uselessly and the bone spits itself onto the floor. It clatters, disturbingly sounding like a dog bone and I'm so glad we never let the twins have a puppy. If some poorly named—Max or Champ— came in and started gnawing on...

The white lump stares at me, a crooked eye of judgment. My side warms, the red puddle on the tile spreading.

A new fear beats its unsteady wings.

"Siri, call the doctor."

"I'm sorry, I didn't get that. Who would you like me to call?"

My synapses fumble, searching, and I try, "Call Dr. Gladston," and hope that's correct.

I hold back a cry as the phone dials. It clicks and a nurse asks me to hold before I can answer. Not direct, not direct, not direct, I think over and over as the hold music plays.

"Dr. Gladstone's office."

"This is... Daisy Harper. I need to talk to Dr. Gladstone right away."

"He's with a patient. Hold please."

Before I can yell, I'm back on hold. Jaunty elevator music comes over the speaker and I beg my left side to stay. Stay, stay, stay like a stay. Giggles unspool on the pleasant warmth of the tile. The ceiling doesn't seem to be where it was, if there ever a ceiling there was. We're off to see the—

The line clicks as he answers, "Mrs. Harper, I'm glad you called."

"It's... not mine anymore."

He sighs. "I did warn you that the effects can be rather unpleasant. Your body believes it's removing a foreign invader. It rejects it like it would a splinter."

"Yes, yes, it happened." My teeth chatter and I don't know what I'm saying anymore. Why am I talking?

"Well, that is bad news. I will send a medical team to your listed address. We'll notify your family of the situation."

I must have called a doctor. My left side twinges a reminder. "Are you going to extract the left hip?"

"Of course, we are. You have now forfeited your bone rights, an expulsion is immediate ground for termination. We'll be collecting them all to ensure their welfare. We'll be there in twenty."

I giggle, a jagged and halting sound. A single wary eye watches.