My name is Zoe Westbrook, and this is my story.

My dad was diagnosed with late-stage cancer during my senior year of high school and, even when things got really bad, he absolutely refused to move to the hospital. My mom worked two jobs to try and keep up with the mounting medical bills and there was no way we could afford in-home help, so when she was at work, my dad’s care was my job. I had to miss a lot of school, my grades dropped, and after a while, my dreams of winning a scholarship and going away to college dropped away, too. After my Dad passed away, those medical bills seemed to somehow keep coming and coming. My mom told me she needed help with the rent and outstanding medical bills, that she was sad and lonely, that I couldn’t desert her, too, so I stayed. 

Now, I work at a dental practice on the edge of town, in the industrial area across the river. I wanted to be a realtor or a nurse, but the employment office lady told me I’d either need to know a realtor who would sponsor me, or I’d have to earn a full college degree in nursing. I didn’t know any realtors, and the community college doesn’t offer nursing degrees, so those options were out. The lady suggested I become a dental hygienist, but that job still required at least an associate’s degree. Then she suggested I become a dental assistant. The job required 900 hours of coursework and 300 of practice, but the courses were offered at the community college which also organized the job interviews, and it paid a lot better than flipping burgers. Sold.

Dr. Jean Solt, a local dentist, interviewed me for my internship. I was so nervous I was shaking, but she was a total sweetheart. We hit it off immediately. By the end of my interview, she’d not only agreed to allow me to do my practical hours with her, but also promised me money towards my school costs! I could scarcely believe my luck and couldn’t wait to start. 

When I told Mom I’d been accepted at the community college, she rolled her eyes and said I had a “unique capacity to chum up with losers and grifters” and that “pretend college” sounded about on par for me. Mom was also suspicious of Dr. Solt’s offer to help pay, mumbling, “Nothing comes so easy.” She asked me if I was lying, if it was really a pole-dancing job, followed by a crack about my legs being something to hide, not flaunt.

I’d inherited Dad’s stocky build and spotty complexion rather than Mom’s slim, petite frame and smooth skin, a fact she never failed to remind me of. She could be hurtful at times—okay, most of the time—but I tried to not let it bother me. I told myself it wasn’t really me she was mad at. After she’d downed a few gin fizzes, I’d learn she blamed me for the angry varicose veins in her legs or the puckered stretch marks across her tummy. One night before she passed out in her recliner, she looked at me with a sort of sideways tilt to her head and slurred, “You know, Zoe, you’re nothing but a lump. You were born a lump, and you stayed that way.”

When I started my dental assistant courses, I was surprised to discover I loved being in community college. People weren’t snotty like in high school, and I even made a few friends. As much as I loved my coursework, I loved my practice work even more. Dr. Jean made me feel completely welcome. She gave me my own little desk next to the storeroom, along with two shelves for my books and stuff. On my first day, she surprised me with a small bunch of fresh flowers in a glass beaker on my shelf and a really nice card welcoming me. I honestly had to run to the bathroom so nobody would see me crying! 

The office wasn’t very spacious, but Dr. Jean made it feel cozy rather than cramped, and the view out the reception window was amazing. Our building was on the edge of the river’s bluff. When I sat on the low stone wall of the parking lot during my breaks, I could see the river rushing below and birds swooping high above. It felt like paradise. 

My whole first week working with Dr. Jean was like a dream, but then her partner returned from a vacation in Europe and the office mood immediately soured. Dr. Jean wasn’t so relaxed anymore. She actually snapped at me once for not filing a patient’s records quickly enough. Dr. Mulvaney had demanded them from Dr. Jean, forcing her to leave her own patient to search for the files frantically as he sulked near by, sighing loudly and tapping his foot. That Friday, after the last patient left, I overheard them arguing about me.  Apparently, Dr. Mulvaney had wanted to employ a young woman he’d just met on the plane and was angry that the position had been filled in his absence. Tiptoeing away down the hall, I heard Dr. Jean patiently reminding him he’d agreed she could make the pick. As I slipped out the back door, I heard him shout, “But did you have to hire the homeliest mongrel in the litter?”

Things sort of settled down over the next two months, and at the end of my three-month probation, Dr. Jean called me into her office and hugged me. She gave me a small raise and a cute gift basket with a really thoughtful card. Once again, her unexpected kindness made me scamper off to cry in private.

Dr. Mulvaney hadn’t exactly become friendly, but he at least nodded or grunted at me if we crossed paths during the day. Sometimes I assisted him, which was nerve-wracking, but mostly he didn’t want me around. That got worse after I walked into his surgery room one day to fill the water bottle and found him with his hand up his patient’s skirt. Her hand was stuffed down inside his pants, and they both had their tongues down each other’s throats. After that, he glared at me more often than he grunted, and he started making nasty comments about my looks. He also startled me a few times when I was sitting on the rock wall lost in my thoughts during lunch breaks. He’d make the tires of his shiny red sports car–a 1961 Jaguar XK-E as I’d heard him tell every single semi-attractive female client who sat in his chair–squeal, and he’d speed straight towards where I sat. He’d brake hard at the last second and spin to exit the parking lot, his tires smoking. I wasn’t sure if that was the way he always exited the lot: speeding, spinning, showing off. Maybe he did it just to scare me, or maybe he actually wanted me to jump or fall. In any case, it was a really mean thing to do.

One afternoon, I had to assist him with a late patient who had a broken tooth. Dr. Mulvaney had been in a bad mood all week and had been snappy with Dr. Jean about money. I guess the practice was making less money than he wanted, and he blamed her “low budget, welfare patients” for the lack of profit. He’d also made a snide remark about my little pay increase. So he was already pretty grumpy when the last-minute patient arrived. I rushed to set out a new instrument tray for him, making sure the dental mirror was facing the right way, the retractors, pliers, and probes were lined up perfectly, and the correct bite sticks were on the tray. He stalked in and immediately screamed at me for having ligature and distal end cutters on the tray, demanding that I remove them and hurry up while I was at it. I reached over the tray to remove them but when I turned, I bumped into him and dropped the instruments on the floor.

“Jesus, you fat cow,” he shouted. “Can’t you watch where you put your flabby carcass? I don’t know why that stupid woman hired such a clumsy lump.”

I dropped to my knees to pick up the instruments, cheeks burning with shame and anger. When I straightened back up, I glanced at the dental tooth scaler in my fist, then at Dr. Mulvaney’s scowling face, and felt a sudden urge to jam it into his throat. I don’t know how long we stood there glaring at each other before he hissed at me, “Just. Go. Home.” 

I backed out of the room in a daze, stuffing the unneeded dental instruments in my lab coat pocket, then grabbed my pocketbook from my desk and rushed out the back door. As I crossed the parking lot, I found myself walking right past Dr. Mulvaney’s stupid little car. He was sure to fire me Monday morning, probably with a few cruel comments about my appearance as my severance. He’d surely harangue Dr. Jean, too—kind, thoughtful Dr. Jean—about her poor hiring decision. I heard my mom’s smug voice in my head, telling me she’d always known I’d fail. 

In a moment of inspiration and anger, I grabbed the tooth scraper from my lab coat pocket and ran it along the entire side of Dr. Mulvaney’s car, creating little curls of lipstick-red paint as I went. When I stood back to admire my handiwork, I felt a huge rush of satisfaction and—something I realized I hadn’t felt in a long, long time—happiness. For a moment, I felt wonderful. I sighed and returned the scraper to my pocket, then suddenly realized I still had the ligature and distal end cutters, too.

On Monday morning, I arrived at the office early to pack up my stuff, thank Dr. Jean for everything she’d done for me, and say good-bye. I found her standing in the reception area looking a little lost, tears in her eyes. I rushed to her and gave her a hug. She returned my hug, then pulled away, looked into my eyes and said, “Dr. Mulvaney is dead.” 

It’d been a car accident. Leaving work, he’d driven full speed straight through the little stone wall in the parking lot, tumbling all the way down the rocky bluff and plunging into the river. Dr. Jean said she’d warned him before about treating the parking lot like a drag strip, but now she felt guilty about it. “He didn’t even brake,” she whispered, then started weeping. I hugged her tightly again and told her it wasn’t her fault, that everything would be okay. And it will be. As long as her new partner is better than the last one.