Profit

For the second weekend in a row, I traveled to my parents' house. This time, however, the trip was not for pleasure. I had an appointment to answer a ton of health questions and to give a blood sample (for "$1,000 worth of blood tests," according to the nurse) in connection with a health project to see what effect the community's contaminated drinking water has had on our health. For my trouble, I got $400, my main motivation for participating.

When I was growing up, we all knew that the cancer rate for our community was higher than normal. We always blamed the nearby power plants. It wasn't until recently, however, that a chemical company upriver admitted to years of dumping perfluorooctanoic acid into our water supply. Hence the mass testing.

After I had given my answers and my blood, I sat waiting for the receptionist to print my check. I couldn't help but notice a family with three children. The oldest child, who couldn't have been older than ten or eleven, was particularly striking. She had a very short and trendy haircut, dark little waves lying close to her head. She stood out, perhaps because the rest of the family, and most of the rest of the community for that matter, didn't look nearly so trendy. I wondered if she had asked for that haircut.

The girl's father was shuffling through a pile of documents trying to prove that he and his family had been residents of the area during at least one full year in which contamination occurred. The only problem was with his eldest daughter's documents; somehow the name of the elementary school had been left off her report card. The father, although polite, was becoming a little flustered. All the while, though, the girl looked on with the calmest eyes I have ever seen -- wide, brown, and deeply calm. I thought again how stunning she was. The receptionist was trying hard to find them a loophole so that testing could be done. Finally, she suggested a bank statement from the girl's savings account -- that, she said, would provide an address and tell the date the account was opened. The family stepped outside the cramped trailer to make a cell phone call.

As the receptionist printed my check, she said to her coworker, "We have to find a way to get that little girl tested."

"Why?" the other woman asked.

"You didn't know?" the receptionist continued. "She has cancer."

Suddenly I understood the "trendy" hair style and those eyes. I felt a lump in my throat. The receptionist handed me my check. I was disgusted by my profit.