The She-Hulk Diaries

by Acosta, Marta

  In the high bed, nestled among the white linens, was the tiny body of a girl. She was so shrunken, she looked much younger, and blue-veined eyelids were closed in her thin, pale face. Her brown hair had the dullness of illness. She was hooked to monitors that made a steady beep-beep-beep.

  I cleared my throat and the woman’s eyes opened. “Hello, Mrs. Bertoli. I’m Jennifer Walters from Quintal, Ulrich, Iverson, Ride, and Cooper. We spoke this week.”

  “Ms. Walters,” she said. “Nice of you to come. Mavy, wake up.”

  The little girl’s eyelids fluttered open. Her dark brown eyes looked too big in the tiny face, but I saw a spark of interest when she noticed me.

  “Hello, Mavis, I’m Jenny,” I said, using my childhood nickname.

  “You’re so tall, like a giant!” she said, and her mother said, “Mavy!”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “Mavis, you’re right. I’m very tall. If you need something off a top shelf, just say so. I can’t climb a beanpole, though, because I’m afraid of heights. Don’t tell anyone, because it’s a secret.”

  When Mavis giggled, her narrow chest shuddered, and she coughed.

  I said, “How are you feeling?”

  She looked at me hopefully and said, “I want to go outside and play.”

  I saw Mrs. Bertoli’s panicked expression and said, “Mavis, it’s sooo cold outside that my teeth chattered so hard I thought they would break into a million pieces.” The girl laughed, and I added, “I’m a lawyer, Mavis. That means that I’m telling your story to a judge. I’m going to try to stop the people who gave you the bad heart, so they don’t hurt any more children.”

  “Then can I play outside?”

  I glanced at Mrs. Bertoli, who shook her head, and I said, “You’ll have to ask your doctor. But I’ll do whatever I can do to help you.”

  Mavis turned her head to the windows and looked out at the stormy day. She said, “That’s what everyone says. All I want to do is go outside again.”

  “Mavis, I need to talk to your mom for a minute.”

  “Will you come back, Jenny?” she asked.

  “Yes, sweetie, I’ll come back and visit when I can. Is there anything you’d like?”

  “I like story time. You can come and help read with Mr. Biggie. Then we play make-believe.” Her eyes brightened for a moment, and she said, “I live in a castle. There’s a magician and a big moat and a dragon that breathes fire! Mr. Biggie is a giant even bigger than you. He can be your giant husband!”

  “How exciting! We can have giant babies and put them in giant cribs made from giant tree logs. I love stories with castles and dragons. You can tell me all about it at story time.”

  Mrs. Bertoli and I went into the hallway. She was probably close to my age, but her hair had gone gray and she had purple bags under her eyes.

  “Mrs. Bertoli, I’d like to do a videotaped interview with Mavis for the trial. I’ll keep it brief, because I don’t want to wear her out.”

  “She’d like the company,” Mrs. Bertoli said. “She gets bored staying in bed day after day.”

  “My paralegal, Donner Hightower, will schedule it. Can you tell me anything more about her situation?”

  Mrs. Bertoli repeated the report: Mavis had had an operation to correct a minor congenital heart defect. In the hospital, she caught an infection that damaged her heart. ReplaceMax heard about her case and thought she’d be a perfect candidate for one of their cloned organs. They told the Bertoli family that Mavis would not have to endure any tissue rejection and promised her a happy childhood.

  I asked if Mavis was eligible for another transplant, and Mrs. Bertoli told me that she wasn’t strong enough to survive the operation.

  Mrs. Bertoli said, “When she first got the ReplaceMax organ, it was like a miracle. She became healthy within a week, but it didn’t last. It was a dirty trick giving us hope.”

  “Mrs. Bertoli, why haven’t you retained a law firm to sue ReplaceMax? I’m sure that QUIRC could take on your case.”

  She shook her head. “Ms. Walters, my husband had a breakdown and left us. My parents passed away. I’ve lost my job and can’t pay my rent. Those things don’t seem to matter because all I can think of is my baby. I get through each day for her, and when this is over, I’m going to leave the country, find somewhere warm where no one knows me, and try to go on. Fighting a court case, what good will it do me? Money won’t save my Mavy.”

  My throat constricted and I nodded my head. “If you change your mind, please talk to me.”

  Mrs. Bertoli gripped my arm and looked me in the eye. “I don’t want their money, but I want them to suffer, Ms. Walters. Make them suffer for what they’ve done to my baby. Make those bastards pay.”

  I asked if she’d considered applying for a suspended animation slot.

  She gave me a look that could have fried bacon and said, “That’s living death. Not for my child.”

  1:00 P.M.

  Re: living death, I wished I could have been in suspended animation for the fifty minutes at lunchtime that I had to spend with Dr. Rene Alvarado.

  He gave me a tofu-and-edamame-eating smile and said, “Jennifer, I’m glad you found the time to resume your mental health treatments.”

  “It’s Ms. Walters, Rene.”

  “Dr. Alvarado,” he said.

  “You see how annoying it is when someone purposely uses a more casual address to diminish status in a relationship,” I answered with a fake smile.

  “It interests me that you consistently describe yourself as shy, yet you’re always combative in our sessions.”

  “This is a meeting that serves no purpose,” I said, and then he said blah blah blah, and I said “My life is excellent,” and he said blah blah blah, and I looked at the time and said I had to attend to something important.

  “Jennifer—Ms. Walters,” he said, irked. “Your mental health is important, and you can’t begin to resolve your rage issues and your bifurcated personality disorder until you first acknowledge that there is a problem.”

  “Rene—Dr. Alvarado, if I had half an hour to examine your life and your business, I would discover innumerable legal problems that I’d believe were urgent. If you met my salon-owning friend, she would tell you that you need critical hairstyle intervention, stat!” I was happy to see his hand go to his messy wavy mop. “The point is that everyone sees the need for his or her service. As I advise my clients, ‘When you are offered an unsolicited service, ask yourself whether you would have ever sought the service on your own, and if it has any demonstrable positive outcomes.’ ”

  I stood up. “There will be no charge for my legal advice, Dr. Alvarado.”

  “I didn’t ask for your legal advice, Ms. Walters.”

  “Exactly. I’ll call you to schedule an appointment when my calendar opens up.”

  As I was leaving, I heard him saying, “I’ll have to report this to the Avengers Council!”

  7:30 P.M.

  Got home so late that I ate yogurt and filled the whirlpool bath. As I sunk into the hot water, I thought about Sven and how stunning and elegant he is. Dahlia called while I was pumicing my heels.

  D: How are you? What are you doing tonight? Anything exciting?

  ME: For me, yes. I’m soaking in the tub. I hardly ever get to do this, and I really need a mani/pedi.

  D: Schedule an appointment, Sulky. Do She-Hulk’s feet get hurt when she runs barefoot?

  ME: Her skin is impervious to rough terrain and temperature extremes. I, on the other hand, wish I could wear boots in cold weather without worrying that she’ll trash them in a transformation.

  D: Although I find all of that strangely fascinating, it’s Friday night again. You’re not going to stay home by yourself, are you?

  ME: I already went on a date this week, a major one. Not an official date, but a date-equivalent because Sven took me to his private restaurant and told me that he has feelings for me.

  D: Feelings in his pants? Shut up!

  M
E: Gladly.

  D: It’s a sarcastic shut-up. Tell me everything in excruciating detail!

  So I did, and afterward instead of screaming “OMG! amazing!” she said, “Hmmm.”

  ME: D, that sounded like a critical hmmm.

  D: It’s a curious hmmm, with several question marks at the end.

  ME: So hmmm??? what?

  D: Hmm, you talked about Sven’s absurdly good looks, the pretty restaurant, the lovely music, the nummy food, your madcap mishap with your top, etc., and yet you did not mention any warm feelings in your pants for Sven, or urges to jump his bones, to ride that speeding locomotive, to make wild sweaty monkey love.

  ME: D, in the immortal words of Jon Bon Jovi, you give love a bad name. Of course, I feel that way about him. I’m simply overwhelmed by his OMG! amazingness.

  Dahlia hmmmed again.

  ME: Could you please define the nature of that hmmm?

  D: It was a skeptical hmmm, Sulky. I don’t find your argument persuasive, Counselor. Can you offer any corroborating evidence, such as printouts of your sexting, cutesy photos together, or endearing nicknames such as Pink Bunnikins and Grizzly McSpanky?

  ME: D, I wish you would stop smelling dye-stripper fumes, because those brain cells never grow back.

  We bickered a little longer before she had to get ready for her date with someone she called a “musician slash performance artist slash pretentious pretty boy.” I asked why she kept dating these guys, and she said, “He’s very pretty and I plan to do a lot more than admire him with big moo cow eyes. Besides, you know I don’t want a guy who interferes with my work, and these guys conveniently evaporate with the morning dew.”

  We said good-bye, and I was glad I could just baste in the water.

  Dahlia is wrong. My feelings for Sven are developing at a mature Cary Grant/Kate Hepburn pace.

  I slumped deeper into the tub, which was big enough for me to stretch my legs, and remembered Fringe Theory’s “Love/EVOLution”:

  I’ll crawl from the primordial sludge

  For you.

  I’ll give up my gills and prehensile appendage

  For you.

  I’ll invent the wheel, I’ll discover fire,

  Inspired by desire,

  For you, for you.

  I’ll draw your pictograph on cave walls

  I’ll slay T. Rex with a sharp rock,

  And all

  To win your heart.

  DISSENT TO DISAGREE

  MARCH 26

  Slept in until 7:30 and made it to my 8:00 a.m. class with Azzan. Afterward, I went to five different Joocey Jooces and gave each of the clerks a clean thermos.

  They all said the same thing: “It costs more if you bring your own container.”

  I told them I was saving them money by providing my own container, and they said that they believed in spreading the PLAY NICE! logo.

  Then all of the clerks offered—with a big smile—to pay the difference themselves. Which was too nice, so I paid the extra charge and left big tips.

  I took the thermoses to the Mansion and was happy to discover that Ruth was there. “Ruth, what are you doing here on a Saturday?”

  “Catching up on things, Jen. Don’t worry, I’m taking Monday off. It’s so great to see you! What do you have there?”

  “They’re fruit smoothies from Joocey Jooce, but something may be in them.”

  “Their smoothies are so terrific!” She opened one and smelled it. “Yum, raspberry. Sure, I’ll have these checked by the lab. Any rush?”

  “Within the week is fine. Thanks, Ruth.”

  “I’m glad that Shulky was able to handle the last situation,” Ruth said. “We only got a few bills for the destruction of the front door and for the hole in the wall. She’s becoming so OMG! diplomatic.”

  “She kind of is, isn’t she?” I said. “You might want to mention that to Dr. Alvarado.”

  “Or you can, since you’ll be seeing him soon,” Ruth said. “I hope you don’t mind, but he called yesterday and I scheduled an appointment. It’s on your calendar for next Saturday morning right after Krav Maga.”

  “I’m very busy, Ruth…” I began, trying to think of a good excuse.

  “Lots of doctors and psychiatrists have private entrances for confidentiality with patients. You can ask Dr. Alvarado if he knows of anyone giving up a place.”

  Instead of saying that I didn’t want to live in a commune or an ashram, I thanked her. I’ll cancel the session later.

  MARCH 28

  Drat. Ruth called and said that the Joocey Jooce samples don’t show any traces of drugs or chemicals.

  I advise my clients, “If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, you can make a preliminary determination that it may be a duck, but it’s best to have an unbiased second opinion.”

  I called Amy Stewart-Lee. She only spent a few minutes catching me up on the latest cases at the DA’s office before she told me that she was seeing Nelson again. She praised Nelson’s kindness, his intelligence, and sweetness, and how he treated her like a lady. Then she asked me how I met him.

  ME: Oh, we both went to watch Game of Thrones at a sports bar, but it was too loud and rowdy so we went somewhere quieter and talked and got to know each other.

  ASL: I can’t imagine him at a sports bar, because those guys always have such crude pickup lines. I’m glad you met him though!

  ME: Me, too. Do you mind if I get your feedback on something?

  ASL: At your service.

  I described the ookiness I felt about Joocey Jooce and the many associations, including the recent hostage situation at a Joocey Jooce shop.

  ME: Do you think I’m being too cynical?

  ASL: Jennifer, if you were cynical, you wouldn’t have dated men like Tony Stark.

  ME: In my defense, Ironman is an interplanetary hero.

  ASL: But Tony as a boyfriend? Not so heroic. Joocey Jooce is ubiquitous. It’s inevitable that they’d show up in incidents in a way that appears disproportionate.

  ME: One of my friends told me the same thing. So I’m overreacting?

  ASL: I didn’t say that, but your pals at the Mansion lab would have discovered any behavior-altering substances—not that I mind New Yorkers being more polite. In fact, if there is an altering agent, I’d like to dose my coworkers with it.

  ME: Amy, I’m not an HR specialist, but I’m pretty sure there’s a law against that.

  ASL: There is, and now I deeply regret helping write it when I interned for the state legislature. I’ll keep an ear out for anything about Joocey Jooce. Will you be at the next Forestiers workshop? We’re making weapons.

  My foam and PVC broadsword was falling apart and my shield was dinged up, so I told her I’d see her there.

  MARCH 30

  I blocked out two hours today to visit Mavis for story time. I’d dressed in jeans and flat shoes to be less giantish.

  Mavis was sitting up, and her hair was neatly braided and tied with a red ribbon. “You came! You came!”

  “I promised you I would, sweetie. How are you feeling today?” I snuck a look at Mrs. Bertoli, who smiled.

  “Today she’s good, and she really has fun at story time. You will, too.”

  “I like stories.” I reached into my satchel and brought out a wrapped book. “This is for you, Mavis.”

  Mavis turned the gift until she found the tape. She carefully slid her finger beneath the ribbon and began wiggling it off. “The ribbon’s pretty.”

  “We’ll save that and the paper, too,” her mother said.

  When Mavis opened the book, she held it carefully.

  “It’s The Island of the Blue Dolphins and it was one of my favorite books when I was about your age. It’s about a very brave girl who has to fight to survive. She’s afraid and lonely, but she’s a hero. It’s all yours, Mavis, so if you spill something on it or bend a page, it’s okay. It means the book has been read and loved.”

  She still didn’t look very excited, s
o I rifled through my handbag and found a small spiral notepad that I’d planned to give to Ruth. “Here, this is for you, too. You can draw pictures in it.”

  She took the notepad and said, “It’s got a kitten on it!”

  “Kittens always make me happy. What about you?”

  “I love kittens,” she said with a big smile, and a volunteer came into the room and announced that story time was about to start.

  Mrs. Bertoli seemed so tired that I offered to take Mavis. I also wanted to see the child away from her mom’s anxiety and sorrow.

  The volunteer showed me the proper way to lift Mavis into a wheelchair, and we went down the speckled blue linoleum hall, our shoes squeaking on the shiny surface. “Eek, eek, eek, I’m making mouse sounds,” I said.

  “You’re a giant and a mouse,” Mavis said.

  “Maybe I’m a giant mouse.”

  A few other children were coming out of their rooms, and soon their high, clear voices filled the air.

  I rolled Mavis’s wheelchair into the community room, and she pointed me to a space at the front. “This is the best place,” she said. “Here’s Dr. Kate!”

  A pretty pear-shaped young woman came into the room and sat on top of a table at the front. She was wearing a white lab coat with a huge DR. KATE name tag in the shape of a pinwheel lollipop. She had shining brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, rosy cheeks, and big hazel eyes. She seemed very familiar, and I wondered if I’d met her somewhere before.

  She glanced at the clock and hopped off the table. Cupping her hands like a megaphone, she called, “Hellooo, children!”

  The kids all called back, “Helloooo, Dr. Kate!”

  “How many of you can read the clock?”

  Several children raised their arms and said, “Me, me!”

  “Ramon, what time is it?”

  A boy said, “Five minutes after ten o’clock.”

  “That’s right, so my brother, Mr. Biggie, is five whole minutes late. I see that Mavis has a guest today.” Kate smiled toward me. “Would you like to help read our story?”