To Feel Stuff (10 page)

I began to see how E had arrived at her current position on the subject of the stranger in the bathroom.

The midwife, already believing that A was “spaced out,” told her that such beliefs were “ridiculous.” She was finally dismissed by S.

“Your parents must have thought that you were very special,” I told E.

“It was no fun,” E responded. She has an astonishing gift of recall from a very early age—about one and a half. Her memories are spotty, but they have proven to be correct. Her family has confirmed that her images of various toys, locations, and trips have been taken from reality. That night E told me about repeated memories she had of being watched in her crib, and she has come to believe that she wasn't being watched out of curiosity, but out of a stronger need. She felt like she was “a baby born to a family where the older kid is dying of leukemia, and everyone was waiting to see if my bone marrow matched.”

When I asked her what she believed that her parents were looking for within her, E told me that they wanted “some kind of sign.”

“What was your first word?” I asked her.

“It was ‘stop,'” E answered. She still believes that her parents were waiting for her to turn that word into a profound prediction, despite the fact that she wasn't even a toddler yet.

“Give me an example,” I said.

E shut her eyes and took a deep breath. “What did they want?” she asked herself, I think, and not me. “Stop, Mom and Dad, I feel . . . in the air. Stop, Mom and Dad, I feel . . . in the air, over there, big things. Stop, Mom and Dad, I feel . . . in the air, over there, big things that are incredibly, incredibly portentous and listen now, for I will reveal them. And don't ask me about certain morbid things because yes, I can predict them, but I won't. But let me tell you that there's a 4.0 earthquake coming in California. And while it will wake everyone up and freak them out a little, there will be minimal damage and no fatalities.”

Then E opened her eyes and said, “Like that.”

“I'm guessing that your first sentence was a disappointment to them?” I asked.

“Yes.”

The story of E's first sentence was also frequently told, although it was wasn't laughed about, despite the passage of time. One evening A pulled E onto her lap to show her tarot cards, and she handed a particular card—the lover—to her baby. E took it from her mother and said, “Stop, these are just cards, Mommy.”

A and S froze, disbelieving.

“If you were so skeptical of your mother, even at this young age,” I asked, "why the change so late in life?”

“Because I saw a ghost,” E said.

“Well, you
think
you saw a ghost.” I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth.

“No. I saw a ghost,” E said. “Can you take me back to the infirmary now?”

E reached over to the coffee table and turned off the recorder. We did not speak on the ride back to the infirmary.

At Health Services, I helped her out of the car and up the steps. At the phone next to the front door I wanted to call Lily, the nurse then working the night shift, so she could help E up the stairs. E refused, saying she needed some time to herself, even if that time was only between the front door and the infirmary.

She went inside before I could pin her down on a time for our next session. I wrote in my notes that I wondered if we were still on “intimate speaking terms.”

Paxil CR: Get back to being you

 

When the ambulance picked me up in front of Emery-Wooley, I didn't have the blue parts to show the paramedics anymore. A few minutes before they came, everything had turned red. Red on a human is less exotic than blue, and when the paramedics put me into the back of their van, they looked bored. I said, “Sorry, guys, I wish I was oozing some pus for you.”

When we pulled up to the hospital, the driver paramedic turned around and asked, “Emergency room?” just to make sure I still had to go there.

Dr. Wainscott had been my attending many times before, just through the magic of probability. I could tell he forced a smile when he saw me sitting on the bed, like he was trying to keep his eyes from turning doleful. But he just couldn't resist reaching out to cup my head with his hand. I was relieved that he didn't call me “Little Soldier” that day, as he had one other time.

“Elodie, it's good to see you,” he told me. “I'm sorry to see you here, but it's still good.”

“Thank you, Dr. Wainscott,” I said. “It's good to see you as well.” What I meant by this was “It's good to be seeing you, as you are a doctor and I believe I am in need of some form of treatment.”

The doctor showed me the preliminary report that the nurse had made about me, since she dotted her i's with open circles. “Funny, don't you think? Every time I pick up one of these workups, I think a seventh-grade girl has left me a secret love note. I tell Nadine that it gets me a little hopeful. I wasn't popular back then.” Nadine has also seen me a lot.

I watched the doctor blackening in the dots as he read down the list of symptoms. “So your fingertips, nose, and ears turned bright white, then blue, and then red, and they're back to normal now?”

I held up my hands for him to see.

“Tell me, did they tingle? Go numb?”

“They went both, in that order exactly.”

“Elodie,” he said, still trying to smile, “have you ever heard of Raynaud's phenomenon?”

I asked him, “What's the treatment?”

“So you've heard of it.”

“No, but I can tell I have it from the way you're approaching the subject.”

The doctor pulled over his rolling stool and took a seat. He placed the clipboard on his lap, which told me that he was getting down to business.

“What Raynaud's is, basically, in simplest terms, is an abnormal reduction of blood flow to the peripheral arteries and arterioles. This is usually brought on by stress, or cold weather—”

‘I'm following,” I said.

“And I think, fundamentally, what happened today was that your exposure to the weather caused vasospasms in those parts of your body that went through the color changes, and the changes in sensation—”

“Right.”

“And this would make sense because the disease most often affects women and shows itself between puberty and middle age. A little earlier, actually, but you're right in that bracket. But tell me this: have you ever had symptoms like this during the winter before? Even to a lesser degree? Maybe just a slight tingling in your fingers, and you suspected it was just a temporary circulation problem?”

“I've never felt anything like that before,” I replied, “but I've also never been outside during the winter.”

I watched the doctor's eyebrows dive together. “What do you mean?”

“I've been in bed through every winter I've spent in Providence,” I said. “Freshman year I was out for the spring, but the temperature was already in the sixties then. I've been out in the beginning of fall and during various points of the summer, but I've never spent time outside during the winter. Today was the first time I've walked in snow since I was small. Once my parents took me on a vacation to Lake Arrowhead.”

“So it's possible,” the doctor thought out loud, “that you've been a Raynaud's sufferer for a while, but, because you'd never been exposed to your particular catalyst, the phenomenon never revealed itself before now.”

“That seems like it could be true.”

“Well, we'll do some tests. I think it's smart if we also check you out thoroughly and make sure you haven't exacerbated any of your other conditions.” Looking down at my history, the doctor asked, “The TB was on its way out, wasn't it?”

“I was out of the infectious stage.”

“And how do you feel right now?

“This instant?”

“Yes.”

“Physically, the same as usual. Doctor Wainscott, how do you treat the Raynaud's? Drugs?”

He stood up from the stool and wouldn't even look at me. “There are some drugs I can give you, but I don't necessarily know that I'm going to prescribe anything since the side effects can give patients more trouble than the Raynaud's itself.”

“Can you give me an idea of recovery time?”

He turned his back to me while I changed into a hospital gown. “Well, Elodie, Raynaud's isn't really a disease you recover from.”

I started to get naked. I envision you thinking that this was a sexy moment, but it really wasn't. The ER is very unsexy.

“If this is Raynaud's, you're just going to have to watch yourself carefully in cold climates. It might affect where you decide to settle down after college, but I don't think it will ever be as debilitating for you as—”

My jeans fell onto the floor, and they made the sound my remaining enthusiasm would've made if it weren't trapped inside my body. My thoughts went to you then, back in the infirmary. I remember thinking something like “I am always going to be too debilitated to be with someone like that.” You showing up was a reminder that I wasn't getting better. On my way to the waffle, I had begun to fantasize about leaving with you when you were discharged.

Putting my arms through the holes in the gown, I said, “I understand.” Then I told Dr. Wainscott, “Okay,” and he came to me and pressed his stethoscope to my chest.

When he finished his part of the exam, the doctor scribbled on my chart and said, “I'm going to have the nurse come in and do some tests. When we get the results back, we'll have a better idea of
exactly
what's going on. All right, Elodie?”

“That's fine.”

“So, any big plans for the holiday?” the doctor asked, removing his latex gloves.

“The holiday?”

“Thanksgiving. It's on Thursday. Don't tell me you've forgotten about Turkey Day.”

I had forgotten. I said, “My days run together.”

I can almost guarantee that the doctor wanted to scoop me up into a ball and hold me to him, judging from the face he was making. But he resisted the whim and instead went over to the box of latex gloves. “You're too old for the monkey balloons.” He pulled out a white hand. “And probably too old for this, but I can't have you forgetting Thanksgiving.” The doctor blew into the glove, then pinched it shut. After he searched around in a drawer near the sink, he found a rubber band and tied off the hole. Then he took out a permanent black marker.

I watched him.

He made eyes on each side of the glove's thumb with the marker, and he drew a beak, too. He drew lines going up the fingers and then diagonal lines shooting off from those original lines. Holding it out, he asked me (in what I think was his impression of a turkey), “Which part of me do you want to eat first?”

I took the rubber bird. I knew I had to say something or this visit would never end. “The wings.”

“Hey, I love the wings, too!” He seemed happy.

I asked the doctor to call my regular doctor, Dr. Kirschling, whom I know you've never met, but that's intentional. You know how some people don't like to bring their work home? I've tried not to bring my bullshit home, as much as possible.

All you need to know about Kirschling is that his fantasy is to be the Oliver Sacks of the body. He wants to fill books with stories of patients who are like urban legends, so that's part of why he sees me. When I leave the infirmary every Thursday, he's the one I have those checkups with.

When I came back to Health Services that night, a girl was coming down the stairs right as I was about to go up them. She must have had the last appointment of the day, seeing as how late it was, and she was holding one of the brown bags that the pharmacy hides drugs in. I turned and watched her as she walked out of the building, maybe pretending I was her for a second. Then I climbed the stairs like someone who'd spent the day boating, basketballing, and making shit out of pipe cleaners at summer camp.

Lily was on duty, and when she heard me coming, she ran to the top of the stairs and put her arm around me. She got kind of mad at me for not having called her from the bottom.

“I'm fine,” I told her. “Just tired. They drew blood, did some tests. It was a long day.”

“You're sure you're fine?”

“I'm sure.”

“Do you want to paint each other's nails later, or are you too tired?” Lily asked. I don't think you've seen it that much because you're male, but she has this sleep-over mentality about infirmary nursing. She loves to have her hair brushed and loves to brush hair.

“Sorry, I think I'm too tired,” I apologized. I started to go toward the infirmary door, and I realized I was getting nervous about how I'd face you. I thought you'd probably have heard through the grapevine that I'd landed in the hospital, and I didn't want to have to tell you about it. I wanted you to believe I was on the verge of being normal. We could start from there.

When you saw me, you sat up straighter and smiled. “You're back!” you said. The lamp next to your bed was the only light on in the room.

“I'm back,” I agreed, and then I flirted with you by falling face first onto my bed. “I'm exhausted,” I told my comforter, and that was the last thing I remember before you woke me up.

From The Desk of Chester Hunter III

 

When you came back to the infirmary, one of the lights from the hallway was shining over your head, and looking at you, I felt like a lost miner who'd just collided with one of my own guys in the darkness. I was that happy to see you, even though we barely knew each other, El. I had the feeling that you were there to save my life. But then you barely even looked at me when you walked to your bed. And then you just collapsed into it, and I saw your back moving from your heavy breaths.

So I waited five minutes. You can't imagine how badly I wanted you to move. I decided to try a little telepathy because I was feeling brand new, and as lame as it sounds, I thought that maybe I had brand-new abilities. So I stared at your pinky finger on your pillow and tried to will it to move. It turned out that I didn't have the patience, though, to actually concentrate and see if I could be telepathically successful. I remember I asked you, “Elodie? How could it be possible that I missed you so much today when I don't even know you, and that I didn't want to see my friends, who I should have been missing?”