I purse my lips together, unsure of this gift.
“Look, you couldn’t even go into TeaCakes the other day. How are you going to make it through New York City?”
I know she’s right. It’s the reason I didn’t sleep last night, thinking of the buildings, the traffic, the streets crowded with all those people. Drugs, however, didn’t occur to me as the solution.
“Is it strong?”
“Meh.” She shrugs. “It’ll take the edge off.”
I pinch the pill between my gloved index finger and thumb, pop it in my mouth, and swallow. Then I nod at the pastry.
“What’s that for?”
“This is your first adventure.”
I stare at her. “Um, I’ve had doughnuts.” Seriously, does she think I’ve been living in a cave?
“Yes. But not a hot, fresh-off-the-line apple cider doughnut from McClellan’s bakery down on Forsyth Street. They don’t deliver. And trust me when I say it’s an adventure for your mouth.”
I gently pluck it from her hand, a mix of cinnamon sugar instantly coating the fingertips of my glove. She watches me as I take a bite. I chew quietly, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of a big production, but it does take every ounce of self-control in me not to moan out loud. She’s right. The doughnut is that good.
A smug smile appears on her face, and I know I haven’t completely concealed my enjoyment.
“Right?” she says.
“Mm-hmm,” I mumble, my mouth already full of the next bite. I give her a big smile, a mix of warm dough and cinnamon caking my teeth, and she laughs.
“Now, let’s get you to the doctor.”
On the drive into the city, I try to distract myself by letting my thoughts wander—and they make a beeline to Eric, like they’ve been doing off and on since I left his apartment last night. I was shocked when he showed up at the library as I was locking up—but also a little relieved. I had been feeling guilty since Saturday about how I treated him. Yes, he was pushy—curiously so—but as I thought about it, it did seem like he just genuinely wanted to help me, and it was hard to be angry at that.
But then, when he came toward me, hand out, wanting to shake on our “deal,” I froze. Technically it was safe—I had my gloves on—but I haven’t willingly touched anyone, or let anyone touch me, in years. I stared at his fingers—those fingers that I’ve weirdly thought so much about ever since I dreamed about them. That I’ve reimagined in more detail than any Renaissance painter. But it wasn’t a dream, and faced with the reality of them—of what they could do to me—I was terrified. He dropped his hand and didn’t make a thing of it at all, even as I flushed with embarrassment.
And maybe it was that or maybe it’s the way he was last night with Mrs. Holgerson, defending Aja like that, or the way he went to him after, so clearly worried about his son—I don’t know. But he just seems so genuine. Kind. And not very much like the asshole Louise and I originally thought he was.
But there’s something else—another reason I can’t stop thinking about him, a reason I haven’t even wanted to admit to myself until now: I like the way he looks at me. Not like I’m an oddity, but like I’m just a normal girl, a woman. And I can’t remember the last time I felt normal.
Out the front windshield, the Manhattan skyline looms into view and I realize the Xanax is starting to take effect as the muscles in my shoulders and my arms begin to relax. But then, I notice, it doesn’t touch the growing pit in my stomach—the one that’s reminding me that I’m not normal, and it’s only a matter of time before Eric realizes that, too.
WHEN WE PULL into the parking deck in lower Manhattan, I press a finger into my cheek, and then two fingers. I massage the skin around, pushing and stretching it in different directions.
I can’t feel my face.
I know I should be alarmed by this, but the opposite occurs—a gentle wave of relaxation washes over me. I giggle.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing.” The word kind of floats out of my mouth, making my lips vibrate, which is even more amusing. Another laugh follows, and I change my mind. “Everything.”
I giggle some more.
Madison puts the car in park and frowns. “Hmmm . . . maybe I should have cut that pill in half.”
I poke her on the forehead with my gloved index finger that’s still got remnants of cinnamon sugar. “Don’t worry,” I say. And then the song immediately bounces into my head, and I’m compelled to add: “Be happy!”
I form an O with my lips and sing: “Doooo-do-do-doodee-do-doodee-do-dee-do-dee-do. Don’t worry. Do-dee-doo-dee-dodee-doooooooooo.”
Madison rolls her eyes and opens her car door. “Come on, Bobby McFerrin, let’s get you inside.”
The song stays in my head for the next hour while we walk the two blocks to the Allergy & Asthma Center, while I get checked in, while I change into a paper gown and get all my vitals taken by a nurse in rubber gloves and a face mask who takes great care not to touch me (she must have been prepped). But then I’m left alone on the exam table, waiting for Dr. Zhang, and a soberness kicks in.
I’m suddenly a child again, sitting in one of the hundred doctors’ offices I was schlepped to while my mother tried to figure out what was wrong with me. It’s all a big blur to me, really. I was so young. But then, a memory, clear as day, hits me. It’s my mother, screaming at the top of her lungs. Don’t tell me you don’t know! That’s my baby in there. You have to help us. You have to. It pangs my heart, the plaintive desperation in her scratchy tone. Referring to me as her baby. And I just remember how I felt in that moment. Scared, yes. But also loved, protected, defended. And I wonder if maybe I tend to only remember the worst of her, and not the moments like that one.
The door opens, interrupting my thoughts. Dr. Zhang is smaller than I remember, less intimidating. She offers a warm smile. “Jubilee. How are you?”
I consider this. “Still allergic to people.”
She nods and smiles. “Got it.”
For the next hour, we delve into the twelve years since I saw her last, including the Incident in high school, my housebound years, and my most recent brush with death and hospital visit. She takes meticulous notes on a legal pad, piping up with questions as they come to her, but she doesn’t flinch—at any of it—which makes me like her more. Although when I tell her the Aja story, she says, “Maybe let’s leave CPR to the EMT next time?”
Finally, she takes a look underneath the paper gown at my rash.
“Have you changed anything recently? Your laundry soap? Lotion? New sheets?”
“No,” I say, “everything is the same.”
“What about new people? Has anyone been in your home recently?”
I think of Eric and Aja. “Yeah. I had some . . . friends”—is that what they are?—“over.”
“So they were sitting on your furniture, I assume.” She pauses. “Did they sleep over?”