Nobody, Somebody, Anybody

by Kelly McClorey

  Nnenna and I had decided to take a random 101 class together, to mix things up and because we’d never get to be classmates otherwise, seeing as her major was film and media studies and mine quantitative economics. She won the series of coin flips and chose Psychology 101, taught by Peter, who turned out to be the most remarkable professor I ever had, so I am at least indebted to her for that. Whenever Peter spoke into the microphone at the front of the lecture hall, I became convinced he was speaking directly to me, that somehow he knew everything about me, every feeling and problem, every question and struggle and dream, knew them better than even I. Though he appeared to be simply reviewing a chapter from the textbook, he always had a hidden message for me to decode, and he’d fix his gaze on me, particularly during the parts he knew would hit the hardest. Nobody could tell stories better than Peter. He’d get everybody stirring in their seats, while I for one could get so moved I’d have to spring from my chair and exercise my legs at the back of the hall. After, Nnenna would laugh at me affectionately, calling me a Disciple of Saint Peter. Though psychology had never been my favorite subject, I planned to take every course he taught, maybe even add it as a double major or a minor—though I never got that far.

  I closed my exam book and schlepped out of the bathroom, the knot in my gut growing and twisting. The National Registry of Emergency Medical Technicians gives you three chances to pass; after that, your only option is to enter a humiliating remedial program, and that would be no option for me, emotionally or financially. I needed to ensure that this time would be different. Knowledge can’t leak out of a person’s body like brown juice from a trash bag, so I just had to find a way to coax it to the surface and lock it there. I needed help, guidance from someone I could trust.

  I opened my laptop. I had an email from my father. The subject line read “Urgent,” so I knew the content by heart: please get in touch with him right away, he understood that I still needed space, but I had promised not to go so long again without checking in; he couldn’t help but worry and just wanted to know I was okay and hear how things were going. My brother was included on the email too. I despised myself for clicking away, but I didn’t have the capacity right then. I would come back to it later, as soon as I could.

  I pulled up the university website. The sight of it made the breath clot at the back of my throat. But with just a few clicks, I discovered that the most remarkable professor I ever had was teaching two classes during summer session, including today, at one o’clock. A drop of blood fell onto my keyboard. I found I had bitten all the nails off my left hand and was chewing on them. I sucked the blood from my finger. I hadn’t stepped foot on campus in almost six years; I hadn’t planned to ever again. But one o’clock today—that had to be a sign. After all, he was the person who’d led me, however indirectly, to Florence Nightingale, and thus to my calling,

  I left a message for Doug, saying I couldn’t make it in as I was suffering from a digestive issue, though that seemed to have cleared itself up. I took the bus to the train to the shuttle, a two-and-a-half-hour journey in total, and stepped onto campus. I walked full speed toward the lecture hall with my head down, passing what I knew to be broad leafy trees and wrought iron benches and brick buildings padded with vines but refusing to look up and let them suck me into the past. But just the smell in the air and the sound of my shoes on the pavement were enough. Soon Nnenna was beside me, the two of us power-walking as fast as we could without breaking into an embarrassing all-out run after we’d snoozed the alarm too many times. Racing, occasionally sticking a leg out as an obstacle or giving a light push to throw the other off. Once we’d made it to our seats, she’d peel back the neck of my shirt to see how damp and flushed my skin had become, while she was still as cool as could be—she always got a big kick out of that.

  I was early. I chose a seat toward the back, regularly checking over both shoulders for anyone who might question me. I sat through a lackluster art history class, waited for those students to file out and new ones to file in, and then Peter finally made his way down to the podium. I almost got up and ran. I tried to concentrate on him, imagining we were alone in another place and time, another planet in another galaxy. He looked the same, just with more gray in his hair. He was attractive but had these ears that stuck out from his head and made his attractiveness more approachable; he called them his propellers. I’d never seen him in a short-sleeved shirt before. His upper arms were wide as loaves of bread, filling his sleeves.

  While the last stragglers trickled in, his eyes tunneled into me just as they had when I was a student. My back and shoulder muscles bristled. Today they were discussing process theories of motivation: reinforcement theory, equity theory, goal-setting theory, expectancy theory—when he reached this one he abandoned his PowerPoint and began pacing, which meant he was about to get to something good. “Now, here’s an incredible study for you,” he said. “So, our team of fearless researchers gets three hundred people together. Regular Jacks and Jills, except that they all suffer from chronic arm pain. The researchers randomly assign them into one of two groups.” He drew two large circles on the whiteboard. “Now, this group, they’re going to try a new experimental pain medication. While these guys will be getting acupuncture treatments.” He drew a giant pill inside one circle and in the other, a body with massive cartoonish arm muscles, a bunch of needles sticking out of them. “This guy works out a lot, you know, when he’s not suffering in pain. So, they sit each group down and go through the details of the treatment they’ll be receiving, along with any possible side effects, like, say, fatigue or swelling.” He tried unsuccessfully to make one arm look swollen. “Well, this guy was already swole, what can we do.” We chuckled. “Over the next ten weeks, both groups report a reduction in pain levels, though many also report experiencing side effects, the very ones they’d been told to watch out for. And—every pharmaceutical company’s worst nightmare, a direct threat to Western medicine as we know it—the acupuncture group reports even better results than the pill group.” He drew stars around the acupuncture circle. “But, my friends, that is not the incredible part. The incredible part is that the pain pills were made of corn starch, and the acupuncture needles were shams that never even broke the skin.” He drew a big X through both circles and wrote “SHAM!!”

  The placebo effect, of course—it was one of Peter’s most beloved topics. He shot me a look and paused to sip from his water bottle; he wanted his message to land. I worked to unravel it while he went on with the lesson.

  Those people with chronic arm pain just needed a little outside help—a regimen of pills to swallow or acupuncture appointments to attend—in order to get their mind and body to agree to work together. That was all I needed too. A regimen, a prescribed therapy, working from the outside in, inspiring my mind and body to join forces. A placebo activates your expectations for results, and then you experience results. Expectations, results. Just like with chronic arm pain, the healing would gradually begin to feel imminent, unavoidable. By the time August 25 came around, my test-taking problem would be cured.

  It might not be common practice to placebo oneself, but why not try? Weren’t we all doing it to some extent every day anyway? Telling ourselves mind over matter, think positively, visualize, manifest, fake it till you make it. Delusion was an accepted part of life. So why not take a more formalized, clinical approach?

  When class ended and the students had shuffled out, it was only Peter and his new TA left up front and me in the back. I knew I should leave, but something compelled me to stay. The two of them climbed the stairs, toting folders and laptops. Peter paused at the end of my row, while his TA carried on alone. Suddenly my bladder felt full, and I had to squeeze my thighs together. “Amy? I thought that was you. Wow, it’s been what? A few years at least. How are you doing? I hope you’ve been taking care of yourself.”

  I had to push my mouth open with my tongue to get it to move. He had recognized me and remembered my name. “Yes.”

&nbs
p; “So, you’re back on campus. What are—is that okay, you being here?”

  The TA stood lurking by the door. He had a patchy beard and a staring problem. “It was just a quick visit, just this once,” I said. “I’m leaving right now.” I rooted my feet on the ground and set my hands on my thighs.

  “Well then, I’m glad to see you, see you’re doing well.” He rearranged the items in his arms as if to get a better grip, though they already looked secure. “Let me just say.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “For what it’s worth, that was an incredibly difficult time back then, I know. The things we do during a time like that, they don’t define us.”

  My head was full of a thousand hot bricks, but I finally managed to nod it, and Peter nodded in return. Then he climbed the rest of the stairs to where his new TA stood, pretending not to eavesdrop. As they passed through the door, they laughed, and the laughter felt pointed and vicious. I told myself it was just some inside joke that had nothing to do with me, but I still felt ashamed of my existence.

  On the train ride home, I was surrounded by a mob of lanky young girls. They wore leotards with shorts pulled over and slick buns in their hair, and some carried gym bags printed with the words “Boston Ballet.” I figured they must be part of a summer program for gifted youth—the luckiest thing in the world to be—and as I contemplated what it must feel like to balance on the very tips of one’s toes, it came to me, the reason why the laughter had sounded so pointed, so vicious. It was that new TA. He’d grown a patchy beard, but it was certainly him, August Eccles, a student from my class and not even an exceptional one, one who was always more eager to speak than to listen, who regularly overslept and bragged about how little he’d studied. Once, after class, August and his friend had been walking up the stairs while I was walking down—to ask Peter a follow-up question about something in the lecture—and as they passed me, I heard August whisper to his friend, “Hope Peter’s ready to get his dick sucked.”

  * * *

  Back home, I tried to forget about August Eccles and focus solely on following Peter’s guidance. I remembered him describing the importance of details in a placebo treatment, how the size and shape and color of a sugar pill all make a difference when it comes to activating the right expectations, such as blue for a sedative, red for a stimulant. We have an innate preference for bright colors and brand names, for capsules over tablets, the bigger the better. Some doctors use the term obecalp—placebo spelled backward—for a little extra nudge. As my own prescriber, I had to ensure that my patient’s obecalp had the proper appearance, official and authentic. I spent a while searching Google and the NREMT website, gathering information, copying down language. In a new Word document, I typed a letter dated September 1, a week after my exam date.

  Dear Amy Hanley,

  Congratulations! We are pleased to inform you that you have passed the National Registry of Emergency Medical Technicians EMS cognitive exam and have successfully obtained your National EMS Certification at the NREMT-B level. You have demonstrated your competency as an EMS professional and your commitment to protecting the health and well-being of your community.

  Your certification will remain valid for two years. You are responsible for completing the recertification process before the expiration date, and can find all pertinent information and instructions on our website, www.nremt.org. Please note that your current certification allows you to use the post-nominal notation “NREMT.”

  On behalf of myself and my colleagues, I would like to commend you on this significant achievement and extend my best wishes for a long and distinguished career.

  Sincerely yours,

  Randall A. D’Souza, MS, NRP, LP, AEMCA

  Executive Director

  I left space for his signature and pasted in the NREMT logo to create a letterhead, getting the formatting just right. It looked legitimate. Now I needed a printer.

  How lucky to have a door to knock on! It was no longer intimidating, now that I’d been on the other side of it. I stood there knocking for quite a while, so long that I started to feel hot and wonder if I was an idiot for thinking he would open the door just because we’d shared one dinner and made plans to share more, or for believing that he ever intended to follow through on those plans. But no, when the door finally swung open, Gary of course was happy to help—it was only that he’d been wearing his VR headset and hadn’t heard me knocking.

  I hovered close by as his printer sputtered out a neat, professional copy. “This is just some paperwork,” I explained. “Since I finally passed my EMT exam. Officially a certified EMT. Though I still have to wait on a couple things in the mail and get my state license, then find a job and all that. I’m still going to finish out the summer at the yacht club.”

  “Congratulations,” he said. “Wow. That’s great news.” He was holding the headset, fingering the strap.

  “Were you watching a movie in your own private theater?”

  “Actually, I was driving a race car.” He laughed. “I thought I was going to puke.”

  I escorted the letter back up to my apartment and positioned it over my computer screen so I could trace Randall D’Souza’s signature, channeling him as I swooped my pen through his big, confident R. I typed an email back to my father and brother, sharing the fantastic news that I was officially a certified EMT—things weren’t just okay, they were better than ever—and promising to write again soon and visit too, once I’d settled into a position and had some exciting stories from on the job. I hesitated before pressing send. But plenty of doctors and researchers have used a little deception to achieve amazing results, so I shouldn’t feel guilty about doing the same. For my obecalp to be effective, I had to convince myself that it was real, and I would be more convinced if other people were convinced too.

  I slid the letter into an envelope and placed a stamp in the corner. I’d drop it in a mailbox tomorrow so I got the thrill of having it arrive at my door. That would signify the official start of Phase I. Before I sealed the flap, I read through it one last time. Congratulations, congratulations, congratulations.

  Five

  When I knocked for our second dinner, Gary opened the door straightaway, as though he’d been waiting on the other side, hand poised over the knob. “Ah,” he said, with an air of mock formality. He had a dish towel thrown over his shoulder in a deliberate way, and now he whisked it off, bowing slightly. “Table for two? Right this way, please.” He ushered me into the kitchen and stood back so I could take it in—a brand-new table, just as I’d suggested the first night. He’d decorated it with a maroon cloth and a glass vase of fake roses. There were two sets of silverware, two glasses of water, two chairs with upholstered seats, waiting for us. I got choked up when I saw all that.

  “So? Big upgrade, huh? And these look just like the real deal, don’t they? Irina loves flowers. She said she’s always wanted a house with flowers in every room. Smell.” He lifted the vase to my nose. “They spray them with this special perfume so they even smell like the real thing. Only $6.99, and these will last forever. A much smarter investment.”

  The roses were stiff and too shiny, and the perfume made my nostrils burn. “The table is perfect, I love it. But I’m on the fence with these. Don’t you think she might prefer real ones? It’s just, the smart investment isn’t always the most romantic.”

  He set them down. “I don’t see what’s so romantic about watching something shrivel up and die.” He went to the counter and picked up the recipe, a plastic-covered sheet with large color photographs. “But I guess you might have a point.” He dumped green onions from a pre-portioned bag onto a cutting board and chopped them. “Just look at her.” With the tip of his knife, he pointed to a framed photograph set on top of the microwave, Irina in her red turtleneck. “You wouldn’t think in a million years that someone like me could end up with someone like her, right? I mean, it’s like I drew her up in my head. But it’s not just that. She really cares about me, you know. I never met anyone like
her. Oh, have a seat, make yourself comfortable. You’ll be the first to try out those chairs. I think maybe it’s partly because women in her country tend to be more traditional. They really want to have a husband and a family, they value those things over everything else. We all deserve love, and you never know where you’re going to find it.

  “Sorry, I’m feeling kind of sentimental tonight. I don’t get the chance to talk about her much.” His phone chirped, and he pulled a pan from the oven, breathing heat into the room. “This has to sit for a few minutes.” He reset the timer on his phone. “I haven’t told anyone at work. People always have their opinions.”

  He hadn’t told anyone at work, but he had told me. I grasped the edge of the tablecloth and screwed it tight around my finger. The thing to do was not dwell on such a marvelous confession in the moment but to return to it later when alone, celebrate it then. In my breeziest voice, I said, “And what is it that you do exactly—for work?”

  “Oh, I’m an architect. I guess I never mentioned it.”

  No, he hadn’t mentioned it, and I’d never come across any evidence of it in his mail. He’d received a notice about a change in health care benefits from a company with an ambiguous name where I’d always imagined him doing something like accounting or IT support. He brought in his laptop to show me a 3D rendering of a house. He made it rotate and zoom in and out, revealing each room and surprise features like a staircase that unfolded from a wall. “A micro house I’m working on,” he said. “People are really getting into the whole micro house thing. It’s more sustainable for the environment, and more affordable. They want to, you know, simplify. I wouldn’t be able to stand it myself. But I figure it makes some sense. Plus it’s kind of fun, trying to come up with ways to fit everything inside a few hundred square feet.”