Obsessed

by Allison Britz

  “What situation?” They’re the first words I’ve spoken in six hours, and they come out as a raspy cough.

  “Well”—she hesitates—“I told her that you’ve been sick for the past few weeks. Months, really. And it made it difficult for you to study and to focus in class.” She isn’t making eye contact with me. “I said we would get a note from Dr. Mark tomorrow, just for her peace of mind. She was very polite about it. She said she hopes you feel better and that you can take the test in January. It will show up as an incomplete on your report card for now.” I picture Ms. Tisman reading my mom’s e-mail with crossed arms and pursed lips, and despite the layers of bedsheets, a shiver runs through me. “Don’t worry, baby. Mom’s here. I’ll take care of you. Everything is going to be fine.” Her hand is resting heavily on my thigh, and I feel tears growing behind my eyes. I don’t know whether to be thankful for her help or scared for my soul. Fearful of disobeying the only one who matters. My mom and I make eye contact. She looks tired. Ragged, even. There are two deep creases across her forehead and dark, puffy circles under her eyes. I pull my gaze away from her and roll over onto my side, pretending to be ready for sleep. My mom sits beside me, hand on my leg, for a full thirty seconds. She pats my head, gently whispers, “It’s going to be okay,” and pads quietly away down the hall.

  I want to believe her. I want to know everything will be okay. But the hollow feeling in my chest warns me I’ve just ruined everything. I’ve chosen this world, my happiness, my comfort, over a direct relationship with God. And there’s no way that’s going to end well.

  CHAPTER 16

  The doctor’s office is warm. Too warm. It makes sense, given the tiny icicles I can see hanging from the roof through the window, but I’m starting to sweat. A thin layer of perspiration keeps appearing on my upper lip, no matter how many times I wipe it off. My mom is sitting beside me, her hand just a few centimeters from mine on the armrest. She has a thick, well-worn magazine splayed open on her lap, but she’s staring blankly across the room at nothing. Her thick-heeled left shoe is jiggling incessantly against both of our shins. I’m wearing crumpled clothes that I discovered in the laundry hamper this morning. As far as I can tell, it’s the last safe outfit in my possession. CNN is on mute on the television on the wall. A woman with perfect hair in a perfect suit mimes at us about the cold front pushing in from the Atlantic Ocean.

  Is this a good thing? Is being here allowed? Can I tell Dr. Mark what’s been happening? Should I tell him what’s been happening? I glance to my left at my mom, who is clearly in her own world. From the beginning of . . . this . . . I’ve known these messages are sacred. But since driver’s ed, when I realized my thoughts are truly divine, they’ve taken on a new weight. If God has decided I am his vessel, the sole trustee of life-changing secrets, is it really my place to share? If he had wanted the world to know, he would have told us. Or put it in the Bible. Or something. Right? Just because this battle is hard, does that make it okay for me to spill the beans on the true causes of cancer and tragedy and death? I don’t think it’s my secret to tell. My stomach gurgles at the questions, loosening up the heavy pit of bile that sits constantly ready to sneak up my throat.

  The wooden door on the other side of the waiting room swings open, and an overweight nurse in pink scrubs looks down at her clipboard. “I’m looking for a Miss . . . Allison?” We make eye contact and she gives me a smile of recognition. She’s greeted me almost every time I’ve come to the doctor for the past however many years I’ve been seeing Dr. Mark. I can’t smile back at her. These next few steps carry the weight of the past few months.

  “Come on, sweetie.” My mom folds her magazine closed, and I hear it smack down onto the small coffee table. I can feel her standing in front of me, but I’m looking down at my half-eaten nails and cuticles. Do I go? I’m asking myself for advice, frowning slightly at the torn skin of my fingers. I can’t not go, I whisper silently back—I have almost no safe clothes, no toothbrush, no pencil. I can’t keep clawing my way through life, starving in tattered pajamas. But . . . but . . . still. I’m just going to tell Dr. Mark that God’s been talking to me, telling me the secret codes of cancer? I’m going to casually explain that I failed my chemistry final to save my mom’s life? It’s the truth, obviously. But even as I try to think of a gentler way to put it, I know he can’t handle it. There’s no way he will understand.

  My mom clears her throat and I look up to see her hand extended toward me, resting a few inches in front of my face. She wiggles her fingers at me. “Allison. The nurse is waiting.” Our eyes meet and I can see I don’t have an option.

  My knees pop as she pulls me up out of the chair, and briefly I understand what it must be like to walk toward the gallows for your own execution.

  When I get to the door, the nurse’s smile has morphed into a furrow of brows and crow’s feet, but she pats me gently on the back as I pass by her anyway. Her soft hand on my shoulder, she guides me toward the digital scale in a small cove with an eye chart. I step onto the clear glass platform and it gives a few beeps. Three enormous zeros appear blinking on the screen. Blink, blink, blink. A pause. 95.

  Ninety-five . . . pounds? What! Last time I was here over the summer for my annual physical, I was more like 115. I haven’t weighed less than a hundred pounds since middle school. Since I was about eleven. The nurse leans over my shoulder and I feel her freeze for a moment, as if ensuring she saw the number correctly. She lets out a small “hmm” and scribbles my weight into my chart, slapping it closed when she’s done. “Okay, then. Follow me, please.” She leads me down the familiar hallways, painted a gentle blue, which I assume is meant to be calming. There’s that antiseptic smell in the air, harsh and sharp. The smell of getting swabbed before a shot in the arm. She points us into a small beige room that is twenty-three steps from the scale.

  Eyeing the large examination table, I realize that all the furniture in the office has been silent. I’ve felt no static, no anger. Without even thinking about it, I sat down in the waiting room on the upholstered chair next to my mom. And now I’m positioning myself on the elevated table to wait for Dr. Mark. Maybe it’s because I haven’t spent much time here. Everything at home and school has a consequence and a danger because they’ve had months to be discovered. The constant tension in my shoulder muscles relaxes one notch. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to only hear words from people.

  I watch the nurse walk out of the room, and the door clicks closed. I’m looking at a laminated, illustrated poster of the cardiovascular system pinned to the wall. The room is suddenly and completely quiet. I shove my hands underneath my thighs against the thin paper covering the exam table, and it crinkles loudly into the silence. My mom is to my left, sitting in a normal chair against the wall. I really don’t want her to talk to me, but this tense silence isn’t much better. What is she thinking over there? Sitting with her hands in her lap against her black slacks, still wiggling her foot multiple times per second. What did she tell the receptionist when she called to make the appointment? (“Yes, hi, my daughter has stopped brushing her hair and has lost twenty pounds—can we see the doctor sometime this week?”) I can tell she’s upset—a mysterious mixture that’s part worry, part stress. I think about her conversations with my dad behind their bedroom door. I’ve been so wrapped up in myself, in my own battle, that I haven’t really looked at this from their perspective. All I know is that half the things I do are for them and their safety. And they haven’t once said thank you.

  There are two small knocks on the door as it swings inward slowly. “Well, hey there, y’all.” Dr. Mark moves into the room and settles onto a rolling stool, opening my medical file on the small table beside the sink. He spins toward me with a gleaming smile, and I notice that his face doesn’t change when he sees my knotted hair and pimples. “I would say I’m glad to see ya, but I know you’re not feeling your best and I’m sorry about that.” I’m sure he uses this same opening line for every patient, but it sounds so gen
uine. He’s got big, thick, hairy hands that are resting patiently on his thighs. After looking at me for a few moments, he blinks and says, “So, what brings you in today? It sounds like you may be having a tough time. . . .” His voice trails off slightly, and I know it’s my cue. But what do I say? Glancing up at his friendly blue eyes, I’m reminded of the time I sprained my ankle on my brand-new scooter in our driveway. It was a few years ago—I was about ten—and Dr. Mark came into the office on a Saturday to bandage my knee and wrap my ankle, still in his dirty uniform from the softball game he had left early. And here we are now. The doctor who has always dispensed grape-flavored cough syrup and written prescriptions for my strep throat is prodding at my deepest secrets. His eyes are friendly and I’ve known him for most of my life, but I just can’t do it. I’m not sure what the consequences would be if I told him, but there’s no way it would be good. Looking at his framed medical school diploma with its loopy calligraphy, I know that this, whatever this is, isn’t something that will be fixed with a course of antibiotics. And, I wonder to myself, is it something I want to “fix” in the first place?

  Seeing my hesitation, he shifts his eyes over to my mom, who clears her throat. “Allison, you don’t want to try to tell Dr. Mark what’s been happening?” Why am I here? Why did I agree to this? She means well, her voice is gentle, but that familiar anger is rising like lava in my chest. Why did she make me come? I will take no responsibility if she gets breast cancer as a result of this trip. I cross my arms and stomp my foot in my head. This was all her idea. “Allison?” I shoot a mean look at her and give one definitive head shake no.

  “Okay, well, I guess I’ll start.” She shifts in her seat, straightening her back. “It’s been about two months or so . . . I’m not sure exactly when it all started.” I can feel her looking at me, but I’m staring down at my thighs, shoulders rolled forward. “We noticed she had lost her appetite, wasn’t eating as much. Her grades have dropped, and there’s been a marked change in her behavior.” Dr. Mark is making notes in tiny chicken-scratch letters I can’t quite read from my perch.

  “How so?”

  “Well, for example, she seems to have issues with choosing clothes to wear”—neither of them look at my tattered pajamas, but I can feel them nodding internally—“as well as counting out loud and tiptoeing.” It’s like she’s had this spiel prepared in advance in her head, filed away in her mind as the “list of things wrong with my daughter.” As she talks, though, I realize she can only see a fraction of the situation. My counting and tiptoeing and clothes are just the exposed tip of the iceberg. They are merely the symptoms of a dark and complicated truth that she knows nothing about. I’m the only one inside my head. She seems to have run out of steam, and again I feel her eyes on me. “Allison, your input would be helpful here.”

  I roll my eyes. Shut up, Mom. Angry tears are building somewhere between my stomach and chest. Is this what she and my dad whisper about? They’ve gotten so concerned, so worked up, over lost weight and low grades? What started as embarrassment as she listed out my problems quickly turns as I realize just how little she knows. She thinks she’s laying all my cards out on the table in front of Dr. Mark, but I have two more thick, full decks in my back pocket. A cool shiver creeps up my neck. I’m still on my own. And I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

  They’re both staring at me. I have to say something. After a small clearing of my throat, and without looking up, I manage, “Yeah, um, that’s about right.” My voice is raspy, mucus caught in my mouth. I grip my hands tightly together with my fingers interlaced.

  Dr. Mark scoots a bit closer to me on the stool. “Okay, okay.”

  He is unwrapping the stethoscope from around his neck, the overhead light glinting off the silver. “Allison, I’m just going to check you over, make sure everything seems to be working right. Then, we’ll do a few tests together. And I’ll probably take a small sample of blood just to make sure we cover all of our bases. How does that sound?” He stands up slightly so our faces are aligned, and I nod at him, my lips closed tight. “Okay, I’m going to start with listening to your heart.” Dr. Mark presses the cold stethoscope against my skin and moves it around, requesting deep breaths at strategic moments. I tense briefly as the metal glides across my back, wondering if he notices I’m not wearing a bra or underwear. He then shines a light in my eyes, up my nose, and down my throat. He mashes on my lymph nodes and then my intestines. His fingers are chilly but soft, and I feel myself relaxing as he clinically moves his way around my different body parts.

  “Well, everything looks good,” he says as he lowers my calf back down after hitting my kneecap with a small rubber hammer. “You seem to be in fine working condition.” Even though I’m not looking, I can feel the big smile in his voice. “Okay, now what we’re going to do is test some of your motor skills. If you wouldn’t mind raising your arms for me.” We run through a series of movements—alternating touching my nose, then his hand, then back to my nose, and then flipping my hands over repeatedly. You’re way off here, doc, I think as he tells me to balance on one leg while covering one eye and then the other. God’s messages about my health and my family’s safety have nothing to do with whatever this tests. And it definitely has nothing to do with talking furniture and angry clothes and bartering away all my food.

  I’m still balancing, arms extended out to my sides, when there is a small knock behind me on the door. The nurse in the pink scrubs is back, and she’s pushing a cart filled with needles and gauze and the dreaded bottle of rubbing alcohol. She takes a few vials of my blood, and with another gentle pat on my shoulder, she leaves the same way she came, behind the squeaky cart.

  “So, I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind?” He is looking at me intently, but I’m pretending to be focused on the tight new bandage on the inside bend of my arm. With a short, sharp breath in, I glance up at him with half nod. I feel a small warmth inside. He’s really taking this seriously.

  “So, tell me about school. Your mom says your grades have dropped a little bit this semester. Why do you think that is?”

  I let out a long sigh but try not to let Dr. Mark hear. “Yeah, I mean, I don’t know. School is hard. Precalculus is hard. It’s just a lot of work.” He nods at me without smiling, his mouth pursed and pushed to the side like he’s thinking.

  “Okay, I understand that, definitely. And friends? How’s that going? Do you all get along?”

  I shake my head up and down at him a bit too quickly and enthusiastically. My mom has no idea that her once-bubbly daughter has become the ultimate pariah, a total social outcast. While it’s no more shocking than my other antics, I suppose, for some reason it feels much more embarrassing. I’d rather she not know that I’ve single-handedly scared away the people I used to call my best friends. “Friends are great. Definitely.” I nod at him longer than I should. “Lots of friends.”

  “Okay.” He looks at me and then puts a few small marks on his lined paper. “That’s good to hear. And what about your appetite? Have you noticed a change?” He flips back to the top page of my chart, running his finger under the newly marked 95.

  “No, not really. I mean, maybe a little, but”—I give a small shrug—“I feel fine.” My mom rustles in her chair. It’s taking all her strength not to interject.

  “Well, you have lost a significant amount of weight, so that’s something we’re really going to want to look out for on the blood tests. It can sometimes signal an issue with your thyroid or lymphatic system.” Another scribble on his notepad. “Just a few more questions now, and for these, I’d like to ask your mom to step out.” It takes a few moments for his words to register in my mind, and when they do, I jerk my head up at my mom with surprise. From her expression, she seems much less alarmed by his suggestion than I am, and she quickly stands and gathers her things like he asks. Dr. Mark rolls across the floor and opens the door. “It will only be a few minutes. I’ll send Allison out to get you.” She is raising her eye
brows as she passes and he responds with a kind but firm smile.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been alone with a doctor before. It’s kind of exhilarating, but what could he not ask in front of my mom? He lets out a long, slow breath while he looks at me, half evaluating my hair and skin and clothes, half seemingly thinking to himself. “So, Allison. How are things at home? Do you get along with your parents?”

  My head shifts back a few inches. My parents? My mom is constantly bothering me, questioning me, checking on me and, yes, it’s incredibly annoying but I’m also bending over backward to save their lives multiple times a day. They’re infuriating, but they’re everything. “Things are fine. Good. We get along.” I shrug at him again, still a little confused by the question. It feels weird to be in here by myself.

  “Okay, and what about your moods? Do you feel sad sometimes? Maybe angry?”

  I consider this one for a few moments, chewing gently on the inside of my bottom lip. Is it even worth denying? I’m sure he can read the truth written in the hollows around my collarbone and my dark-rimmed eyes. “I guess so.” I’m kneading my hands in circles. “I feel sad when . . .” I run the nail of my pointer finger over an inflamed sore I’ve created on my thumb, not sure where to go with the sentence. “Yeah. I feel sad.”

  “Okay, all right.” A small note. “Have you ever had dark thoughts? Have you ever contemplated suicide?”

  My eyes shoot open at this, almost choking on a guffaw. What? Just the word itself is scary. Suicide. It makes my shoulders tense up. This whole thing, my whole life, is the opposite of suicide. My main goal every day is to stay alive, to keep living despite the danger surrounding me. I know he’s just fishing, looking for something to help him diagnose me, but I’m almost offended at the question. He clearly doesn’t get it. “N-no.” I stutter slightly on the word. “No, never.”