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Diana: What’s wrong? Did he hurt you? I told you not to prod a sleeping bear!
Andrea: I’m fine
Diana: You’re never awake this late.
Andrea: I am today
“You could never show the doctor this?” I rasp.
“She lives unusual hours because her work is based on Hong Kong time. They didn’t care that she’s in a different time zone. They thought I was just feeding the delusion, trying to make them believe the lie. I’d schedule calls with her, but something always went wrong.
“One time, she stayed awake to talk to them and then her daughter got stung by a wasp and had an allergic reaction. Four times we tried, and in the end, I told her to stop because her husband broke his hand and then she had a small fire. That last time, her kitchen flooded?—”
“Putain!”
She hums. “It was so bizarre. Anyway, the more I pushed the doctors to understand, the crazier they thought I was. It was a vicious cycle. They didn’t want to believe me, to believeinme, and whenever I tried, it terrified my mom and dad, so I gave up and played their game until I could discharge myself.”
“What about your other friends?”
“It just never worked out. Bad luck, I suppose. When the doctors came for an appointment with me, they’d be at work or school.” She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. So long as you believe me, that’s all that counts,” she tells me even as she sends a text back to Diana.
Andrea: I just wanted to prove you exist.
Diana: Lol. Existing is something I don’t do anymore. Because of you. Now, I live and I love!
Andrea: :*
Andrea: It’s late, babe. Going to sleep some. Love you.
Diana: Sleep well. Love you too. XOXO
Reading her messages, I muse, “She knows you’re in Rome?”
“I didn’t want to tell her, but she’d have called the cops if I just ran away from the hospital without looping her in. She’s a worrywart, but she promised not to share where I am with my parents.”
“She cares about you.”
“Isawher,” she says with a shrug. “You don’t let someone like that go when they saved you.”
What must it be like to be saved?
To no longer exist, but to live and to love…?
It’s impolite of me but I brush my fingers through her hair.
The side closest to me is spiky, short, and oddly crispy, but moving around a pillow has mussed it up.
My fingers drag against the scar, and the ruffled skin rams home what this woman went through.
She deserves my empathy, my sympathy, and yet, that isn’t what I feel.
In all honesty, I don’t even knowwhatI’m feeling.
Gnawing on the inside of my cheek, I watch as she stretches like a cat being stroked at my touch. Her eyelids flutter closed and she turns her cheek toward me, like she’s giving me better access.
My stomach immediately free-falls with my body wanting to move closer, but my head knows this is an impossible,untenablesituation.
She’s sick.