Silence and the Word Read Free

off at the crucial moments…my fingers are digging
into my thighs. They hurt. I am hurting myself. I am hurting my
body, which is not behaving at the moment. I am wondering what will
happen if I try to actually tear away some skin—will it disappear
before I can? Would it come back?
    The phone rings.
    It’s past midnight. It must be Mark. Peter
goes outside to smoke a cigarette and think. I pace back and forth
as I tell the story again. It’s easier than I expected. It usually
is, talking to him, at least once I get started. Unfortunately, he
doesn’t have the answer for me. I try not to let him hear how
disappointed I am. I doubt I fool him, but he lets me pretend. It’s
been a rough day, after all.
    Peter comes back in. I tell Mark I’ll talk to
him tomorrow night, and hang up the phone. Peter pulls me into a
hug.
    “You should go see a doctor.” He’s using that
‘I’m-not-nagging-but-you-know-this-is-a-good-idea’ voice. I hate
that.
    “What can a doctor do?”
    “This might have happened to someone before.
I’ll see what I can find on-line, but in the meantime, you should
see an expert.”
    I consider arguing, but he will be impossible
until I give in. He was like that about my wearing seatbelts, and
remembering to take my thyroid medicine, and going to the dentist.
I think I give in just to get him to stop nagging—but he doesn’t
care as long as I do it.
    “Drive me?”
    “Of course.”
    He holds me tight all night. I wake, once or
twice, and he is still holding me. It doesn’t really help, but it
doesn’t hurt either.
     
     
    Peter calls the following morning, and
somehow gets me an appointment. I think he bribed the secretary. He
waits patiently while I do my exercises. I’ve already lost faith in
them, but I did swear. I keep my promises.
    The doctor is very beautiful, with short
black hair and ice blue eyes. I try not to check her out too
obviously as she goes through the routine physical, checks my
pulse, palpates my breasts… .
    “Well, you seem pretty healthy. What seems to
be the problem?”
    I can’t say it. I just can’t. I stare at her,
and she at me. Her cheerful expression grows concerned, but she
waits patiently. This room is too big and cold and white. I want a
blanket, but you can’t ask a doctor for that. My teeth are
chattering. She says nothing, and finally, I have to speak.
    “Could I borrow your pad? And a pen?”
    I write it down. It’s always easier to write.
“Parts of my body keep disappearing.”
    She reads it, and her eyes only widen
slightly. Good doctor—well-trained.
    “Parts of your body keep disappearing? Which
parts?”
    I tell her, and watch her expression subtly
shift. This isn’t going to go well. I can tell.
     
     
    I argue with Peter in the car going home. He
thinks I should do what the doctor says; slow down a little, try to
decrease stress, maybe talk to a counselor. Unfortunately, none of
my body parts acted up in the office, and I know what the doctor
was thinking, with her sharp blue eyes and pointed questions. ‘The
poor girl is over-committed, in more ways than one.’ ‘She’s so
tired and stressed that she’s imagining things.’ It would have been
ridiculous to bring Peter in as witness, and she’d probably just
have decided that he was over-committed too. He’s not been sleeping
well, and he looks exhausted. Still, there aren’t any bits of him disappearing. I’m getting scared.
    Peter drops me off with a hug and makes me
promise to call him if anything else blinks out. For a moment, I
don’t want to let go…I hang on tight. But I can’t hang on to him
forever—besides, I told Mark I’d call him. And I owe Katherine a
call, still. I let go, kiss his cheek, and head inside.
     
     
    It’s easier telling the story the fourth
time. I’m not sure why I bother, though. Katherine reacts as
expected. She’s been convinced for years that if I just picked one
of them, settled down with Mark or Peter, got married, etc. and so
on