To Feel Stuff by Andrea Seigel Page A

too debilitated to be with someone like that.” You showing up was a reminder that I wasn’t getting better. On my way to the waffle, I had begun to fantasize about leaving with you when you were discharged.
    Putting my arms through the holes in the gown, I said, “I understand.” Then I told Dr. Wainscott, “Okay,” and he came to me and pressed his stethoscope to my chest.
    When he finished his part of the exam, the doctor scribbled on my chart and said, “I’m going to have the nurse come in and do some tests. When we get the results back, we’ll have a better idea of
exactly
what’s going on. All right, Elodie?”
    â€œThat’s fine.”
    â€œSo, any big plans for the holiday?” the doctor asked, removing his latex gloves.
    â€œThe holiday?”
    â€œThanksgiving. It’s on Thursday. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about Turkey Day.”
    I had forgotten. I said, “My days run together.”
    I can almost guarantee that the doctor wanted to scoop me up into a ball and hold me to him, judging from the face he was making. But he resisted the whim and instead went over to the box of latex gloves. “You’re too old for the monkey balloons.” He pulled out a white hand. “And probably too old for this, but I can’t have you forgetting Thanksgiving.” The doctor blew into the glove, then pinched it shut. After he searched around in a drawer near the sink, he found a rubber band and tied off the hole. Then he took out a permanent black marker.
    I watched him.
    He made eyes on each side of the glove’s thumb with the marker, and he drew a beak, too. He drew lines going up the fingers and then diagonal lines shooting off from those original lines. Holding it out, he asked me (in what I think was his impression of a turkey), “Which part of me do you want to eat first?”
    I took the rubber bird. I knew I had to say something or this visit would never end. “The wings.”
    â€œHey, I love the wings, too!” He seemed happy.
    I asked the doctor to call my regular doctor, Dr. Kirschling, whom I know you’ve never met, but that’s intentional. You know how some people don’t like to bring their work home? I’ve tried not to bring my bullshit home, as much as possible.
    All you need to know about Kirschling is that his fantasy is to be the Oliver Sacks of the body. He wants to fill books with stories of patients who are like urban legends, so that’s part of why he sees me. When I leave the infirmary every Thursday, he’s the one I have those checkups with.
    When I came back to Health Services that night, a girl was coming down the stairs right as I was about to go up them. She must have had the last appointment of the day, seeing as how late it was, and she was holding one of the brown bags that the pharmacy hides drugs in. I turned and watched her as she walked out of the building, maybe pretending I was her for a second. Then I climbed the stairs like someone who’d spent the day boating, basketballing, and making shit out of pipe cleaners at summer camp.
    Lily was on duty, and when she heard me coming, she ran to the top of the stairs and put her arm around me. She got kind of mad at me for not having called her from the bottom.
    â€œI’m fine,” I told her. “Just tired. They drew blood, did some tests. It was a long day.”
    â€œYou’re sure you’re fine?”
    â€œI’m sure.”
    â€œDo you want to paint each other’s nails later, or are you too tired?” Lily asked. I don’t think you’ve seen it that much because you’re male, but she has this sleep-over mentality about infirmary nursing. She loves to have her hair brushed and loves to brush hair.
    â€œSorry, I think I’m too tired,” I apologized. I started to go toward the infirmary door, and I realized I was getting nervous about how I’d face you. I