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I live with a girl who I don’t know. Formerly, she was my neighbor and we were, of course, friendly toward one another. When we decided to give conversation a try, we sounded like distant relatives, gently hugged like fragile aunts, commented on the condition of the bathrooms or the odd smell coming from 906. Her name may have been Sarah or Megan or Elizabeth. Either way, we never committed to a friendship. I often asked her to join us for dinner or go to a party, but she was a very pale, very thin, and a very sickly young woman, which usually omitted her from social engagements. She had the chronic cough of a ninety-nine-year-old miner, with a throat that looked like the surface of Venus. Consequently, many of our talks turned ugly. I’d see her unlocking her door, with a deep, chiseled frown.
“Hey! How’re you doing?”
“Hey, Jessica. I’m doing well. I actually just got off the phone with my mom. She thinks I have strep again,” although optimistic and smiling, her voice called for pity. She wanted my sympathy for her absentee immune system, but she also needed to be assured of her bravery. Like a good neighbor, I indulged in her sickness, patted the ridges of her spine, and gave her my condolences, all wrapped up in a flourish of tenderness.
“Oh my goodness. Again? This is, what, the fourth time this semester?
“It may be up to five now. I think it’s something circulating in the air vents.”
“Yeah, that probably is it. I don’t know how you stand it here. Is there anything I can do? Do you need water or medicine?”
“Nah, thanks. I’m just going to skip my next class and get some sleep.”
This was probably the most irritating of all. Sarah or Megan or Elizabeth never visited a doctor. Even when deathly ill, panting and sweating and unable to swallow, she would call her mother and let her do the diagnosing. I would later learn more about this codependent, somewhat morose relationship. Both of these women were unlucky in health and would delight in explaining their diseases, giving unfavorable prognoses, and developing a treatment regimen of Vic’s vapor rub for infected sores, cranberry juice for digestive problems, herbal tea for pesky migraines, and most often, just go to sleep. Once, this girl showed me a picture taken with a cell phone of a puss-filled sore, with this volcanic eruption of ooze. I, at first, thought it was a dish ordered from an Olive Garden.
“What is that?” I ask her, squinting.
“It’s my mom’s blister. She just sent it to me.”
“What? Why? Why would she do such a thing?”
“It’s something we do,” she said, laughing.
“That’s pretty weird,” I said, shaking the image from my head.