Page 82 of Summer Reading

“No, there are no buts about this. You do not have cancer. You are not dying.”

Em’s mouth formed a tight line as if she was forcing herself not to say anything.

“I do have a referral for you but it’s for a therapist to help you get to the root of what’s really bothering you,” Dr. Ernst said.

“You think I’m crazy,” Em said. She sounded angry.

“No.” Dr. Ernst shook her head. “I think something is troubling you and it’s manifesting in phantom health concerns.” She handed Em a business card. “Dr. Davis can help and you can always call me if you need me.”

“Thanks,” Em said. She didn’t sound grateful. She sounded depressed.

Dr. Ernst rose and left the room. When the door shut behind her, I had no idea what to say. This was not at all what I had expected. After a very awkward pause, I turned to Em and asked, “Ready to go?”

“Yes, please.”

Neither of us spoke until we were halfway to Em’s house. It might have been the quietest ride we’d ever shared. I racked my brain thinking of the right phrase, a comforting sentiment, something, anything that would make her feel better. I pondered what I would want someone to say to me if I genuinely believed I was ill but the test results said otherwise. Support. I would want one hundred percent,have-my-back, no-doubt-allowed support. Okay, I could do that.

“You can get a second opinion,” I said.

Em was staring out the window, looking at the ocean as we blew down Beach Road. The view was clear, and a fine line appeared at the horizon where the dark blue of the water met the pale blue of the sky. A clash of blues. It hit me again how much I’d missed it.

“Thank you, but no. I don’t think I’ll be asking anyone else,” she said. “That was humiliating enough.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I said. I’m sure it felt like it was, but embarrassment and I were old friends. You get over it. I would have told her this, but she didn’t need to have her feelings filtered through my experience. I could see she was feeling bad about herself, and I couldn’t let that stand, just like she couldn’t let me think listening to a book was less valid than reading. “It is never ever wrong to follow up on a health concern.”

“I wasn’t, though, was I?” Em asked. “I essentially forced them to take tissue out of a fatty lump in my neck because I thought I was dying. Who does that? Crazy people.”

“Harsh!” I said. “And you’re not crazy, don’t say that. Dr. Ernst very specifically said something is troubling you. That’s exactly like having something physically wrong with you, and that’s why she referred you to another doctor. See? Still a medical condition.”

“Hmm.” She hummed. But she straightened her back, looking less defeated.

“Any idea what it could be?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “My life is... fine. But the truth is Ihavebecome a bit of a hypochondriac. If someone sneezes near me, I’m convinced they’ve given me the flu. If I have a headache, it’s brain cancer. Stomachache, and I’m sure my appendix has ruptured. I spend all of my free time on medical websites. Between you and me, I think they’re trying to kill me. Every medical condition ends up in death.”

I huffed out a laugh and quickly squelched it. “When did all of this start? Because you were never like this before.”

“I didn’t have time before,” she said. “When we were growing up, we were always busy, but ever since I moved back after college, my life just got really, really small. Now I don’t go anywhere or do anything except work and home, day in and day out, rinse and repeat.”

Her words snapped on the light bulb in my brain. This made sense. I knew exactly what was wrong. I turned to her and said, “That’s it!”

“What’s it?” Em looked confused.

“Why you’re convinced you have cancer or a tumor and that you’re dying. You just said it.”

“Really?” she asked. “What did I say?”

“Quite simply, you’re bored, or as the expression goes, you’re bored to death.”

Em stared at me. She blinked and her jaw dropped. She looked like I’d just slapped her.

“No, I’m not,” she said. “I love my job and... and...”

Her voice trailed off as I stopped at a stop sign. I turned to look at her and raised one eyebrow.

“You forget I’ve known you since we were kids. I’m sure you love your career, but this isn’t the life you always dreamed of. Do you remember? You never planned on living on the island permanently, you were always going to go off and see the world,” I said. “You wanted to work as an archivist, or with special collections, preferably in a foreign country if I remember right.”

“People change.” Em shrugged.

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