My Encounter With Boo Radley

Is All Hope Lost When the Doc Doesn't Even Know What is Up?

When I go home at around nine that night my whole body is shaking, and the every cough hurts my insides.

          I go to bed telling my parents I ate at Susan’s house, but I had told Susan I would eat when I got home.

          I dream of James that night, but also of the guy from the beach party. The two intertwined together as I dream, and when I wake the dream doesn’t even make sense to me.

          Something to do with both their voices, of course, and me covered in blood.

          Yeah, not a typical teenager’s dream.

          I spend Sunday in bed, and ignore James’ call that night.

          Then I skip school on Monday to go to the doctor.

          The doctor is a friend of the family, Mark Peterson, and when he sees me walking in, I can instantly see the worry in his face.

          “Delilah, hey honey,” he says, pulling me in for a hug. I feel him tense, and I know he is noticing how skinny I am. “Where’s your mother?”

          I sigh, pulling away, “I figured I shouldn’t worry her with you telling me I look like crap,” I say and give a weak smile since that is all I can muster.

          He sighs, and it sounds broken, “Honey what are doing to yourself? I thought you were getting better,” he says, taking my arm and leading me to the cushioned table all the doctors like to consider suitable for a place to inspect their patients.

          I need help getting up on the paper, and Mark gives me pained looks every moment he doesn’t think I'm looking.

          “I thought so too doc, but something is going wrong with me again. It's nothing like before, but I'm just never hungry, always tired and sore, and I can't get rid of this cough I have for my life. Not to mention taking my sunglasses off is out of the question,” I say.

          “I won't lie to you kid, you look like you should be on your death bed,” he says, and I flinch, since James has told me the same thing.

          “Yeah, so I was hoping you could take a look at me, and tell me how to fix it,” I say.       

          “We can take some blood, do an MRI, and see if they come up with anything. Why don’t you start talking to me though about what is going on,” he says.

           I talk to him for about an hour about the changes I'm going through, that is usually an awkward conversation with a doctor, and then he gets me an emergency MRI.

            Afterwards I give blood, and then Mark sends me home.

          The next day I convince my mom to let me miss school again due to a headache, but really I just don’t want to face James.

          By Tuesday night though I have convinced myself I really am on my death bed. When my mom sees me curled up, coughing, and sweating she decides I’ll be missing the next day as well.

          I spend Wednesday trying to convince my mom I ate the food that I've shoved beneath my mattress, and arguing with myself over whether or not to call James. He is lying. I know he couldn’t have been telling the truth. Doctor Mark is going to call me tomorrow and tell me what is wrong, and that he will be able to fix it.

          I don’t need James or his lies.

          Mark surprises me by calling that night with results.

                             “Your blood says your fit as a fiddle,” he says, sounding as perplexed as me. “Maybe Delilah, and don’t freak out when I say this, but maybe it's not a physical problem. Maybe it's a psychological problem. Have you talked to anyone about what happened in Florida? Was it something that has made you unhappy to think about?” he asks.

                             “What are you trying to say Doc?” I ask. Is he trying to say I'm making this all up?

                             “Just that the mind is a very powerful thing Delilah, but there is nothing wrong with that. We can just get you help for it, and maybe then you will go right back to normal,” he says in his doctor calm voice.

                             I think about it, “Yeah, okay. Maybe your right,” I say.

                             “Really? I mean, yeah, good. I’ll give someone a call. She is a great therapist Delilah, and until you are ready you don’t even have to say anything to your parents. I’ll take care of the bill any everything, okay?” he asks.

                             “I have money, and you’re doing enough, thanks again Doc,” I say, and then we say goodbye, and I hang up.

                             Could I really just be making this all up? Did I force myself to block out what really happened at that party, and now my body is suffering alongside my brain or something?

                             Holy crap, if that is what is going on, I am one screwed up chick.

                             That night I go to bed at around seven thirty, but don’t fall asleep until like eleven. When I do sleep though it's fitful and unpleasant. I end up waking at about three in a coughing fit.

                             I cough down into my pillow to try and muffle the sound, but when I finish and lay my head back down on the pillow, I feel moisture on my cheek.

                             I quickly sit up, and turn on my bedside lamp. When I look down at my pillow I see blood covers the entire front of it.

          I stare at it with wide eyes for a few moments like an idiot, and then I climb out of bed as quickly as I can.

          What do I do though? Who is going to help me? Doc is convinced I'm a mental patient.

          I think I really am dying though. I pull my keys off my dresser and then sneak out of my house.