The fear in me

Jason

Not until evening do I get a message back from Dr. Lange. I'm relieved and nervous. Can he really help me? I hope so. I open the e-mail and read:

Dear Jason,

To be honest I am surprised. I would never have thought that anybody else would react to that message. Still, I would like to judge what your "specialties" consist of. It would be good if you described exactly how they affect you so I can form an approximate picture. Then we shall see how it develops. And write something about yourself. What you do ... How have you been living till now? There is in fact a great deal to discuss if I become convinced that your "specialty" is the same as that of the Angel of Death. If that is the case, I would gladly help you.

Yours sincerely,

Dr. Lange

I give a satisfied sigh and I'm happy. Somebody can help me. At last! Very quickly I set about writing when everything began and that my brain has suppressed it, but my subconscious has, again and again, held me back from touching anyone. I write nothing about Tim's good luck in the cinema, only about his sudden illness from his punch. And I write nothing about Nay, except that I am interested in a girl and for that reason want to live simply normally. When I sent off the message I'm confident for the first time. Who knows, maybe there really is a path to living normally.

A day later Tim is once more up and about. I'm surprised when I see him in Nay's car when she comes for me. And I'm relieved. Mr. Sporty is as fit as a fiddle. Well, that's one worry less. "Good to see you're well again!" I say when getting in.

He grins. "I had a nurse who's a genius!" He looks tenderly at Nay.

"Fiddlesticks," she parries. "You weren't really sick!"

"Oh, yes I was ... I vomited my heart out before you came over to me."

"Don't exaggerate like that!" Nay parries and blushes.

"It's correct. You know, she saves me every time. She's no sooner there than I'm well again. That's how it's always been!"

"Ah, nonsense!" says Nay, and I notice that the topic is not welcome to her.

"The main thing is that you're again fit," I put in.

"Yes, but it's still to Nay's credit." Tim is not ready to drop the topic.

"Good!" I say briefly, and hope that he'll now stop, but he is seemingly of another opinion.

"I'm not talking nonsense about this. I mean that quite honestly. Even my chicken pox that I had when I was five stopped developing – believe it or not, she has a magic touch," he says to me. "And let's not forget that when I fainted on Friday she got me to come back to life without smelling salts!" Tim goes on.

"Tim, that's enough now!" Nay begs and blushes, then she stops short and says, "You did not faint at all on Friday!" Tim's face goes red and at last, he's silent while Nay is looking crossly at him.

I'm digesting what I've just heard. Tim's words have given me to think. How can Tim have recovered so quickly? Normally he'd have to be very tired today; after all, he threw up, and that by itself is already tiring. It's really impossible to gather one's force again so quickly.

I try to remember the collision in the cinema, but I was too shocked to remember anything. Actually, Tim's heart should have malfunctioned when I think back on the cat and the caterpillar. But he was super fit when he stood in the driveway and kissed Nay an hour later.