Nick and I were a couple from the beginning. He grabbed my hand
the second time we met. When his skin touched mine, I prepared to
fight that primal need to push him away, but it never came. It was
strange and exciting, and no part of me wanted it to end. I wished I
were still in my old congregation, so I could rush to my old bishop and
tell him I wasn’t broken anymore.
I overestimated my progress. I was so focused on what was working,
I didn’t notice what wasn’t. We’d been together a few months, and I’d
spent many evenings with his family, before I ever said a word about
mine. I did it without thinking, casually mentioned one of Mother’s oils
when Nick said he had an ache in his shoulder. He was intrigued—he’d
been waiting for me to bring them up—but I was angry at myself for
the slip, and didn’t let it happen again.
—I BEGAN TO FEEL poorly toward the end of May. A week passed in which I
could hardly drag myself to my job, an internship at a law firm. I slept
from early evening until late morning, then yawned through the day.
My throat began to ache and my voice dropped, roughening into a deep
crackle, as if my vocal cords had turned to sandpaper.
At first Nick was amused that I wouldn’t see a doctor, but as the
illness progressed his amusement turned to worry, then confusion. I
blew him off. “It’s not that serious,” I said. “I’d go if it were serious.”
Another week passed. I quit my internship and began sleeping
through the days as well as the nights. One morning, Nick showed up
unexpectedly.
“We’re going to the doctor,” he said.
I started to say I wouldn’t go, but then I saw his face. He looked as
though he had a question but knew there was no point in asking it. The
tense line of his mouth, the narrowing of his eyes. This is what distrust
looks like, I thought.
Given the choice between seeing an evil socialist doctor, and
admitting to my boyfriend that I believed doctors were evil socialists, I
chose to see the doctor.
“I’ll go today,” I said. “I promise. But I’d rather go alone.”
“Fine,” he said.