8
Angela was relieved to have sought out someone else’s opinion on the matter of her pimple. It had been bothering her for days now, and she knew that her peace of mind would be worth the embarrassment of asking for help with such a minute problem.
As the days had gone on, it had become harder for Angela to distract herself from the pimple. She took her concern to mean one of two things: either this was a real problem, and her body was doing a good job by constantly reminding her of it, or it was a false alarm, and her mind was playing tricks on her. Either way, she’d had enough.
When she arrived at Dr. Leonard’s house, she was surprised by how decidedly un-clinical it was: a simple house, like all the others on Main Street. She walked up the front steps and let herself in. This is all very casual, she thought. It’s just somebody’s living room. No need to freak out.
As she was taking in her surroundings, she saw a scrawny, twenty-something man come bustling down a hallway.
“Good morning! Can I help you?” he said breathlessly.
She raised an eyebrow at his enthusiasm.
“Yeah, it’s just this pimple on my finger,” she said, projecting an air of detachment that she did not quite feel.
“I see,” the man said, walking toward her with a concerned expression. “Can you tell me more?”
The man’s interest seemed so sincere that Angela felt compelled to tell the truth.
“I don’t know if this is even a thing, or if I’m wasting your time…” she trailed off.
“Trust me, you are not wasting my time,” he said, his expression softening. “I’m Elijah Cajal. Doctor-to-be.”
She felt herself smile involuntarily. “Angela Fowler.”
“It’s nice to meet you. Do you want me to go get the doctor?”
Angela hesitated. “Can I just ask you about it? I’m sure it’s nothing. I would hate to bother the doctor over it.”
“Yes!” Elijah said, his eyes widening like a kid on Christmas. “Yes, of course you can ask me. Here, let’s sit down.”
Angela sat on the living room couch. Elijah sat across from in the rocking chair.
“Could you show me the finger?”
Angela held out her finger over the coffee table, and a few scenarios flashed through her mind—all of which led to embarrassment. Elijah would squint at her finger, tell her he couldn’t see anything, that she was crazy, that she never should’ve come in for this, that she should be seeing a psychiatrist, if anything, and that she should go home. This was her preferred outcome: an overactive alarm system, a failure of her mind and not her body.
Elijah took her hand in his and looked it over for a second. Angela studied his face for signs of concern.
“That’s definitely… a pimple,” he said, still looking at her finger. His tone was at once flat and excited, revealing nothing about what he was actually thinking.
Angela’s mind raced with embarrassment during the awkward silence that followed.
He thinks it’s nothing. He’s just saying that because he has to. He thinks I’m crazy.
He was still looking at it. She cleared her throat.
“Oh!” He let go of her hand and looked up at her. “I mean... I see why you’re concerned. This is definitely something.”
“Okay,” she said slowly. “What kind of something?”
“Well, I’m not the doctor, so I shouldn’t—”
“Oh, just tell me!” she blurted.
They stared at each other for a moment. Angela smiled, trying to regain composure.
“Well,” Elijah said, “I should ask you more about it first. How did it start?”
“What do you mean?”
“Er—how did you—uh, get the pimple?”
“How?” Angela thought about how it had just appeared one day. She thought about all the times she squeezed and picked at it. “It’s a pimple. Don’t they just happen?”
“Yeah, I guess they do. It’s just…” Elijah looked at the pimple again, and his face seemed to falter. “It looks infected.”
“Infected?” Angela said, fear suddenly overriding her embarrassment.
“I really shouldn’t say. I’m not allowed to officially diagnose anything yet.”
“I’m not going to sue you, Elijah,” she said. “I just really need to know if I’m losing my mind or not.”
“I mean…” he hesitated. He looked into Angela’s eyes and must have seen the desperation. “It looks like a little abscess. A skin infection.”
She just looked at him.
“It looks pretty irritated,” he continued. “Have you been trying to pop it?”
Angela ignored his question and replied, “So it’s an infection? Can you give me something for it?”
“Well, I would have to—”
“Because it’s been making me really nervous, and now you’re making me more nervous.”
“No, no, no,” Elijah said, his eyes as big as plates. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you nervous! It’s a minor thing! We’ll be able to fix it.”
Angela stared at him, raising her eyebrows in expectation.
“I mean...” he looked up at the ceiling, trying to recall the treatment algorithm for uncomplicated soft tissue infections. “We could try penicillin.”
They looked at each other in silence.
“So,” Angela said after a few seconds, “can you write me the prescription now?”
“Well,” Elijah said, shifting in his seat, “we have some here, but I’m really not qualified to dispense medications.”
“Really? It’s penicillin,” Angela said. “Isn’t that basically in the water supply at this point?”
Elijah stared at her for a moment, and it was as if Angela could see his thoughts racing.
“I don’t have all day to wait for this doctor,” she added, taking advantage of the silence. “I’ve got a lot of mouths to feed back home.”
They sat in silence once more. Angela kept her eyes locked on his.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I can give you the penicillin. I’ll talk to the doctor after. I’m sure he’ll be fine with it. If not, he’ll call you tonight and say, ‘Hey, Elijah is an idiot, and you shouldn’t take the pills, and the pimple’s gonna go away on its own.’”
Angela looked at Elijah and felt something she couldn’t quite place—something like pity. He reminded her of herself.
“Well, I really appreciate that,” she said.
He smiled, then got up and started walking down a hallway. Angela sat on the couch and looked at her finger. It didn’t look so bad now.
Only a few seconds after Elijah had gone, she heard a muffled scream and a voice shouting, “Get off me!” She recognized the voice immediately.
Before she could react, she heard a door open, and suddenly Ron was barreling down the hallway toward the living room. Right behind him was Elijah, with a bottle of pills in his hand. Angela tried to shrink into the couch.
“Sir, is everything okay?” Elijah said. Angela stared at the wall wishing she would disappear.
“You took something,” Ron said.
Angela did not move, closing her eyes and praying he would leave.
“Hey!” Ron shouted.
Angela slowly turned to look at him. He was standing in the middle of the living room, pointing at her.
“You took something,” he said again.
Natasha stepped into the living room breathlessly, followed by Dr. Leonard. A lump had formed in Angela’s throat. She needed to get out.
“Dad, you need to come back. He was just checking your pulse,” Natasha said.
“I saw you,” Ron said, still pointing at Angela.
“Dad, leave her alone,” Natasha said, her voice breaking. She stood beside him and pulled his arm down. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. He has dementia.”
“Don’t worry. I was just leaving,” she said, getting up. “Thank you, Elijah.”
She grabbed the bottle of pills from Elijah and walked quickly toward the door. She did not wait for a response, and she did not look at anyone on her way out. She walked through the front door and hurried back to her car.
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