Dirty Secret (20 page)

“We-ll,” she says, drawing out the word, “then I've got some bad news.”

“What?”

“I think it's something else.”

“What could it be?”

“Scabies.”

I've heard of scabies: It's the thing that homeless people and junkies get—it's disgusting. Suddenly body lice seems quaint.

“Mom, please tell me you're kidding.”

“Unfortunately, I'm not.”

“Jesus Christ. Well, why do you think that?” While researching body lice online, I'd come across mentions of scabies but didn't pay attention because it seemed too absurd.

“It just sounds like it,” my mom says. “And if the RID isn't working . . . and, well, I had it once before—I got it in the nursing home. It's really common in nursing homes.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About ten years ago.”

I can tell she's lying. I can almost always tell.

“How long ago was it really, Mom?”

“Maybe five years.”

“You knew before that that's what this is. Why did you even bother telling me to get that RID crap? You must have known it wouldn't work.”

“I—I'm not sure,” she says. “I really didn't know for sure. I was hoping.”

I sit down on the couch and start up my laptop, with the phone pressed against my ear.

“This is really frustrating,” I say, thinking, She's got cancer. She's in the hospital. You can't lose it on her when she's in the hospital.

“Listen, this isn't a big deal—but you are going to have to go to the doctor and get this cream. It's called permethrin. You put it on at night and then wash it off twelve hours later.”

I type “scabies” into Google and get a series of horrific images and some articles. They seem to be a parasitic mite that lives underneath your skin and feeds on human blood. The pictures make my skin crawl. I grab a notebook and start jotting down some things that are supposed to be natural cures: tea tree oil, eating raw garlic, something called “neem,” which is an Indian plant or leaf or herb, I can't quite tell.

“Mom, what about you? What are you going to do about
the . . . you know . . .” I can't even say the word “scabies” out loud, I'm so repulsed. “You know, the . . . bugs.”

She starts laughing. “Oh, don't worry—I've had to do this millions of times for patients at the nursing home. I'll just tell the nurses that I've been exposed to it and they'll treat me.”

“But what about getting them out of your house? You have to disinfect it. I mean, you're not going to be able to do all the loads of laundry and mop your floors and—”

“Oh, Jessie, do you have the internet at home?”

“Yes,” I say and don't mention that I was already online. I don't want her to think I wasn't paying attention.

“See how long they can live on surfaces. Maybe by the time I get out of here I won't have to do anything to disinfect my house.”

“Hold on,” I say and click through a few more pages. “Okay, it seems like most websites say they can live seventy-two hours in clothing and on furniture and floors.”

“I've already been in here for three days,” she says, “so it's fine. By the time I get back there, everything should be safe. Now when you go to the doctor, don't forget to get some medicine for Dave, too. And then you'll have to wash everything, of course.”

Again. I've already done two loads of laundry each of the three days I've been back. “This is getting expensive, Mom.”

“I'll pay for it; don't worry.”

“How? You have no money. Unless you get another job, you've got to keep to your allowance until social security kicks in.”

“Correction!” my mom says, suddenly excited. “I only have to keep to that allowance until I win my lawsuit against those motherfuckers! Did I tell you I've already got an appointment set up with an employment counselor? Her name is Marcy and
she's going to help me do all the paperwork to sue those mo—Oh, hello,” my mom says to someone. “It's the nurse with the pudding. Oh, wait a minute, the doctor's here, too. Honey, I've got to go.”

“Is this about the chemo?”

“I'll call you later,” she says, and is gone.

I'M SO EMBARRASSED,” I SAY TO DAVID AS I DOWN COFFEE and put on my shoes at the same time. “I can't believe what I'm about to go to the doctor for.”

“Don't get so stressed out,” he says. “It'll be okay.”

My husband's on the couch with his laptop, clearly waiting for me to leave and the commotion to stop so he can resume working. He's got a ton of research to do before we leave for Italy, where he's going to be working on a book project. For this first stint, we'll be there about six months—he's leaving at the beginning of July and I'm meeting him there three weeks later, after my summer classes are done. We'll be living in a tiny village north of Rome and are still trying to find an apartment there, as well as sublet ours here in New York. Before my mother was diagnosed with cancer we were already stressed out about all the arrangements we had to make, not to mention
the fact that we've both been taking any freelance writing or editing work we could find and scrimping and saving every penny. Plus we're both studying Italian, which comes pretty easily for my husband, not so much for me.

Now I've got the additional joy of these rash-inducing parasites to contend with. I'm just grateful that David doesn't have them. He didn't seem fazed when I told him last night that what I thought was body lice might actually be scabies. Nothing surprises him about my mother anymore.

“And then she doesn't even call me back last night,” I say, fuming. I have no idea if she found out about the chemo or if the doctor was there for another reason. I finish tying my Pumas and bring my coffee cup into the kitchen, where I set it in the sink.

“Go,” David says. “Just get it over with and you'll feel better.”

“You're right,” I say. Then I lean down to kiss him and run out the door.

The doctor's office I go to takes walk-ins and it can get crowded. I have a regular doctor there and usually make appointments with her, but this time I'd rather see someone I don't know.

When I arrive, there are only three people in the waiting room, all of whom are staring at the TV in the corner. Dr. Sanjay Gupta is discussing strategies for combating heart disease. I sign in and the woman behind the desk hands me a clipboard and a short form.

I fill in the lines asking for my name and the date. Next to “reason for visit,” I write “insect bites.” I hand it back to the woman and take a seat across the room from the television, pulling down the sleeves of my shirt so none of my skin touches the upholstery of the chair—if I got this from a pillow, then it's contagious through objects and I don't want to infest anything.

After about twenty minutes, a nurse calls my name and leads
me into one of the examination rooms. She takes my temperature and her hand brushes against my arm as she pulls the thermometer from my mouth.

“Um,” I say, “I think I have something contagious—you probably shouldn't touch me.”

“Sure, hon,” she says as if she's heard it before. She writes down my temperature in my chart and I don't bother asking what it is before she leaves the room.

The doctor who comes in a few minutes later is a guy in his midthirties, about my age.

“So, what can I do for you today?” He's looking at the sheet of paper I filled out in the waiting room. “You're here for insect bites?”

I pull down my sock to show him the rash. “Actually, I think it's . . . scabies.”

He leans down to get a better look, but doesn't touch me.

“Yes,” he says, straightening up. “That looks like it could be scabies, though the bites are usually smaller than that. You're sure they're not mosquito bites?”

I nod. My face is beet red, I can feel it. “I got it from my mom. She did a really boneheaded thing and bought a pillow secondhand and didn't wash it.”

Even though I'd practiced what I was going to say the whole way here, it's hard to get the words out. I'm honestly not sure what's worse: that I have this in the first place, or that I got it from my mother.

“That is boneheaded,” he says. “I'll prescribe you permethrin. Does she need a prescription, too, or does she have a doctor?”

“She's in Minneapolis and she's taken care of medicine-wise. But if you could prescribe enough for my husband, too, I'd appreciate it. Although he doesn't have any bites.”

“This is highly contagious—if you're sleeping in the same bed, sharing towels, etcetera, he needs to do the medicine, too.” He jots down something in my chart and then starts filling out a prescription.

“Also, I have a dog. Can he get it?” I've read conflicting things online about whether scabies can live on animals.

“No. That's not a problem,” he says, shaking his head. “Animals can't get scabies.”

Well, that's one good thing. And he says it in a kind and completely noncondescending way. Usually the doctors here are in and out of the room in three minutes or less, but he's not rushing me at all. I have a sudden urge to explain the connection between my mother's mental state and this parasite. Maybe this doctor could even help. As a health professional, he might know something about hoarding that I don't. “My mom's got a problem with . . .”

I can't bring myself to say it.

The doctor stops writing and looks at me with an earnest expression. “Yes?”

“. . . she's . . .”

He's still looking at me.

“She's got cancer,” I say, and my eyes fill with tears.

The doctor nods with concern. “What type?”

“Colon. But she had surgery and she's going to be okay,” I say quickly, even though I don't know that for sure.

No. She
is
going to be okay.

She has to be.

The doctor nods again and smiles sympathetically. After a few seconds, he flips my chart closed and tears the prescription from the pad. He stands and hands me the slip of paper. “Don't worry—” he glances at my chart—“Jessica. Do this cream head-to-toe tonight, sleep with it on, and then wash it off. If you really
want to be sure it's gone, do the treatment again one week later. I've given you refills in case. Your husband needs to do the treatment at the same time. And wash everything.”

“Thank you,” I say and jump off the examination table. I feel a little better already, just having the prescription.

The doctor holds out his hand to shake mine.

“Are you sure I should shake your hand?” I ask. “I've read that even shaking hands . . .”

He pulls his hand back. “I don't think it's a problem, but I suppose just to be safe.” He looks embarrassed. “Good luck with your mom. I hope she recovers quickly.”

It's a long walk home, thirty or so blocks, but it's a nice day and I need the exercise. I call my husband from my cell phone to see if by chance my mom's called. She hasn't.

“But I do have something to tell you,” he says. “Right after you left, I noticed something on my chest.”

“No.”

“Yes. I have a bite on my chest. It really fucking itches.”

“Just one? Maybe it's a mosquito bite?”

“It's not. I can tell. The weird thing is that at first it was just this itchy spot—but when I scratched it, this welt started forming. I know it's what you have. It is. I have it, too.”

Goddammit. “I'm so sorry. You shouldn't have to deal with this.”

I shouldn't have to deal with it either, but she's
my
mother. David's always been so patient with her—letting her go on and on when we go out to lunch, letting her take forever in the used bookstore she insists we go to afterward, not to mention the time he helped clean out her house.

“I'm sorry,” I say again, mentally searching for a way to make this better. “You should go to the gym and go in the sauna. I read online that the sauna can help kill these things. Then we'll do
this cream tonight and be done.” We both love the sauna, so this isn't an outlandish suggestion.

“I've got so much reading to do,” he says. “But then again, I can't exactly concentrate.”

“I'll make dinner tonight so you don't have to worry about it, okay? You can read before and after, even
during
dinner if you want.”

“Okay, thanks. That sounds good.”

“One more thing,” I say. “When you go to the sauna, make sure that you sit on a towel. Don't let any of your skin touch the wood or anything in the locker room at all.”

It kills me to have to say that to my husband. We're lepers; there's no question.

“Fine,” he says and hangs up.

I'm walking through Madison Square Park. Shake Shack is just opening up and the smell of grilling hamburgers is already filling the air; about twenty people wait in line for their meaty meals, BlackBerries and iPhones in hand. They're all well-dressed, in stylish white blouses and black skirts and suits and neatly coiffed hair. I bet none of them has had scabies. Most of them probably haven't even heard of it. I bet they'd be utterly revolted if they knew that at this very moment, walking right past them is a girl with a parasite living under her skin. Walking past them as if she has every right. She has no right to be among normal people anymore. She knows.

It's something she's known for most of her life.

I was eight years old, spending the night at Vanessa Erickson's house. Her father worked at the Minnesota Orchestra and they lived in the ritzy part of our neighborhood, in one of the big houses along the river. Her mother was sleek and gorgeous, with wide blue eyes and porcelain skin; Vanessa was an exact miniature of her. I didn't like being around Vanessa's parents.
They were too perfect. Too pretty and wealthy and clean. Vanessa and I were friends because we were in the same third-grade class, as well as the after-school gymnastics program. I still lived then mostly with my mom, and neither Vanessa nor any of my other friends had ever been there.