“All right.”
“And — ah — there’s one biting me right now.”
It stung, pinched, at the sole of her foot.
“Really?” said the doctor, raising his eyebrows. “You can feel it? Right now? Bedbug bites do not typically—”
“I feel it! Look.”
She turned her bare foot upward, and Alex shifted forward in the chair and furrowed his brow. Dr. Gerstein bent over the foot, took it in one delicate hand, and then looked up at Susan questioningly. There was no bug, only the faint remnant of an old bite, a pink flap of scab nearly at the point of flaking off.
“Must have …” Susan trailed off, cleared her throat. “Must have escaped. They’re very small, you know.
“I know.” He turned away. “OK, Susan, thank you.”
While she dressed, Dr. Gerstein took a small pad from a pocket of his white coat and made a series of quick notes. Susan was reminded of Dana Kaufmann: the same quiet confidence and efficient motions.
Well, a lot of help she was.
The fresh bite on the sole of her foot itched fiercely. It took all her self-control to keep from scratching it.
Dr. Gerstein’s diagnosis was simple and straightforward.
“I do not believe that the discomfort you are experiencing arises from bedbug bites at all,” he said blandly. “It appears that you are suffering from something called Ekbom’s syndrome.”
Susan stared at the doctor, feeling slightly nauseous.
“Ekbom’s syndrome,” Alex echoed, nodding slowly, gravely intoning each syllable. “And what is that, exactly?”
“It is a condition, sometimes called delusional parasitosis, in which the sufferer comes to believe that he or she is being tormented by small insects, too small to be seen by the human eye.”
At the word delusional, an alarm went off in Susan’s mind: oh no. oh no oh no.
“So there aren’t any bedbugs, then?” Alex said.
“Well, of course, I can’t say for sure. But, I believe you said your house was examined—”
“It was.”
“And—”
“Nothing.”
“No,” Susan interrupted. “No, no. There are bedbugs. I’ve seen them.”
“You’ve seen—” He checked his notepad. “One, you stated … ”
“Well, I’ve seen—” She clutched her temples, trying to remember. One on her shoulder, in the middle of the night. That disgusting little egg, on her toothbrush. In dreams, thousands of them: an army. “Two. I’ve seen. At least two.”
Dr. Gerstein’s mouth twitched up at the corners, a quick and dismissive smile. His white coat was immaculate. “I know, Susan, that you believe you have seen them.”
“I believe I’ve seen them because I’ve seen them.”
“Susan, honey, let’s just listen,” said Alex. “This actually makes a lot of sense.”
“No, Alex. It doesn’t.” Of course it made sense, for Alex! If there were no bugs, if she were simply crazy, he didn’t have to pay for extermination. Didn’t have to move. Didn’t have to be bothered at all.
“If I might interject,” said Dr. Gerstein, and Susan glared at him. “Your chart indicates that you’ve been taking Ambien on an as-needed basis—”
“Every night, doctor,” Alex interrupted. “She takes them every night.”
“OK. Well, a definite correlation is hard to pinpoint, of course, but antianxiety medications can create rather extreme delusional activity. We would have—”
“Alex!” Susan looked at him, raised her arms high like tree branches. “Look at me. Look! I’m covered in bites.”
“Actually …” Dr. Gerstein raised an index finger, and Susan fought the urge to bite it off. “One or two of these marks may be bites. Spider bites, perhaps, or — it’s best not to speculate. But most of what you perceive as bites, given the patterning and your observable behavior, we can assume to be self-inflicted.”
There was a long silence, during which every bone and sinew in Susan’s body demanded that she scratch at the inflamed spot on her thigh. She sat on her hands. My God — what if he’s right, Susan thought, the shock of it streaking across her mind fiery red, like a comet, followed by another: I fired Marni … I chased her out of the house.…
Susan managed, by enormous effort, to remain still, the stifled urge to scratch traveling up her arms as a series of shudders.
“Ms. Wendt, I promise you, your situation is not uncommon, and it is entirely treatable. Beginning with antihistamines and corticosteroids, just to get the swelling and itching under control. And, most important, a drug called Olanzapine, which will help your mind to understand what is really there, and what is not.”
Susan nodded mutely and slid off the examination table, her head buzzing. As she dressed, she heard Alex and the doctor discussing her in low tones, as though she were a child: the doctor murmuring hmm, Alex asking questions in his hushed, all-business voice.
“And what can we do next … is she in any immediate danger … ”
“No … not at all.”
“She’s a very strong person, just in general, that’s what’s so distressing … ”
“I definitely get that.…”
As she tugged her shirt down over her head, Susan saw the doctor shake Alex’s hand reassuringly.
“She’s fine. Once she starts on the Olanzapine, the situation should begin to improve.”
Emma, as instructed, had sat in the waiting room with Mr. Boogle, flipping through picture books. “Bye, sweetheart,” sang the nurse’s aide Alex had paid five bucks to keep an eye on her, and Emma grinned at her.
“Her name is Shirley,” Emma announced. “She lives in Queens! Have I ever been to Queens?”
“Not yet,” said Alex. “Maybe one day.” The three of them proceeded slowly down Clinton Street, Alex talking the whole time, low and gentle. “We’re going to get you home, we’re going to get you in bed. Slip on those fuzzy slippers of yours — whatever happened to those? The ones with the mice heads?”
“I don’t know.” Susan smiled, thinking I did see them, though. I saw them. I felt them. Snaking her fingers up inside her coat sleeve, scratching furtively at her wrist. Didn’t I?
“You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to make you soup. Chicken soup!”
“Oh! Can I put in the noodles?” asked Emma, tilting her head back in the stroller excitedly.
“Of course.”
“Alex, no.”
“What do you mean, no? You don’t like soup all of a sudden?”
“First of all, I don’t have the flu, remember? I have the crazies.”
“Susan.”
“What about the Tiffany job, Alex?”
“Vic will be perfectly fine.” But he looked at his watch, exhaled through his teeth.
“Vic will not be fine.”
They were at the entrance to the N/R train. Alex looked her up and down, assessing. She drew herself up straight and looked into his eyes, brushed him on the cheek with her fingertips. “You go do your thing. Me and the Emster are gonna swing by the drugstore to get this — what did he call it — marzipan.”
“Olanzapine.”
“That’s what I said.”
Alex threw an arm around her, drew her in for a hug. “If you need anything.… ”
She hugged him back. “Go make some money, darling.”
After Alex had descended into the subway, Emma wriggled around in the stroller again and peered excitedly up at Susan. “Are we going to the drugstore that has the sunglasses? Can I get a pair of Barbie sunglasses?”