We were in Linc’s car, an aging yellow Mercedes sedan, big and steady, with slippery blond seats and a deep, strumming idle. Lincoln called it Dr. Diesel. It was a Sunday night, March 22, 1987, nine-thirty. Rural Ohio was a smooth continuity of silence and darkness, except for a faintly golden seam where land met sky ahead, promising light and people and sound just beyond the tree line.
In the instant that I spent waiting for the deer to roll up over the car’s hood and crash through the windshield I was aware of my body warm in the seat, Linc’s face lit by the dash, Borden breathing in the back, the cool sulfur glow of the car’s interior, the salty smell of the burger bag. I watched the deer’s knee and waited for it to straighten. I drew a sharp breath.
I was about to speak when an intense wave of nausea surged through me. The smell from the bag on the floor was suddenly sickening. I wrapped my arms over my stomach and slid down in my seat. By the time we reached campus, half an hour later, I was doubled over, burning hot, and racked with chills. Borden called the campus paramedics. They hovered in the doorway, pronounced it food poisoning, and left.
I sat in the doorway of the apartment while Borden and Linc packed my sister’s car. As they pushed the last of my belongings into the back seat, a downpour broke over them. We pulled out, and Kenyon was lost in a falling grayness. I turned to wave to Borden and Linc, but I couldn’t see them anymore. I had never been in poor health and didn’t have an internist, so I went to my old pediatrician. I sat in a child’s chair in a waiting room wallpapered with jungle scenes, watching a boy dismember an action figure. When my doctor drew the thermometer from my mouth, he asked me if I knew that my temperature was a hundred and one. He swabbed my throat, left for a few minutes, and returned with the news that I had strep throat.
I again tested positive for strep, and he renewed the antibiotics. He ran a blood test for a virus called Epstein-Barr and found a soaring titer, a measurement of the antibody in my system. I had, he said with pep-rally enthusiasm, something called Epstein-Barr virus syndrome. He had it, too, he said, but he had discovered nutritional-supplement pills that cured it. “Whenever I feel it coming on,” he said, “I just take these.” He talked about how much skiing he could do.
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