Amelia

“The good news,” Dr. Malcolm said, “is that you finally have a diagnosis. The bad news”—he glanced up from my chart—“is that everyone will still think you’re crazy.”

He leaned back in his roller chair, the grating creak of unoiled springs filling the room.

I shifted, crinkling the paper on the exam bench. I took a deep breath. “Am I?”

He gazed over the rims of his glasses and frowned. “I’m an epidemiologist, not a psychologist, but I’ve seen too many cases like yours, with measurable physical symptoms, to attribute it to a mental cause. There's still no cure, and we don’t have a consensus on what causes it, and until we do, unfortunately there will always be some doctors who, along with the general public, say it’s all in a person’s head.”

I nodded. I was growing dizzy. Not from what Dr. Malcolm was saying, but from what he was wearing. He had more cologne on this time. He probably forgot I was coming when he got ready for work this morning.

Shutting my eyes, I took a slow breath, inhaling through my mouth. Not through the nose: if I couldn’t smell people’s fragrances, it sometimes helped.

I took another deep breath, my mind swirling, replaying the doctor’s words. Everyone will still think you’re crazy.

I froze, as if by remaining still I could hide from the truth, and it might pass me by, and somehow not be true.

But then, I thought of Amelia.

My Amelia… 

I started to breathe again. I felt thawing, warmth, stability. 

My dear Amelia…

Amelia would understand. 

I opened my eyes. The room spun, a mix of fluorescent lights, gleaming floor tiles, diplomas, and framed posters of the respiratory and immune systems, the wafts of cologne growing thicker.

In the sea of amorphous images, I managed to find Dr. Malcolm, a pair of eyes perched above two rectangles. My head throbbed, but I managed to speak: “What convinces you that it's real?”

He pursed his lips. “When the military came back from the Gulf War, many soldiers shared a pattern of symptoms like yours, and—also like you—they had all been exposed to hazardous chemicals. So I think it’s obvious: what causes sensitivity to chemicals... is chemicals.”

“So why doesn’t everyone see the connection?”

He chuckled. “Obvious doesn’t mean proven. There simply hasn't been enough research to demonstrate the link between this extreme sensitivity and prior chemical exposure. And there’s no incentive to do so. The National Institutes of Health sponsors research, most of which is done at medical schools. Those schools receive part of their funding from pharmaceutical companies. And that’s the sticky wicket. Patients like you already have trouble processing chemicals. What drug can be developed that won't increase their chemical burden? It’s impossible. So, naturally, there’s little corporate interest in researching the illness. That's what you, Gulf War veterans, and others with chemical injury are up against.”

“So there’s nothing I can do.” I wanted it to be a question. It came out a whisper. 

“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” the doctor said. “Avoid chemical exposures as much as possible.”

Yes, and avoid my doctor too.

I looked around the room. Closed my eyes again. Took a deep breath.

Amelia… 

I was going to be okay. Amelia would be there for me.

She always had been.

“I’m hoping the situation will change someday,” Dr. Malcolm was saying when my eyes finally opened. “A private biotech company, maybe, a startup that notices the growing number of people sickened by household chemicals and fragrances and sees the profit potential in developing a treatment. Or maybe the CEO of a drug company will experience it firsthand, perhaps their child developing it, and it will finally be taken seriously by someone who has the power to do something. Until then—” He leaned forward, his voice low. “Although you have a diagnosis, I don’t recommend sharing it with people. Nobody will understand. I mean, there isn't even a workplace accommodation law for people with chemical sensitivity, so that many of them end up living under bridges in cardboard boxes. You’re one of the lucky ones. I’m glad you have a car to live in and are finding odd jobs to survive.”

I smiled. It’s not my car that makes me lucky, doc. It’s Amelia.

I had met Amelia the year before I got sick. Before I was abandoned by my friends. By my family.

But Amelia had never left me. 

Dr. Malcolm stood, wished me well, and offered his hand.

I leaned away from him, nausea creeping through me. “I’ll have to decline, doctor.” He gazed at me, uncomprehending. “It’s not you, it’s the Giorgio Armani.” His face instantly registered understanding. “Acqua Di Gio Absolu,” I added.

“Forgive me,” he said, dropping his cologne-drenched hand. “How did you know it was Acqua Di Gio?”

“I used to wear it myself.”

He frowned, nodding. “Well,” he said, opening the door and waving my chart. “Good luck.”

With a wink, he was gone. 

I made it to the ground floor without falling. So far, so good.

But the hospital was much busier now, the contamination Dr. Malcolm cautioned me to avoid increasing. My dizziness soared, head pounding, limbs leaden, muscles stiffening, a feverish ache spreading through my body. The hallway rolled and swayed, visitors and staff moved all around me, not as clear, discernible shapes, but as clouds of scent.

Irish Spring passed by…

Then Dove…

And that was Ivory, I think… 

Hey, I joked to myself, at least these people are clean. My head swam. My stomach queezed.

Someone passed by wearing clothes contaminated by a car air freshener...

Some fragranced lotion walked by. Bath and Body Works, maybe…

Gain laundry detergent…

Tide…

Listerine…

That last one was kind of nice actually.

I saw the exit: sunlight and the promise of clean air. Through the glass double doors a pair of nurses were coming in from a cigarette break, smoke still clinging to them, its tendrils enveloping me, and I lurched forward, my legs giving way, the tingling pain in my head spiking.

And then, darkness.

* * *

“Are you all right, sir?”

The voice came from above. I was on the concrete floor, my body jammed between the doors. One of the smoker-nurses was crouched beside me.

“You fell,” the nurse said. 

“Oh,” I grunted. 

“You don’t look well, sir.”

“He looks pale,” another voice added. 

People were crowded around, moving the doors apart, trying to lift me and take me back inside.

I felt a wisp of fresh air. 

“No,” I said. “I just need to get outside.”

It took lying on a bench in the hospital courtyard for the remainder of the afternoon before the dizziness would stop. The nurses, after some hushed conversation, had gone back inside, eventually leading to Dr. Malcolm’s arrival. 

I assured him I’d be okay to drive as long as no one came near and exposed me to more chemicals. Like Acqua Di Gio Absolu. 

* * *

I parked my car in the usual place, a commuter lot just off the interstate. It was empty after the workday, except for the state troopers who came through on their nightly patrols. They all knew me. 

I got supper out of the cooler in the trunk, shoving aside my tattered cardboard sign: “Money is fine. Food is better. Work is best.”

Amelia and I watched the stars. Well, I did anyway. Amelia had her furry back to the universe, sitting on the dashboard, her tiny front feet resting on the steering wheel as she leaned toward the walnut I held out to her.

Rats are amazing.

I gently scratched the top of her head as she devoured her prize, her excitement palpable, a bundle of warmth and energy under my hand, her dark eyes half-lidded in bliss, her silken fur glimmering cinnamon in the soft starlight. 

“Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?” I said.

She paused her nibbling. Seemed to shrug.

I put the sandwich I’d picked up from the deli drive-thru back in the cooler. I couldn’t eat. My head still pounded, my body aching with fever, my innards filled with nausea.

As the night chill settled in, Amelia burrowed into my coat pocket. 

I gently scratched the top of her head and murmured, “Thanks for always being there for me, girl.”

Everyone will still think you’re crazy, the doctor had said.

He was wrong. Amelia understood. She always did.

I was going to be fine.