It's late Wednesday night, gums still bleeding, a fever creeping in from the edges, all bruised and lethargic. I decide to call home. Laura answers; she's the only one there.
There is not much to say.
I am a little lonely, a little homesick, and that's not the kind of information you necessarily want to offer to your older sister. I'd been out with "da boys" earlier in the evening, Simon, Wayne, Jim, Chris, the five of us moving between a few different pubs, a couple of pints at each. So I'm also a little drunk in addition to all the rest. Because I didn't get the idea to call home until later, and because I wanted to stay up past eleven o'clock to get the cheaper rates, the other thing that I am this Wednesday night is nearly dropping from exhaustion. I can't help but yawn into the phone. I know that if I'm up this late, it's easily three or four o'clock into the next afternoon before I'll manage to get out of bed.
I give Laura the abridged version, the one where I don't share what's really bothering me, why I'm really calling. I tell her about the relentless fatigue, about all of the general, non-specific symptoms. I do not tell her about my many mystery bruises. Even as I lick my teeth and taste more blood, I do not mention anything else.
"I'm just feeling pretty lousy," I say.
She tells me to get some rest. "Drink plenty of fluids, and eat smart. Get some sleep."
"I had mashed potatoes for dinner and beer for dessert. Does that count?"
She laughs.
"Good enough."
I want to tell her more, but not really. I don't want to tell her anything, even though I do.
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