By the time the spazzo plops into her wheelchair, the air, normally hot and steamy as a sauna, has been transformed. It is electric. A powerful energy is at work, but not the kind of force that knocks its objects flat or blows them to bits. Rather, its action is invisible. I am the object of two opposing forces in perfect equilibrium, a magnetism borne of fascination and horror. Thus attracted and repelled, suspended between two poles, I am powerless to move. It could be called inertia. But, sitting still and silent, I am hardly a body at rest.

“She’s all right now,” Sue says. I jump. I am confused. Denise. The seizure. Oh, yes. As Sue pushes me toward an empty shower, I feel ashamed.

I try not to think how I look when Sue removes the towel and walks me, heel-heel-heel-heel, into the shower, my knees bent, my toes curled. I let Sue scrub me; better not to move. I try to feel the warm water and just be. Soon taps will sound.

*   *   *

Just after lights-out, my powers of self control fail me. I lie in bed and try every trick I know—everything that has ever worked in the past—but I can’t clear my mind of the image of that body, of my own body. I cannot stop despising that body.

I can’t stop thinking that whoever sees my naked body sees those clumsy lines and angles. I’ve always assumed that I will get married one day. Now I question whether a man will ever want to touch that body—or, if he does, whether I could allow it.

I think again of a romantic fantasy I lifted from my favorite soap opera. My boyfriend and I are finishing dinner in an elegant restaurant. He puts a diamond ring on my finger, looks soulfully into my eyes, and orders champagne. Many times I’ve imagined this scene, with many variations. At first the guy was the handsome young intern in the soap opera; later, he was a famous actor or singer; once, when I was a freshman, I even dared to think about the best-looking guy in the senior class. But usually he’s been someone I haven’t met yet, someone I’ll meet at Chapel Hill. He’s always been handsome, and always normal.

But now I realize something: I’ve left myself out of my own fantasy. Abandoning the struggle to clear my mind, I take up a more desperate struggle—to reconceive the fantasy with myself, as I really am, in the female lead.

I decide to play it with the original leading man, the handsome intern. But right away he turns into someone else. He’s the surfer guy, that expert shagger. And this time, the story doesn’t start when dinner ends.