When Your Body Is Someone Else's Haunted House

Sometimes your body is someone else's haunted house. Other people look at you and can only see the dead. I first discovered this at the age of seventeen in the most trivial of moments, at an academic quiz bowl tournament in Nashville, Tennessee -- where, as the only girl from my New Jersey high school, I shared a hotel room with two girls from Mississippi. We were strangers and competitors pretending to be friends. One night we stayed up late chatting about our favorite childhood TV shows, about how we had each believed that Mr. Rogers was personally addressing us through the screen. We laughed together until one girl said, "It's like Jesus. Even if he didn't know my name when he was dying on the cross, I still know he loved me, and if he knew my name, he would have loved me too." The other girl squealed, "I know, right? It's just like Jesus!" Then the two of them, full of messianic joy, looked at me.