EMILY DICKINSON
I sit in the corner of the couch with a throw pillow clutched to my chest and Hitch curled at my feet. Ayla perches on the edge of Mom’s old recliner opposite me, obviously anxious to hear whatever it is I have to say.
“I have epilepsy.” I spit the sentence out in one big word: Ihaveepilepsy.
She exhales softly. As her face relaxes, she settles back into the worn upholstery. “Thank God.”
“Thank God?” I knew Ayla was laid-back, but now I think she’s lost her freaking mind. Digging my fingers into the pillow, I resist the urge to gnaw on my nails.
“Yeah, I thought you were going to say you were moving—or dying or something.” She swings the lever on the side of the chair, extending the footrest. “You should’ve seen the look on your face.”
My heart races and I try swallowing around the lump in my throat. “I don’t think you understand what I’m saying. I have a seizure disorder—convulsions.” If this were a cartoon, my high-pitched voice would shatter the glass in the windows.
“That’s awful.” She kicks the footrest down, gets up, and steps around the coffee table, joining me on the couch, resting a hand on my knee. “I’m so sorry you have epilepsy. But I can’t help it—I’m relieved you’re not going to die on me.” Clasping my chin between her thumb and pointer finger, she angles my head so I’m facing her. “You’re not going to die on me. Are you?”
I can’t help it. I smile. If Dr. Wellesley or Mom tried this positive, reverse-psychology crap on me, I’d be furious. But coming from Ayla, it’s funny in a kind of morbid way. Maybe she’s right. I could have one of those brain-eating amoebas I saw on the Discovery Channel or cancer like Dad.
Secretly, though, I believe death is harder on the living than the dying. I think survivors experience the pain in its sharpest, rawest form. Dad looked pretty peaceful the night he closed his eyes in his hospice bed, with the soft cotton blankets pulled to his chin, and drifted away from us for the last time.
I shake off the memory before it progresses to the part where the funeral home came to pick up his body and the reality of our loss set in. “No, I’m not going to die on you.”
“Then let’s go teach you how to do your makeup while you tell me what I need to know.”
And that’s what we do. In my room, I tell Ayla what it’s like to live with epilepsy. As she brushes my cheeks and nose with bronzer, I explain what kind of first aid she needs to be aware of if I seize: to make sure my airway is clear, roll me on my side, and basically ride it out—unless it lasts longer than five minutes. Then she needs to call 911.
As I stare at the ceiling, she glides her mascara wand along my upper lashes, and I describe the worst-case scenario: a grand mal seizure, when a person can puke or lose control of her bladder or bowels.
She nods and murmurs the occasional sympathetic sound, encouraging me to keep talking. “Who else knows?” she asks when I finish and she caps the tube of black noir mascara.
Every muscle in my body tenses. I try to speak, but my jaw’s locked like the deadbolt on our front door. I know where this is headed, and I don’t want to think about it.
A heavy stillness hangs over my room. The rustle of wind through the sea oats outside my window and Hitch’s steady breathing are the only sounds in my universe—well, those and the voice screaming excuses in my head for why I haven’t told anyone else yet.
Ayla finally breaks the quiet. “Emilie, does Chatham know?”
I lick my lips. The taste of the thick gloss caking my tongue makes me want to gag. I’m naked with my side bangs pulled back from my face. I shake my head.
She sinks to the bed beside my chair. “You’ve got to tell him.” Her words dangle in the quiet room.
“I can’t,” I mumble, studying my hands.
“Why?” She scoots forward to the edge of the bed, angling her body so I have to face her.
“Because . . .” I lift a hand to my mouth to chew on my nails, think better of it, and fold my fingers in my lap.
“Because why?” She jiggles my knee, her eyes searching my face.
If she leans any closer, we’ll be breathing the same air. “Because . . . I like him. I really like him.” There. I said it.
There was this boy I really liked in elementary school—Nicholas Wilkins. I thought he liked me too. But a few days after my first seizure, I heard him making fun of me in the media center. Boys circled around him laughing while he rolled his eyes back in his head and flung his arms around with his tongue sticking out. They never even saw me behind the magazine rack.
Not long after that, I started homeschool.
It’s stupid to compare Chatham to Nicholas Wilkins. But Chatham’s not a girl—he’s not Ayla. Friends can accept stuff like this better than potential boyfriends. I just need more time to figure out how to tell him.
Hitch jumps down from the bed, coming to sit with us, his ears raised.
“Emilie, Chatham York is one of the nicest guys I know.” Ayla rubs the soft fur between Hitch’s eyes. His ears relax. She even quiets my dog with her composure. “You’re not giving him enough credit.”
I’d give anything to experience her tranquil calmness for one day. How can she be so confident, so serene?
“I just can’t. Not yet.” I’ve deflated. My shoulders sag. The heat’s gone from my voice.
“If he cares about you, the epilepsy won’t be an issue.” Her soft words loosen the knots in my head.
I wring my hands. “I know, but that’s a big if.”
“You have to have faith in him.” She squeezes my hand. “Promise me you’ll tell him tomorrow.”
I’ve never been too great with the whole trust thing. Before Dad got sick, we used to go to this little Episcopal church on the beach road. In fifth grade, when I didn’t want to go to children’s church because I was worried about seizing, my parents talked to one of the Sunday school teachers about putting me at ease. She gave me a really great piece of advice. At snack time, while the other kids were wolfing down Goldfish crackers and Kool-Aid, she pulled me to her rocking chair in the corner and asked me if I prayed. When I nodded, she smiled like I’d given the correct response and then spewed this little nugget of wisdom: “If you pray, don’t worry; if you worry, don’t pray.” She said worrying was like praying for what you don’t want. Even in my ten-year-old mind, her advice seemed really astute.
I’ve always wanted to do that—pray, not worry. But it seems like the harder I try not to worry, the more I do. My chewed lips and ragged cuticles are the visible signs of the stress that’s eating me from the inside out.
So Ayla’s advice about having faith in Chatham is going to pose more than a bit of a problem. The probability of me all of a sudden learning to trust is about as likely as me finding a big lump of orange sea glass—the coveted color that eluded even my charmed dad.
But Ayla looks so hopeful that I can’t disappoint her. “I promise. I’ll tell him.”
And just like that, my mouth makes an oath I’m not sure the rest of me can honor.