EMILY DICKINSON
It’s been seventy-eight days since my last seizure. Chatham and Ayla and the lapse in seizures are weakening my defenses. I could be lured into believing I have a shot at normal. But the last time I traveled that road, it didn’t end well.
Last time I went two and a half months without a seizure, Mom and I got a little confident. We drove Dad’s truck up to the four-wheel-drive area of the beach on a fall afternoon. We pretty much had the place to ourselves. It was gorgeous. The wild ponies grazed the dunes. The weather was perfect.
We sat on the tailgate, ate extra-crunchy PB&J sandwiches and salt-and-vinegar potato chips, and drank root beer. And held hands as the tide came in. Then without any warning, any aura, any anything—bam. I seized. Mom’s phone didn’t have a signal. The beach was deserted. She says she screamed for help. Nobody came. The seconds ticked toward the five-minute red zone as the seizure continued, then moved into the 911, life-or-death zone. If a park ranger hadn’t been patrolling the beach, if he hadn’t had a radio, if an EMT hadn’t been close by, I don’t know what would have happened.
After that, Mom and I agreed to be more careful. And until recently we have been, despite Dr. Wellesley’s encouragement to “participate more actively in life.” But with each passing day, the temptation grows.
Chatham called tonight. He just had a grammar question about a paper he’s writing for US History. But still, North Ridge’s most valuable player and Mr. Most Likely to Succeed called me.
While I was sitting in the counseling office the other morning, I flipped through last year’s yearbook. Chatham’s picture decorated every other page. There were pictures of him on the basketball court, in a classroom dressed as a Greek god, and on the dance floor dipping an ancient but smiling assistant principal.
He has that effect on people, which is why I’m sitting here on the couch still grinning like crazy after hanging up the phone. Hitch nestles his head in my lap as I contemplate my good fortune. It’s the first day since I started at the Ridge that I’ve come home with enough energy to make it through the afternoon and evening without a nap.
My phone rings for the second time tonight, and Hitch’s brow furrows. It’s sad that my dog looks confused when my phone rings, like he’s baffled by my blossoming social life.
When I answer, Ayla launches into a breathless summary of the discussion she just finished with Katsu about a new opinion column in the magazine. “He wants a new perspective from someone who hasn’t lived in Crystal Cove their entire life.” She pauses significantly.
“I have lived in the Cove my entire life.” I sigh. Ayla and I have been through this before.
“But you’re an out—” She trails off.
“Outsider.” I don’t try to conceal the edge in my voice.
“You know what I mean. You’re new to the Ridge.” She shuffles papers while we talk. “Just think about it.”
“Ayla, I’m honored. Really, I am. But I’m not sure about this.”
I don’t want more connections to North Ridge. I’m already obligated to Chatham for this Dickinson project and for tutoring. And Ayla is definitely creeping into friend territory. The more I let myself get sucked into their sphere, the harder it’s going to be to break free.
At some point, the fake life I’m leading is going to come crashing down. I’ve been tricked before into thinking my seizures were gone, but they always return at the worst possible times—like at a public swimming lesson or the time I slept over at a friend’s house in sixth grade, seized, and wet the bed.
“Just think about it.”
I don’t respond. Ayla’s dad says something in the background. I slump into the couch and try to ignore the hole in my heart. Tonight is Mom’s night to close up at the library, so Hitch and I are home alone—again. If I happen to need help with homework, I’m on my own. I picture Ayla and her dad seated at the kitchen table, puzzling through an equation, laughing at some inside joke, her mom standing at the stove transferring cookies from the pan to a cooling rack.
I stare at the ceiling as Ayla rattles off a list of things she needs to do for school tomorrow, including finding a childhood picture for the genetics project I almost forgot. When she hangs up, I drag myself off the couch and flip on the overhead light. Dad’s beach glass glimmers in the windowsill above the sink. I blow him a kiss and head down the short hall to Mom’s room and the boxes full of photographs stored in the back of her closet. I might as well find a picture for my own project while I’m thinking about it.
Hitch pads along beside me and I squeeze his ear, telling him what a good man he is.
Mom’s bedroom door is cracked. I push it open, heading across the darkened room to the master bath without turning on any lights. It’s still hard to look at Dad’s empty side of the bed. I spent every Saturday morning of my childhood wedged between my parents, watching Scooby-Doo reruns on that bed. When I was sick or scared, they always made room for me. The first time I walked into this room after the funeral, Dad’s keys were still on the nightstand beside a row of pill bottles. For one second, I forgot he was dead. Then a wall of grief hit me so hard I ran to their bathroom and puked my guts out.
The memory causes my stomach to twist in on itself. I swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth. I need to find a picture and get out of here.
Hitch’s nails click on the cold tile floor as we shuffle through the bathroom to the walk-in closet on the far side. I loved this closet when I was a kid. It was the best hiding place in the house. I spent more winter afternoons than I can count curled up with a flashlight and a book behind Dad’s shirts.
Without any windows, it’s pitch dark in the closet. It doesn’t matter. I could find the light switch blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back. But when I flick the switch, I pause, blinking. Something’s wrong. Dad’s side of the closet is empty, except for the “World’s Greatest Dad” T-shirt I gave him the summer before he died and a couple of boxes labeled Jim’s clothes. I hold the doorframe for a second before sliding to the floor. Hitch whines.
I sit, leaning against the wall, my knees squeezed to my chest. Mom asked me a couple weeks ago if I wanted any more of Dad’s shirts, but I didn’t think anything about it at the time. When the initial shock passes, I crawl toward the first box, untucking one of the flaps and pulling it open. I gasp. For one second, Dad’s in the room with me—at least the faint smell of him is.
I pull out an L.L. Bean hoodie, burying my face in the soft cotton. A hint of the Calvin Klein cologne my mother bought him every year for Christmas mixes with the memory of wood shavings from his shop in the storage room, and the apple-scented shampoo he used for as long as I can remember. I clutch the sweatshirt to my chest, hot tears forming in my eyes, too upset to respond when Hitch nudges my cheek.
Images of my mother from the last few weeks flash in my head—the unrecognized number on her phone, her polished nails, my dad’s clothes boxes. Then it hits me: What if she’s moving on? What if she’s dating?
It all starts to make sense. She keeps saying we need to work on my emotional and social well-being, but that’s not it at all. She’s starting a new life for herself, packing up Dad’s things and sending me off to school.
Every time I think I have my life figured out, something rocks my world. One minute I’m a happy-go-lucky second grader, the next I’m epileptic. One day I have a pretty normal family, the next I’ve lost my father. I thought Mom and I had settled into our sad little existence without Dad, and now she’s going to have some kind of midlife crisis or something. I can’t deal. And this time, instead of avoiding an argument, I’m going to tell her what I think.
I’m halfway through a Full House rerun I’ve seen twenty times when the Honda putters into the carport under the house. One good thing about living in a house designed to withstand hurricanes and floods is the elevation. By the time Mom climbs the stairs to the front deck, I’ve turned off the TV and organized my interrogation about the mystery caller, the manicure, and the midlife crisis.
As the front door swings open, I suck down a steadying breath. A warped spring in the sofa creaks as Hitch jumps down to greet Mom. She enters in a swoosh. Rustling plastic grocery bags hang from one arm. A stack of DVDs nestles in the crook of the other.
“It’s not Monday, but who cares?” She glances across the room at me as she jiggles her key from the lock.
“Mom, we need to—”
Before I can finish my sentence, she presses her lips into a thin smile, the way she did when she held Dad’s hand during his chemo treatments. Her whole body tightens like she’s bracing for a disappointment. The Wizard of Oz slides from the top of the stack and slaps the wood floor. “Oh, okay. I understand. I should’ve given you a heads up. I just thought . . .” The crow’s-feet at the corner of her eyes deepen.
Hitch whimpers, looking from the movie on the floor to my face. Well . . . great. Just great. With a sigh, I throw the blanket off my lap and cross the room to help her. A colorful Dorothy, skipping along the yellow-brick road with her new friends, smiles up at me. I hand the DVD back to her, grab the grocery bags, and head to the kitchen.
“Gummy bears, Twizzlers, and Skittles?” I ask as I unload the first bag.
She smiles, revealing a hint of teeth this time. “And I thought we’d go to Fat Boyz for ice cream before the movie.”
That’s two smiles in as many days. I almost hate to burst her bubble. Almost. “Mom . . . we need to talk.”
“About chocolate chip cookie dough?” She lifts her eyebrows teasingly as she straightens the pile of Disney movies she rented.
I stack the bags of candy on the bar, then cross my arms. Her smile falters, and Hitch glances between us, whining. The bag of Skittles slips off the counter. When it hits the floor, we both flinch.
“What’s going on, really?” I ask.
She shakes her head like I’ve sprouted a third eye. “Emilie, we’ve been through this. I love you. I just want us both to be well—physically . . . and emotionally.”
I want to believe her. I want to believe in fresh starts and bright futures. But experience has taught me that stuff only happens in fairy tales, and I’m no Cinderella.
She reaches across the bar to rest her hand on top of mine.
“So what’s the special occasion?” I ask, concentrating on not pulling my hand away.
“I just want to spend time with you.”
I want to spend time with you too. The words form in my brain but stick in my throat. Hitch’s heavy breathing is the only sound in the quiet room.
Twenty minutes later, we’re turning into Fat Boyz and I haven’t said a word about the potential mystery boyfriend. So much for the great inquisition. I’m a wuss.
The parking lot’s empty except for a rusty Jeep and a gold BMW. We park and walk up the steps to the take-out window beneath the rounded pink overhang.
“A double scoop of chocolate chip cookie dough in a waffle cone, rocky road in a cup with two spoons, and French vanilla in a doggie bowl,” Mom orders, and drops a dollar in the tip cup in front of the window.
“Thanks, Mom.” I force myself to meet her eyes as I grab an extra handful of napkins. It’s the least I can do. She’s spent a lot of this week’s gas budget on our little outing tonight.
“You want to sit on the deck or walk on the beach?” she asks.
The hulking man behind the counter bends down to pass our order out the window. I immediately grab mine. “How ’bout the pier?” I ask around a mouthful of deliciousness.
“Great idea. We haven’t walked the pier since . . .” Her voice trails off.
Without speaking, we sit on the bottom step and wait for Hitch to finish his French vanilla. Mom hands me one of her spoons to taste test her rocky road.
I lick and nod. “It’s good.”
Our eyes meet. The sugary goodness dissolves the edges of our awkwardness. When a twenty-something couple comes tumbling around the corner from the side deck arm in arm, we smile at them. The guy brushes Hitch’s ear as he passes. The girl grins. They half walk, half run to a Jeep and rumble out of the parking lot.
They look like the kind of couple who would ride bikes in the rain and write each other letters on vintage stationary.
My teeth sink into a chewy gob of cookie, and I try not to compare my life to theirs. Sometimes I just wish I could drive myself somewhere or swim in the ocean at night. Or even—gasp—drink a beer beside a bonfire way out in the middle of the woods. But I have to be six to twelve months seizure-free and have a certificate from my doctor before I can think about a driver’s license. Plus, I know I should be grateful. There are people less fortunate than me—girls whose medicines don’t control their seizures.
“That’s it, big guy.” Mom reaches down for Hitch’s empty bowl as I lick the ice cream dripping down the side of my cone. A few minutes later, we cross the beach road to the pier. Mom pays the attendant the walk-on fee, and we find a bench halfway down where we can watch for dolphins and finish our ice cream.
“We should do this more often,” Mom says as a man a couple of yards down instructs his curly-headed son on how to cast his line.
I nod and lick a drip of ice cream from my thumb. Mom savors tiny bits of rocky road, rolling it around on her tongue before swallowing, as I study people on the beach beneath us. There’s something familiar about the broad shoulders and messy light brown hair of a boy on the packed sand near the water’s edge. Trailing a few feet behind him is a little girl with pigtails in a pink sundress. She takes extra-long strides, trying to follow exactly in his wet footprints.
As I watch, a wave rolls in farther than the others, taking her by surprise, and she drops her red Popsicle. Before it hits the sand, she’s crying. I hear her even over the surf and wind. The boy turns.
Chatham.
He jogs back to her, scoops her up, and swings her over his head. She laughs, the Popsicle already forgotten. A man I hadn’t noticed ahead of them turns back, frowning. He has the same light brown hair and strong features. But his jaw has a sharper edge, and his eyes are a little closer together, giving them a kind of pit-bullish look.
Another rogue wave rushes in, catching Chatham off guard. He leaps toward dry sand, trying to keep the little girl aloft, but stumbles and falls to his knees. When he stands, his jeans are soaked and caked in sand.
The man, who must be their father, throws his hands up in the air, mumbles something under his breath, and storms away from the water toward the parking lot beside the pier. The little girl’s cheeks puff like she’s about to lose it again. But Chatham drops back to his knees in the wet sand in front of her, gently tilts her face up to his, and plants a kiss on the tip of her nose.
“What movie do you want to watch?” Mom asks, interrupting my little stalker fest.
“Whatever you want,” I say with a small smile.
She’s trying really hard. I decide to play along.
At least for tonight.