EMMA
"I accept your apology, Veronica." After the nightmare at the country club, Thatcher dumped me and my things on the curb and peeled off in a snit. All I want to do now is sink into a hot bath and then go to bed. "Yes, I understand that you had planned this announcement with Logan a long time ago. I never intended to upstage you. Thatcher and I were trying to keep things quiet until after his brother's wedding, like I said."
From the second we arrived today, my family picked at Thatcher. To his credit, he smiled and politely deflected every barb. I flush with pleasure again remembering my mother asking him where she might have seen his "little creations," since he's an artist. Thatcher smoothly asked her if she'd ever heard of the Museum of Modern Art. Did it with a straight face, too. She fluttered her hands around and promised to look him up later.
But Veronica threw an absolute fit. She grew louder and louder, hissing and screaming that I sprung some edgy, artist fiancé on the family on purpose just to detract from her big moment with Logan. And my father chimed in that he didn't think my "engagement" was a good tactical move for his re-election campaign. The wait staff actually had to come to our table and ask Veronica to keep her volume down.
"Veronica," I interrupt her asking me if it's absolutely necessary for Thatcher to wear a nose ring to her wedding. "I have a meeting with my neurologist in the morning, so I need to get some rest." Talking about my neurologist always gets my family to shut up immediately. They hate that they didn't select this doctor for me from their approved list of big names, but they do begrudgingly recognize that his help has improved my life dramatically. We hang up the phone after she offers another half-assed apology for letting her manners slip away in public. Because, of course, in private the other Cheswicks think it's fine for my family to judge people and make decisions about my love life based on how it looks for my father's campaign. I set an early alarm and flop angrily into bed, wondering how I'll smooth things over with Thatcher.
I spend the morning writing from home and submit a draft to my editor, who is giving me comp time for the afternoon since I "worked" this weekend. Around 3, I take the bus to the hospital and run into Dr. Khalsa in the lobby, which surprises me. He must be really excited about this medication trial. "Ah! Emma! There you are." He takes my arm and introduces me to his colleagues. We walk to one of the conference rooms rather than his office, where he sets up a presentation and starts to explain their new clinical trial on medical marijuana.
There are tons of questions from the International Review Board and a hell of a lot more paperwork than I signed when I started taking my other medications. Those actually alter my brain function. Isn't this a bit much hoopla for some pot? After about an hour of this, Dr. Khalsa asks me if I'd like him to go with me to the dispensary to pick up my "medication" for the trial.
"Um, sure?" This is hands down the most bizarre experience of my life, up to and including the time I covered the Furry Convention for the Post and had to interview guys who get their rocks off dressing like foxes and squirrels. We walk a few blocks to a standard-looking office building and take the elevator to the Wellness Center. When we walk inside, the space looks like a spa, with potted orchids and sleek, modern furniture.
I thought it would be skeezy, reminiscent of the pot dealers I visited with Nicole in college. There's not a Bob Marley poster or tie-dyed tapestry in sight. There are tablet devices on the wall for people to go "shopping," and Dr. Khalsa explains that we don't need to use those because I need to use very specific products for the clinical research. An employee greets Dr. Khalsa warmly and takes us back to a small, private office. Instead of chairs, we sit on yoga balls while the staff explains that I'll be using a vaporizer and cartridges that come pre-filled.
They slide me a slim device that looks like a compact mirror…but Dr. Khalsa explains that I simply slide the cartridge inside, press a button, and inhale the vapor. Eventually, the goal is for me to no longer need my standard medications, but Dr. Khalsa has me on a graduated plan for his clinical trial. All the cartridges are pre-filled, ready to go. "Just follow the schedule, and I will see you in two weeks for some testing," he says.
I feel my jaw drop when the cashier asks me if I saw the discount for Shark Week, but Dr. Khalsa explains that I'll be using the hospital's account. I am assigned a number, and everything is taken care of by the researchers. Dr. Khalsa even arranges for a car service to take me home, so I don't have to sit on the bus with my medication. I know he's just feeling antsy about me getting pick-pocketed, but I'll take a ride where I can get it.
I ease into the back seat of the sedan, enjoying the leather interior and air conditioning on full blast, and I pull out my phone to a series of missed calls and texts. Nicole, of course, is eager for details from this weekend.
A text from Phil: This draft is tolerable, Cheswick. Definitely nicer than when I submitted my last draft. I think I'm really solidifying my spot on the staff. I squirm in my seat a bit, anxious to get to work tomorrow and see his comments for revision on my article about Juniper.
Then a text from Thatcher. Can we talk?
I chew on my fingernail. I know I need to see him. We left things…tense. I tap back Want to come over? I'll be home in ten.
C u soon. Will bring sandwiches.
One thing I am really coming to like about the Stag family is they always have food. Door will be unlocked. Just come in, I write back.
When we get to my apartment, I tip the driver and settle into my couch to re-read the instructions on the "vape" pen. Because of my condition, and how much it sucks to have seizures, I never experimented with drugs or alcohol. Once I found out what works to keep me healthy, that's always felt more important than a temporary buzz. If I'm honest, I'm glad Thatcher is coming over later to be here after I use these cartridges. I have no idea how my body is going to respond. I finger the medic alert bracelet that's always with me.
Reading through the information sheet one last time, I decide I'm ready. I slide the cartridge into the pen, press the button, and breathe deeply. I feel the cool vapor swirling into me, and I slowly exhale. Not bad. I try again. Hm. Now I guess I just wait. I whip out the log from Dr. Khalsa and record two puffs, 4pm, Monday. No seizure aura today. Feeling great.
I set the supplies on the coffee table and wait to feel…different. Nothing happens except I have to pee, so I make my way into the bathroom, slightly disappointed.