Page 36 of The Fast Lane
“It might have been the itching powder prank that came a few days later that has kept it fresh in my mind.”
I burst into laughter, remembering how I’d carefully planned out how and when to douse their gym clothes. “That was a classic.”
He groaned. “Imagine being in fifth period gym class playing basketball, and the itching starts.”
“Good.”
“Where is your sympathy, woman?”
“Buried deep in my cold, black heart, of course.”
Our laughter trailed off and both of us grew quiet. Sleepiness washed over me and just as my eyes slid shut, I thought I heard Theo whisper, “I’m really glad you’re here with me.”
FIFTEEN
Note to self:
Might be time to see a counselor.
Or just ask Theo to move in with me.
The dream was always the same. I’m watching myself from above as I sleep. The bed I’m in is taller than any bed I’ve ever seen, at least six feet off the ground. On either side are equally tall wooden nightstands with razor-sharp edges. On one, a large lamp sits. On the other, a phone and a stack of books. It looks like my bedroom at home but taller, more imposing, dangerous.
I’m curled under the covers but I’m restless, tossing and turning. After several minutes, I fling the covers off. I toss once more but this time I don’t stop, I keep rolling until I’m at the edge of the bed. There’s a thud as my head connects with the corner of a nightstand on the way down. When I land, my body is motionless and there’s so much blood.
With a gasp, I sat up. My heart knocked around in my chest and I pulled in breaths as fast as I could. It took me another few seconds to remember where I was. Naked people. The cabin. Theo.
I whipped my head to stare at his bed, praying he hadn’t woken. After my eyes adjusted, I could tell he was out cold, the blankets half kicked off, his hair wild on his pillow.
After climbing out of bed, I tiptoed to the bathroom. I flipped on the light and blinked against the stinging, sudden brightness. I splashed my face with water and stared at myself in the mirror.
“You have got to get over this.” It had been eight months now and I had this stupid dream at least twice a week. It didn’t take a genius to guess why. Going back to sleep on the bed would be impossible now.
Quietly, I shuffled back into the main room and pulled the sheet, blanket and pillow off the bed, glancing occasionally at Theo. On the floor at the foot of the bed, I made a nest and curled up in it. I tried not to think about what things this floor had seen. Nope, not thinking about that.
Within minutes, I was sound asleep.
It could have been fifteen minutes or three hours later when the insistent tapping on my foot woke me. Pushing my hair from my eyes, I rolled over to find the shadowy figure of Theo staring at me.
“Why are you on the floor?” he asked. He’d switched on the light in the tiny bathroom and cracked the door. A soft glow haloed his head.
“That bed was way too soft.” I sat up. “I like my bed like I like my men.”
“Dirty and possibly contagious?” He crossed his arms and his t-shirt bunched up to reveal a strip of skin which I did not look at.
“No, dummy. Firm.”
He crouched beside me, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, and asked again. “Why are you on the floor?”
I picked at the blanket on my lap. If there was anyone on this earth who might understand, it would be Theo. My last seizure had not been two years ago, as everyone thought. It had been eight months ago.
Most people don’t realize there are a lot of different kinds of seizures and reasons for having them. Focal seizures look as though the person is staring off in space, but they can’t respond, or speak. Sometimes people go years without realizing they’re having them. The ones I have are tonic-clonic seizures—the fall-on-the-floor, body-jarring convulsions. Frankie liked to joke I was “dramatic” even when I was having a seizure.
Like about fifty percent of people with epilepsy, I had no idea why my seizures started that day on the soccer field when I was sixteen. I only remember feeling the slightest bit nauseated and then—like someone hit a fast-forward button on my life—I was in an ambulance, and it was so hard to focus. My limbs had felt heavy, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
See, I never remembered having a seizure. But according to those that have witnessed one, I fall or slump wherever I am, and my body goes stiff, then the convulsing starts. When that’s over, my face turns bluish-gray, and I stop breathing for thirty seconds or so. The actual seizure lasts less than five minutes but recovering takes much longer.
That time is lost, a hole in my memory. Another little piece epilepsy has stolen from me. But it’s a mercy, I think. If I remembered it, I think the fear would drag me down until I couldn’t function, being trapped like that by my own body. The first fifteen minutes or so after a seizure, I’m unconscious. Dead weight, my dad called it. And then the vomiting comes. For hours after, I’m unsteady on my feet and so, so exhausted. I’ll sleep for hours, and my brain feels slippery, like what I need to remember is right there but keeps slithering away.