“Walter?” I greet my friend from the stingray excursion as I approach his table.
“Well, hello there.” His face lights up with recognition. “Annie, is it?”
“Abby.” I give him my warmest smile, which he returns.
“Abby! I’m sorry. Sit, sit. Let me buy you a drink,” he says, chuckling at his own joke.
“Would you mind if I sat with you while I eat?” I ask as I take a seat.
“Not at all, I just got some myself. Let me…” He trails off and twists in his chair as if he’s looking for someone. He raises his hand, flagging down the waiter, who comes over right away. Walter orders a beer and I tell her a water is fine, and even though Walter doesn’t raise an eyebrow at me about it, I still feel like I have to justify myself.
“I have a migraine,” I say. “It’s not unbearable, I just…don’t want to drink.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well, dear.”
I shrug. “I’ve had them my whole life, so I guess I’m used to it?”
I’m not used to it; I don’t know why I say that. Probably because I hate making other people uncomfortable with my pain. It’s not theirs to deal with.
“Is there anything you need?” Walter asks. “Should you be out of your room?”
Walter’s kindness makes my eyes burn with tears, but I blink them away.
“That’s really nice of you, Walter. I’m—I’ve been in my room all day, though. I’m okay. Please don’t worry about me.”
I started getting migraines when I was five.
I didn’t know they were migraines then, but I would get these bad headaches and the light would hurt my eyes. I couldn’t sit in classrooms with fluorescent lighting—my parents had to comepick me up from school a few times a month. It was a burden on them because they both worked. Sometimes the pain would last for a couple days, sometimes accompanied by the worst nausea. The doctors didn’t see my migraines as bad enough to put me on preventative medicines for years. I was still making it to school 80% of the time, and we could manage the pain occasionally with over-the-counter medicines. But I saw the toll it took on my parents, and I heard them talking about me one night. They were in the kitchen while I was going to sneak down for a late-night snack. I heard my mom and dad talking, and I heard my name.
“I’m tired. It’s a lot taking care of a chronically ill child,” my mother said.
“I know, Jean, I’m tired too. But she’s a good kid.”
“Can you imagine if we had had two?”
“I know you wanted two,” my dad said. “Do you still?”
“No. One chronically ill child is enough for me. I couldn’t handle two.”
My dad agreed and that was that. I went back up to my room and cried myself to sleep. I didn’t want to be a burden to my parents. I’d vowed right then and there that outside of my migraines, I would be the best kid. That I would make it no one’s problem but my own when I didn’t feel good. My parents, of course, continued to take care of me, but I stopped complaining. I made sure from that moment on that I was the golden child, so they never regretted not having two.
I was ten.
They seem happy enough now—my parents. Both retired and golfing every day, traveling when they can. They enthusiastically agreed that I shouldn’t waste the non-refundable deposit on the resort and gave me all their tips and tricks for resort travel. I try to send them at least one selfie every day so they don’t have to worry about me. After my breakup, they were there for me. I lived with them for a month or two while I figured out what todo next, and they did what they always do—they took care of me. I felt too guilty to stay longer than two months, so I got my own place despite their insistence that I could stay as long as I needed to.
I still have dinner with them at least once a week, and they still send me bad selfies of themselves on the golf cart sometimes.
I still do my best not to make it anyone’s problem but my own when I have pain.
“What have you been up to?” I ask Walter, desperately needing to think of anything else right now. “Any more excursions?”
He studies me, taking a pull of his beer. I suspect he knows there’s something deeper here, why I’m brushing him off, but whatever he sees on my face, he chooses to let it go.
“Well, yesterday, I went snorkeling. This morning, I did a horseback ride?—”
“How was that?” I ask.
“It was real nice, but I’ve never been a big fan of horses,” he says.
