I would if I could guarantee that Siler would be okay.
Each time he leaves me, he says the same thing:“Promise me that you’re still fighting and I’ll see you later. Promise me.”
Because he knows. He’s seen the pills piling up on my desk. He sees the despair in my eyes. He’s heard my angry rants over the unfairness.
Eight days before my eighteenth birthday, it started. I was climbing out of Siler’s truck when I convulsed. For almost ten minutes I felt excruciating pain while Siler frantically called for help. It tore the very fabric of my soul because, before that moment, I had been healthy.
My life radically changed.
“Elizabeth?” I hear the front door close downstairs as my mother bustles around. “E-bet?”
I bristle at the name she uses for me when I prefer Siler’s nickname, Biz’ or ‘Bizzy’. Even if I can’t recall it, Siler says that I earned the nickname at six, when he told me I didn’t look like an Elizabeth.“It’s none of your business.” I had said. He squinted at me before a smile spread across his face, “Business… Biz…”, which morphed into Bizzy.
He then proceeded to make me his best friend.
I crawl to the bed, pulling myself off the ground. My parents don’t need any more reason to hover. Coughing slightly to force my voice to carry, I call out,
“Yeah, I’m coming…”
She’s at the counter in our outdated kitchen, staring into the cupboard where we keep the spices, her hand shaking slightly. With a tremor in her voice, she says, “You didn’t answer when I called… I…” Tears shine in her eyes as she turns toward me. “I was worried you were having a…” but she doesn’t finish.
We don’t know what they are… seizures, episodes, events? Nothing sums them up adequately.
“I had my headphones on. Sorry.” The lie comes easily. Watching the tension leave her stance and the worry fade from her eyes is all the confirmation I need that the lies are better than causing further anguish.
Pictures dot the house of me. Four are stuck by magnets to the stainless steel fridge. Me at four with a tooth missing, ice cream smeared on my Hello Kitty shirt; me at ten in a softball uniform with my arms around my parents; me at twelve sitting at a piano performing a recital; me at fourteen in a lacy pink dress next to Dad in his suit at a father-daughter dance.
They all look just like me. But I have no memories of any of the times they commemorate.
I remove the youngest picture of me, staring at it intensely. My mother stops putting groceries away to watch me. “Do you remember that day?” Her voice is tentative, so soft I almost miss what she asks.
Shaking my head, I put it back under the insurance agent magnet. “I wish I did. Do you think Dr. Fraine may be able to help me get my memories back?”
That is… if my body holds out?
“It couldn’t hurt, right?” She leans back against the counter, giving a quick sniff to stop the tears. “Does that mean you’re willing to see him?”
A month ago, when our family doctor had exhausted referrals, he told us about Dr. Fraine. He’s treated other difficult-to-diagnose cases with some success.
But I’m at my limit. All hope has been depleted after my blood tests came back normal each time, my brain scans only showing areas of increased activity but no abnormalities.
I’ve been misdiagnosed, overmedicated, accused of making up my symptoms, and even accused of causing them. It’s been downright impossible to keep a shred of faith.
I shrug. If I decide to see him, it’ll be for my parents, for Siler. Because I don’t see what good could come of it.
Mom takes my hand, leading me to sit on a stool at the kitchen island. “You’ve been symptom-free since starting the last regimen of medication, right?”
No. But I’d rather no one else knows that.
Noncommittally, I sigh. My shoulders slump as I move forward to cover my face with my hands. Muffled, I reply, “Do you want me to see Dr. Fraine?”
“You graduate in two weeks. Have you given more thought to Cornell?”
My acceptance to Cornell University was all I’d ever wanted, or at least that’s what my parents said. I have no recollection of it. When my health nosedived, keeping me alive became my focus. Moving eight hundred miles away from our home in Decatur, Illinois felt impossible.
I mumble to myself, “How would I know?” My mind has become slippery, to the point of not recognizing my own face in the mirror one morning.
She pats my leg. “You’d be closer to Dr. Fraine. With his residency at Rockefeller Amherst, just down the road from Cornell, getting treated by him would be easier. I’m not saying we wouldn’t still worry, but I think it would feel like we’re doing something useful,” Her voice catches on the last words, soft and fragile, as if saying them aloud gives her hope she doesn’t fully feel.
