Page 36 of Dark Ugly Places

A wave of panic hits me, and my body feels limp. A new doctor, a neurologist. That would mean a trip to my primary care doctor, a referral, then a visit, then a prescription, and then the insurance. The insurance! Approval of the brand name Topamax took forever last time. Months of waiting while I suffered. Months of persisting when they wouldn’t cover it, months of working the system just to get this one drug. I had a small stockpile for this reason.

Now it’s gone.

I don’t have months now. I have hours, maybe a day if I’m lucky.

The phone intones in my ear, the line gone dead.

I glance once more at the note from Martha, at her childish writing.

“What do you want?” I ask her. “Just tell me!”

My head snaps back unnaturally to the ceiling, my eyes wide open, staring at the lights overhead. I feel her within me—lucid and alert—like a dream you remember vividly but want to forget. My sternum contracts and expands. My hand reaches out and touches the condensation on the mirror. One word. Three letters. The moisture collects under my fingers as she writes, then takes my hand away.

I stumble backwards, or rather, she makes me move. The word is like a breath from the other side of the glass. Tiny drops of water fall from the letters, one by one.

H.

I.

M.

17

Martha

Nicola calls them panic attacks, but I prefer to think of them as gateways. Tiny openings where, if I’m clever, I can find my way through.

I can’t quite remember how long it has been since the flesh was truly mine like this. The blip on the street corner and in the hotel were not enough to really count. Nicola is not in great shape. She’s lost weight. Her bones feel fragile. Inside my temple is the low hum of her migraine fading into the background.

She’s been through a lot. I guess meeting Redfern in person was the final straw. It’s not her fault she’s ineffective. Nicola doesn’t always follow through.

Now we have work to do.

I push up from her floor and go straight to her closet, and it’s obvious: Nicola has neglected herself. Neglected us. The once tidy, pristine, organized woman has been replaced by a haphazard, careless hoarder of sorts. Clothes strewn everywhere, dust on boxes and old purse bags. The scent of mothballs and fabric softener. My insides twist at the sight of her jumbled clothes, her unmade bed, the pile of trash, and old prescription bottles on her dresser. The anger that has become so rife within her fades, a drop in a bucket.

My leg prickles, cold and dead. I slap the flesh and feel pins and needles down the back of my leg, into the foot, which is cold and slightly off color. This is fixable. We need a yoga class, a latte, and a motherfucking round at a department store with a credit card.

There isn’t an item in her bedroom that I would wear, but I make the best of some workout clothes and pull my hair back into a tight bun. The makeup in her bathroom is old—dry and caked—so I fling it into the trash can and wander down the hall into Emmy’s room.

Top drawer of the bathroom: bingo. Mascara, eye shadow, foundation, blush. It’s untouched, new, like unopened Christmas presents. I start applying things the way I like them. Nicola keeps her face bare these days, but that’s just not me. I pat my skin down with a sponge—foundation and concealer in place. In the corners of my eyes, I begin dragging a cool blue pencil liner. Then the sweep of mascara and the glint of blush on each cheek.

When I finally glance up and see my reflection, it’s like coming home to myself. “At last,” I say aloud, just to hear my voice again. My ears ring with it as I open the door and have a look around Nicola’s apartment. It’s the same out here as it feels in the dark place—dingy, tired, and filled with sadness. Everywhere I look, there’s something that could be cleaned up, thrown out, or dusted.

I poke inside Emmy’s room, the walls painted a soft, pink color from the previous tenants, the popcorn ceiling speckled with stick-on glow-in-the-dark plastic stars. On the dresser, I spot a framed photo of the three of them, Emmy about eight years old, with Nicola and Ben looking like younger, fresher versions of themselves. Their smiles are large and plastic, hiding a shit ton of pain and money troubles, I’m sure.

Downstairs, I jolt when I see Emmy at the fridge. She’s much bigger than I remember. A full human. Her head has the scar Nicola has been going on and on about. A long, shiny pink rat’s tail, etched into the left side of her head. She turns, noticing me, and makes a face.

“What are you wearing?

“It’s makeup. I’m going out.”

I spot a sun patch near the back door to the communal garden, where the little white dog is lying. He seems harmless enough, and maybe he’ll keep Emmy busy.

“Where are you going?”

“None of your business. I need the address of that doctor and the attorney.”

Emmy gives me a look. “Um, I don’t know. It’s in your phone, probably. Did you forget?”