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11
JOEY
Don’t look panicked, I tell myself. Don’t run. Nobody will notice you walking across the quad. Just get home. But hurry, I tell myself. Before the dark takes over. The tunnel of vision is enough to see my way to my apartment. As the darkness moves toward the center of my sight, I start speaking to my body the way the doctor taught me.
“Heart,” I whisper, “Slow down. You’re fine. You’re handling this just fine.” I take a few slow breaths. “Left eye, you can do this. Keep it up.” My right eye has gone completely dark. “Come on, lungs. In and out. Stomach, you’re not sick. You only think you are.”
I hear a voice call my name. “Joey,” and then, “Oh, sorry. Are you on the phone?”
I shake my head. Ginger stands in front of me. “It sounded like you were talking to someone.” She pauses for a very short second. “Do you need help? Are you okay? You look… well, you look awful.”
“Thanks.”
“Sorry,” Ginger says.
“No, really, thanks. Yes. I need help. Walk me home?” I don’t wait for Ginger to answer, just grab her hand and hold on like she’s the buoy that keeps me afloat.
We walk a few feet before Ginger says, “I’m not actually very good in a crisis, and you’re freaking me out. What is going on?”
I try to laugh, but it comes out like a tired sigh. “I’ll tell you. But not out here. Please? I need to close my eyes.”
“What, like now?” Ginger sounds shocked.
“Now. Just get me into my place.” I grip Ginger and close my eyes, effectively heading off the nausea for a few minutes. I hope.
Ginger helps me up the stairs and to my door. I hand over my bag, and I hear Ginger rooting around for keys. Leaning against the wall, eyes closed, I tell myself that I can do this for a few more seconds.
Ginger swears, and I hear the purse land on the patio.
Maybe not too many more seconds. I open my eyes enough to find the edge of the railing and vomit over the side. Into a shrub. I think an apology toward the grounds crew.
“Eww,” Ginger says. Then, in a loud whisper, “Are you drunk? Because there are very firm rules around here about drinking during the week.”
I shake my head. “Did you get it?” I ask, pointing to the door. My eyes squeeze tight again.
Ginger picks up keys and opens the door, and I stagger in, immediately kneeling on the floor. Ginger slides me away from the door and closes it. I lie down in the middle of the entryway.
“What are you even doing?” She sounds worried. Which is only natural.
I try to raise myself up on my arms, but I am shaking like crazy. “Sorry. Come in.” I vaguely gesture to the living room. “Sit down. Do you want anything? Please help yourself. I just need to lie here for a minute.”
Ginger slides to the floor beside me. “Do you need an ambulance? Should I call someone?”
I shake my head. “I’m going to be fine in a minute. Maybe five. Ten, tops.” I roll over onto my back and fling both arms over my face. After a minute, I say, “I’m going to start to tell you something. If you decide you don’t want to hear it, just stop me.”
She doesn’t say anything, so I go on.
“I have a thing called optic neuritis. It’s making it so I can’t see right now.”
I hear Ginger gasp a little.
“It’s not permanent. And it won’t last forever. I hope. But sometimes my right eye goes dark.”
“And your left?” Ginger’s voice is quieter than I have ever heard it.
“So far, not officially. But there’s a thing – my left eye sometimes thinks it’s affected, too, so even though there’s nothing actively happening in there, it’s not working. It’s a funny brain thing.”
“Yeah. Hilarious.” Ginger takes a deep breath. “So, you’re okay? Kind of? Or at least you will be?”
