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“No, stop! It’s a migraine?” I asked, feeling frantic. “Where are your pills? Did you take one of your pills?”
Oh my God, is he out? Of all the tasks I have to keep on top of…But no, I had checked his supply just the day before.
“Can’t find…the fucking…bottle.”
I didn’t waste a second but rushed to the bedroom. I got down on my hands and knees, frantically searching, and found the little orange bottle had rolled all the way to the other side of the bed, hiding from Noah in plain sight.
I grabbed it and returned to the bathroom. Noah had hauled himself to his feet, braced himself over the basin to vomit in the sink. I rushed to him, steadied him as his body clenched. He’d had nothing to eat all day and I could only imagine the pressure that the empty heaving had on his already aching head. Sure enough, when he finished, he let out a choked cry and would have fallen to the floor had I not been there to ease him down.
“I’ve got the pills, Noah. I found them. It’s going to be okay.” I filled a glass with water from the other sink, sloshing it all over my wrist. “Just hold on.”
His reply was to moan and grip the sides of his head as if he were trying to keep his skull from breaking apart.
My own hands were shaking so badly, it was a miracle I got the childproof cap off the bottle. I shook one violet-colored pill into my palm, then almost dropped it down the sink. I grabbed the glass of water and knelt on the hard tile beside Noah.
“Here.” I pressed the pill to his lips. His mouth fell open weakly, taking in the Azapram. I cupped the back of his head with one hand and held the glass to his mouth. “Now water. Swallow…”
He drank, and I watched him swallow the pill, breathing a sigh of relief and praying he wouldn’t throw it up at the same time.
“How long does it take to work?” I asked, trying to keep the panic from my voice.
“I don’t know…” he said from between clenched teeth, his face drawn with agony. “Ah, Christ!” He resumed slamming his head against the wooden cabinet, like a horrible metronome keeping time to the pulsing pain in his brain.
“No, no, this isn’t right,” I said, my hands twisting. “I’m going to call an ambulance…”
“No!” He grasped at empty air. “No, please…don’t leave.”
“But Noah…”
“It’ll pass.”
“How do you know? Has it ever been this bad?”
“Yes. In the beginning. Please…don’t leave me.”
I bit my lip, unsure, but one look at Noah’s face and I nodded quickly. “Of course not. I won’t leave you. I’m here.”
I scooted close and pulled him toward me, to cradle his head against my chest. I knew the head banging wasn’t self-harm but to distract himself from the pain, so I rocked him instead and stroked his head that was damp with sweat. I just held him and rocked him, keeping a steady rhythm he could concentrate on, and he clung to me. He wrapped his long arms around me and hung on, and we waited for the medication to do its job.
After twenty minutes that felt like hours to me—probably longer to Noah—I felt his muscles loosen from their coiled tension, and he took long, deep breaths, as if he were sighing with relief over and over. I couldn’t imagine a pain so strong it made you vomit or want to bang your head.
He released me and slumped heavily against the cabinet, his gaze cast down.
“Okay. I’m…okay,” he muttered dully. “You can go. I’m a mess. I stink. You…” He swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut. “You don’t need to see me like this. I’m just going to take a bath and then sleep. Thanks. Thanks again for…helping me.”
I felt tears burn in my eyes and blinked them away before he could hear them in my voice. “I’m not leaving you, Noah. You want to take a bath? I’ll help you, but I’m not going to walk out now just so you can slip and fall…”
“Charlotte…”
“No. I’m staying.”
I thought he’d protest again, but he leaned back against the cabinet, his eyes still closed, his hands hanging limply in his lap. “Okay.”
I nodded and heaved a steadying breath. “Okay. Good. I have some lavender bubble bath. Downstairs. It’ll help you relax, but it’s not strong. I promise you won’t smell like a girl or anything.”
He made no answer.
I got up and started the bathwater. “Do you like hot? Warm? Somewhere in between? Personally, I like baths so hot I can barely stand it and then I get light-headed when I get out, but that’s just me.” I was conscious that I was babbling like a maniac—Noah’s migraine had scared me more than I’d realized. “So, um, water temp?”
