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“That’s not right.” Indignation stomps around inside me like pissed off protestors in pussy hats at a protest. “That’s not fair.”
“That’s the way the world works,” Amelia says. “Fighting something that can’t be changed isn’t going to get you anywhere. Let it go. You remember what I told you how to protect your heart, right?”
I shiver. “My heart was broken forever, for good, a long time ago.”
Even after all this time the wound lies just below my skin’s surface, waiting for something to poke into it, rip the scab off. Nothing good came out of that day we ran over the Wolfe brothers. I’ve been practicing the art of trying not to think about that day for years.
Every time images of Wyatt and Easton bloody and broken pop into my brain, I replaced them with balloons that float into the sky as light as feathers. Or birds winging away, just like those crows did for parts unknown. After I did that ten thousand or so times I got better at moving through the pain. The PTSD, on the other hand, was a bitch to lose.
At thirteen, the hard-working doctors employed through DCFS diagnosed me as having Generalized Anxiety Disorder because back then kids didn’t usually get PTSD. Soldiers who went to war got PTSD. I wish they’d better explained that to my teenage nervous system.
The shakes started immediately following the accident, growing so fierce at times I could barely hold a pen. Students at my new school teased me, calling me ‘Shake and Bake’ Berlinger. The night terrors followed and I’d wake up time and again drenched in sweat. It wasn’t that easy explaining damp sheets in foster care to the lady pulling them to her nose and sniffing with a fat frown on her face. “Are you sure, Evie?”
“I’m sure, Mrs. Smith. I didn’t. I swear. I would know if I wet the bed.”
And just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse was when the empathic ability kicked into high gear. I started feeling other people’s feelings in my own body, usually people in close proximity to me.
One day in 8th grade, I was late for gym class, hurriedly changing clothes in the locker room when the inside of my thigh began burning like I’d been stung by a bee. I put one foot up on a bench and peered down but didn’t see any welts. Maybe I’d gotten my period.
I wasn’t all that familiar with periods. I’d experienced some cramps, but I didn’t have a clue if they caused stinging. I wriggled my panties down and checked for blood. My cotton briefs were white as could be. But the stinging worsened. It burned, sliced, and then strangely there was relief, almost pleasure.
I suspected it was hormones. Just about everyone had warned me about hormones. A girl the next aisle over, sighed. I wandered a few yards over, popped my head around the corner of the row of lockers and spotted Lauren Caspberger. She was resting her foot on a bench and her legs were spread. She peered forward as she cut the inside of her thigh with a small knife.
I was embarrassed. It felt like I was interrupting a private moment. I didn’t know if I should say anything but didn’t know how I couldn’t. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” She gave me the stink eye. “Go away, weirdo.”
Twenty minutes later I was dribbling basketballs down the shiny gym floor – thomp-thomp-thomp – with twenty other girls aiming at hoops, when it dawned on me that the stinging wasn’t mine. It was Lauren Caspberger’s.
A week later I made my way down a hallway between classes when worry nipped at my heels so strongly I jumped. Would I have enough money? What would happen if I ran out of money? How would I take care of my family if I was no longer here? It was worse than worry, it was an almost quiet desperation. I stopped in my tracks and nearly got run over by a few guys.
“Out of the way, Berlinger,” one said, pushing past me.
“Move it, Shake and Bake,” his pal said, and they all laughed.
“Sorry.” I was worried about a lot of things but walking the hallways of Beethoven Middle Grade School wasn’t one of them. I leaned back against a locker and watched the kids pass. Some fast. Some slow. Some goofing around with their friends, others lost in thought. These feelings within me didn’t belong to a student.
They belonged to the white-haired, stooped-back janitor wheeling a bucket with a mop impaled into it down the hall. He paused in an alcove waiting for the bell to ring, staring down at his bucket like his world was caving in. These weren’t my concerns about money, they were his. I felt bad for him and said a silent prayer.
Eventually, I was diagnosed with PTSD, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, pre-disposed to panic attacks. They medicated me with a low dose of anti-depressants but they made me feel even worse than the anxiety. By the time I hit eighteen, I was determined to beat this crap and sought advice from alternative healers. I went to hypnotists, acupuncturists, body workers. One after the next told me I was ‘empathic.’ I picked up on the feelings of people around me, experienced their feelings in my body just like they were my own.
I could go crazy from this weirdness, split my brain into two or ten or five thousand pieces like Mom did, or I could compartmentalize and handle it with guided meditation, self- hypnosis, alternative medicine, and hard exercise.
I learned acupressure points to ground me. Meditation to calm me. Breathing exercises to bring me back to reality. And they helped. I never fully shut off the empathic spigot but turned it down to a low drip-drip-drip.
Now, seven years later, in Amelia’s bedroom, my friend sighs. “I’m sorry, Evie. I’ll cross my fingers that everything with Dylan McAlister goes well. I’m going to remind you what Victoria told me about boundaries in case you forgot.”
“I don’t need a reminder.”
“Set boundaries within the confines of the date. Do not do anything you are uncomfortable doing. Ignore what I said before about popping your escort cherry. I shouldn’t have said that. I say stupid things on occasion. Don’t agree to anything that you know you’ll have second thoughts about the next day. When the date is over, imagine yourself building a wall between you and the client.”
“Can I make Mexico pay for it?” I snort.
“Build the wall. Keep your boundaries as intact as possible and keep yourself safe. If you get too close to these guys you can develop unhealthy attachments and confuse lust with love, a business relationship with a personal relationship and covet things you can’t have.”
“I’ve done pretty good so far.”
“You have.” She nods. “But you also haven’t had sex with a client. Sex has a way of changing things. Enjoy the dress. It looks like it was made for you. Return it some day.”
