Shattered Stars

by Shari Ryan

  Layne.

  Layne looks at me with defeat, hearing his name spoken by Marcy. Relief fills me, knowing I don’t have to lie at least, but now he won’t think I’m getting better.

  “It was bound to happen,” I tell Layne.

  Layne presses his lips together and glances down to his intertwined fingers. “Yup,” he mutters.

  “What’s going on?” Marcy asks.

  “Mom forgot Dad’s name. Just your average everyday issue,” Aly answers before I’m able to think of a good response.

  “Shit,” Marcy says, peeling off her gloves. “Is this the first time?”

  “I think it’s all in my head. I’m stressing myself out over all this crap,” I tell her. Marcy knows about the diagnosis. She’s one of four family members who know.

  “I found a name of another doctor. He’s at Mass General, and he’s one of the best in his department,” Marcy says.

  I nod my head, dismissing her suggestion. I’m not trying to be stubborn or irrational, but my diagnosis doesn’t have a good outcome, no matter what I do in-between now and whenever I don’t know what the word, “now,” means.

  “She’ll go,” Layne tells Marcy. “Could I please have the information?” he asks, holding his hand out to her.

  “Layne, no,” I snap, trying to control the volume of my voice, but this topic causes so many heated moments between us I have a hard time keeping my thoughts to myself lately. “Aunt Marcy, could I please have the card?” I knew this time would come when Layne would take away my right of deciding for myself. I agreed to it months ago, knowing there would come a time when I can’t take care of myself at all, but I’m still capable of self-care and aware of what I want to do with my situation.

  Heat fills my face, making me feel like I have high blood-pressure, which I probably do at the moment. My anger is bursting at the seams, and I don’t have an outlet. I can’t remember if I ever felt this kind of resentment before this started, but it’s consuming. What I recall is being blindsided by the turn my life was about to take. I went to a walk-in clinic for what I thought were just seasonal migraines I had off and on for years. However, they were bad enough last year I needed something stronger than an over-the-counter pain reliever.

  I didn’t leave the clinic with pain relief. Instead, I left with a referral to see a neurologist.

  Even then, I figured there wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. People suffer from migraines all the time. I was not ready for what the doctor dropped in my lap that day.

  TEN MONTHS EARLIER - JUST TURNED 29 YEARS OLD

  I twisted the ring on my finger to the left because the diamond was off-center. I wrapped my fingers around the white-gold and repositioned my wedding band where it should be. Maybe I should have let Layne know I was there. I had been debating whether to call him, but the school he works at had various lockdown drills that week, and he had been taking a teacher’s safety seminar every night for the previous three days. Layne’s eyes were hardly open that morning when I handed him a travel coffee-cup filled with his favorite dark-roast hyper-caffeinated black coffee. He knew I wasn’t feeling well and told me he’d stay home in case it got too bad. I assured him I had been through the migraines before, though, so he had no reason to worry.

  As soon as he and Aly left for the day, I double checked each lock and window for reassurance of security. Then the quiet set in, and my thoughts ruminated, which led to a concern for the headache I had been fighting for two days. I even called Mom, which I hate doing with this kind of stuff, but she’ll be the first one to tell me I’m fine and to get rest. Except, she didn’t say those words to me that day. In fact, she insisted on going to the doctor with me, but I didn’t want to make a bigger deal out of my headache than necessary. We compromised by making me promise to schedule an appointment with the doctor.

  Before making an appointment, though, I tended to Google. Everyone knows they shouldn’t go by information they find on the internet, but I wasn’t looking to diagnose myself with a serious issue. I was just searching for a home remedy that could make my migraine go away.

  Then, I read, the whole standard protocol for what to do if you have the “worst headache ever experienced.”

  My mind raced for a moment before my eyes focused on the solution, which was, “Seek immediate medical attention.” It seemed a little over-the-top for a migraine, but I couldn’t convince myself the pain wasn’t the worst I’ve had in my head, so I was concerned enough to visit the clinic down the street. There I was, sitting outside of a neurologist’s office at our local emergency care facility, becoming nauseous from the pungent scent of ammonia, and irritated by the volume of the loudspeaker screaming with various codes and names over and over again. The situation escalated quicker than I could have expected.

  I still didn’t think there was anything wrong, but I figured it was better to laugh over the story at dinner that night once I knew everything was okay. Otherwise, Layne would have been messaging me until I left, wanting to know what’s happening.

  “Danielle Hensen,” a nurse called from behind me. I grabbed my bag from the seat next to me and stood up, facing the nurse who was clad in powder blue scrubs and navy-blue clogs. She had a friendly smile and kind eyes, completing her plain Jane look, which offered me a little comfort at the moment. “Come on back. I’m Jill, the nurse on staff today.”

  I clutched my bag within my arms and followed Jill down two short hallways, into a small exam room. “I went to the walk-in clinic today for my seasonal migraines, but the practitioner didn’t feel comfortable treating me,” I tell her.

  “Yes,” Jill says, reviewing my files. “I see you have been a patient here in the past.”

  Yup and that was the reason I went to the walk-in clinic. I wanted to avoid this place at all cost. “Yes, it was a while ago.”

  “Well, we keep good records and always have. It’s good to know a patient’s history when trying to come up with a good treatment plan.” She was speaking as if she had seen my kind of medical record thousands of times before, which I had hoped for her case, she hadn’t. “Which walk-in clinic did you visit earlier?”

  “Med-Quick, just down the street.”

  “Ah, yes, we’re in the same network, so we share our files. Most walk-in clinics would rather refer a patient to a specialist if they have a pre-existing condition.”

  “I don’t have a pre-existing condition,” I told her, sounding hostile and accused of something that was out of my control.

  “Oh, okay, well, you’re here, so why don’t we get you checked out,” she said, deciding not to argue with my response. “I’m just going to jot down your vitals and have you take a quick exam which is something we do with our migraine patients.” She placed her papers down and pressed her hand against the hand sanitizer dispenser, then briskly rubbed her palms together, causing the room to reek of sweet-scented alcohol. “Have you experienced any significant life changes in the last couple of months? Anything that might cause you significant stress?”

  While I considered Jill’s question, I took a seat next to the paper-covered table. Jill worked around me, acquiring my temperature, blood-pressure reading, and a quick gland check. I still haven’t given her an answer yet. “What kind of stress?” I questioned her question, wondering what type of details she was expecting.

  “Has anything upset you more than usual recently?” Her tone of voice, the calm way, in which, she asked is the same as it was the first time she asked.

  Upset isn’t a word I would use to classify my emotions. Terrified, sickened, or numb, are words I might choose, but I’m strong and not letting bumps in the road affect my health, so that’s not a contributing factor. “Not that I can think of …” Have I always been a liar?

  Jill opened the wooden door and asked me to follow her down the hall for an eye-exam. I wondered if that place was always so empty during weekdays. There weren’t many patients around, and even less staff, it seemed. She pulled down a white screen with a grid of blac
k letters, each row in a different size setting. “How have your eyes been feeling?” she asked. “Your record shows you’ve always had perfect vision.”

  “I think they’re fine,” I tell her. Actually, I had been experiencing trouble seeing road signs and menus at fast-food restaurants, but with the age of thirty looming, I was sure no one’s eyes stayed perfect forever. It hadn’t been bad enough to cause concern.

  Jill pointed to a row that was five lines up from the bottom. “Could you cover your right eye for me?”

  I hold my hand up in front of my right eye and read the line of letters above where her finger is pointing. “T, E, L, O, D, Z … another D?”

  “Okay, good, now can you cover your left eye and reread the same line again.” She’s still pointing to the first letter when I read what I see. “F, B, L, O, D, Z, D.”

  “Great, okay we can go back to the exam room now and wait for Dr. Chase. She’s just finishing up with a patient right now.”

  I didn’t know if having a short-lived eye-exam is a good thing or bad. Usually, I would be asked to read several lines, but I thought since I wasn’t there for a routine check-up or an emergency, they were less concerned about my eyesight.

  Jill, with her short coffee-brown bob haircut that bounced around as she walked, gestured for me to reenter the exam room, then she closed me inside to wait for the doctor. It felt like she couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.

  I waited several minutes before there was a knock on the door. Do people tell doctors to come into their own exam rooms? I’ve always wondered what the proper etiquette of answering to a knock at a doctor’s office should be, but I usually say, “Come in, I’m ready.”

  Dr. Chase, a middle-aged woman with a blonde pixie haircut, slim, and tall, walked in with confidence. Immediately, she took a seat on the black circular stool and did so with poise. Dr. Chase wasn’t wearing clogs like Jill. Instead, she had on a pair of stilettos, which looked a little odd with her white scrub pants, but who was I to judge? I walk around with paint splatters on my nicest of clothes.

  “Hi, Danielle, I’m Dr. Chase,” she said, holding a stapled packet of papers. “I’m just reviewing your history real quick here.” My file must have been a lot to take in all at once given my previous circumstances, and I was usually pleasantly surprised when I didn’t receive a million questions to follow-up on what they’re reading about me. I assumed the reports and files were extremely detailed.

  “I’ve had migraines in the past. I usually get them in the fall, so I think it might have something to do with allergies. I just can’t seem to make the current migraine go away.”

  “On a scale of one to ten, what pain level are you at right now?” Dr. Chase asked while sliding her stool in front of me to study my eyes.

  “Last night, it was probably at an eight. Right now, it isn’t as bad—still around five or six, though.”

  “Have you previously had a migraine you would consider being a ten on the pain scale?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I told her.

  “So, do you think this might be the worst migraine you’ve experienced?”

  “Possibly,” I answered, feeling more hesitant, to be honest at that point.

  “Okay,” she said, sounding more chipper than I might sound in her shoes. Dr. Chase patted the exam table. “Come on up here for a minute.”

  I stood from my seat, feeling the thump in my head as I placed my foot down onto the step-stool. I wished the migraine away at that point. I also hoped they would just give me something to make the pain stop while they figure out that I do, in fact, have a migraine. “Is there anything I can take to make a migraine go away? The normal pain relievers I take aren’t doing the trick this time.”

  “Let me check out a few things and then we can find the right treatment for you,” she said, running her fingers around the base of my neck, feeling for whatever could have been a significant sign. “Now, Danielle, after they released you for your head trauma after the incident, did the doctors tell you that you might be susceptible to long-term side-effects?”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat, just hearing the words, “Head trauma,” and “Incident,” but I nodded my head. “I don’t remember. I blocked a lot of the details, and my time at the hospital is a blurry memory for me.”

  “I see,” she said, sitting back down on her spinning stool.

  I already knew at that moment; I wasn’t leaving there with a pain reliever or a pat on the back.

  CURRENT DAY

  “Dani,” Layne says, waving his hand in front of my face. “What is going on?”

  I’m seated at a table by the window in Sage, but I don’t remember how I got here. Aly is staring at me with wide-eyes, and Sal and Johnny are behind her, resting their hands on Aly’s shoulder. “What are you talking about?” I respond.

  “You’ve been staring through me for the past five minutes,” Layne says. “You’re scaring me, Dani.”

  I can only focus on Layne’s words, and can’t hear what Sal says to Aly as he walks her over to another table, placing her tiramisu down in front of her. Sal wraps his arm around her neck and sits down in the empty seat, smiles and gives her a wet willy. I don’t hear the laughing shriek or the slap Aly gives Sal in return. The girl isn’t short of uncles or older brother-like-love.

  “I think we should get you to the hospital,” Layne says. “Johnny, will you and Lexi take care of Aly for a bit tonight?

  “No,” I tell him. “Johnny and Lexi have their hands full with their kids right now and I’m fine. I was just daydreaming. It’s not a big deal.”

  “You know we’re always happy to have Aly with us,” Johnny says, but it’s your call. You let me know what you need.

  It’s as if Johnny isn’t speaking to us when Layne blows up. “Bullshit, it’s not a big deal. Something is wrong, Dani, and I will not sit around and watch shit keep happening to you, while we pretend nothing is happening.”

  “Please, Layne, just give me a minute, okay?” I have a feeling he’d be a lot more concerned if he knew I couldn’t hear anything outside of our two-foot radius right now. All I can hear is the sounds from within my head.

  * * *

  He will find you again. He will take his revenge.

  He can’t hurt me now.

  He can, and he will.

  Layne would go after him if he knew.

  You would be safer that way.

  It was only one time, a year ago. I’m safe.

  You’ll never be safe.

  Nine

  Twelve Years Ago

  I WAS 18 YEARS OLD

  “Dani, you have been floating around here like you have wings and humming tunes to songs I’ve never heard. What has gotten into you?” Mom asks. I suppose I would ask questions too if I saw my daughter’s mood do a one-eighty, but I’ve been quiet about my week and the events that occurred on my birthday. Part of me wants to keep it to myself, fearing what would happen if I shared my excitement of meeting a great guy. Mom would be supportive, without a doubt. She wants nothing more than for me to be a happy, “normal,” eighteen-year-old, but if she gets excited, I’ll become more excited, and then if things go south, I’ll be worse off than I was before, stuck in my rut. Plus, she’ll want to meet him, and while I think Layne is incredible, she might be a little thrown off by his longish hair, several piercings, and grungy apparel.

  “It’s nothing. I’m in a good mood, and they’re just some new songs I found,” I fib, reaching for a coffee mug from the cabinet above my head. I feel around for the cup, wrapping my fingers around the first one I touch. I got this mug at a craft fair Mom dragged me too last year. I was pregnant, miserable, and the craft fair ended up being the only fun I had in my last trimester of pregnancy. The cup has a gold hand painted arrow with the words, “Keep going,” scribbled around the circumference. I thought it was ironic, even a little funny, as in, everyone runs in circles, but just keeps going. However, now I see it as a motivation to find what’s next.


  “You know when Aly has pooped by the look on her face, right?” Mom’s raised brow and a slight smirk inform me she’s calling my bluff.

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Well, I know something is going on with you by the look on your face. You don’t have to tell me though. You’re grown up now. I was just hoping you wanted to share.” An exaggerated sigh sings from her throat, giving me her best form of mom guilt.

  “I met a guy, okay?” I blurt.

  Mom presses her lips together as if she’s trying to suppress a smile. “What’s his name?” she asks. There it is … the hunger in her eyes and I know just hearing his name won’t satisfy her.

  “Layne Hensen,” I divulge.

  “That’s a nice name,” she says, tipping the carafe of coffee over her mug.

  “Yup, it is.” I reach my cup out toward her, waiting for my liquid electricity. “We are going out for dinner tonight.” The coffee fills my cup, and the scent of sweet hazelnut jolts me with a little pre-caffeine energy.

  Mom swallows the sip of coffee she’s taken through the steam and squeezes her eyes to swallow it faster than necessary. “Oh no, I’m going out tonight, Dani. I won’t be home to watch Aly. You hadn’t said anything, so I didn’t know you made plans.”

  “I didn’t say anything because I don’t need you to watch Aly. It’s okay.” I made plans for tonight, knowing Mom is playing Mahjong with her book club. I didn’t want her to insist on keeping Aly home. I have thought this through, and I’m comfortable bringing her with me to a restaurant. We’re meeting Layne there, and if I need to leave with Aly at any point, we can go without an issue. If she were any older, I wouldn’t bring her to meet a person who may or may not continue to be in my life, but at a year old, I doubt she’ll remember tonight.

  “Who else will watch her?” She knows I wouldn’t ask anyone else to watch Aly. I won’t even ask Lexi. I don’t feel right asking for help. Lexi has offered many times, but I think it’s out of sympathy and I don’t want that either.