The Thing with Feathers

by McCall Hoyle

  I know this drill—IV anti-seizure meds, observation, and then back to my crappy life. Except now my life’s the crappiest it’s ever been because I tried to live a lie and got busted. It’s like I accidentally hit Send on a group message to everyone at North Ridge High School, delivering a viral video of myself seizing and doing God knows what else in front of a packed gym.

  I bet it was the highlight of Maddie’s semester—probably the entire school year, maybe her life—if she wasn’t too traumatized by the bodily fluids and the messiness of the whole ordeal.

  Mom sits down in the chair beside the bed, reaching through the bedrail to touch my arm. “Emilie, there are people who want to see you.”

  I clutch my head in my hands, tugging on my hair, in an effort to compose myself. “No. No way.”

  “I sent everyone away but Chatham and Ayla.” She pulls my hands away from my face, squeezing them in her palms. “I thought you might want to see them.”

  I yank my hands free, covering my mouth. “I’m . . . going to . . .”

  She grabs a pink, kidney-shaped barf bucket from the nightstand, pressing it under my chin as I heave. After several gut-wrenching spasms, I regurgitate a dribble of yellow bile from the depths of my stomach.

  Mom wipes my chin with a rough white washcloth. I don’t fight her. What’s the point? I may as well let her take care of me. I’m probably never going to be able to do it myself.

  “Take a sip.” She lifts a Styrofoam cup with a Flexi-Straw to my lips. “In a minute, I’ll go tell them you don’t want to see anyone tonight.”

  “Ever,” I mutter, my tongue thick from the seizure meds and the cold water.

  She raises a skeptical brow.

  “Ever,” I repeat, fighting off a sudden, overwhelming urge to sleep. “I’m not going back to school, and I’m not going to see them again. Ever.”

  Later, I wake to the sound of hushed voices outside the drawn curtain.

  “She’s not feeling too good about herself right now,” Mom whispers, the high-pitched tone giving away her near panic.

  Good. She should be stressed. If it weren’t for her, none of this would’ve happened. Well, I still might’ve seized, but it would’ve been in the privacy of my own home with Hitch at my side, not in front of a crowd of strangers. It’s payback for her making me go to the Ridge.

  “It’s really not that big a deal,” Roger soothes.

  He just dropped about seventy-five more flights in my book. Not a big deal? The guy isn’t just a nerd. He’s an idiot.

  Mom sniffles.

  “She’s a beautiful girl. And smart. She’s got so much going for her.” He pauses, probably massaging her back or something.

  Hmm. If he knew I was awake, I’d think he was trying to flatter me. Yuck.

  “Everyone has flaws, Connie. Some of us hide them on the inside,” he says. “Some can’t be camouflaged so easily. But we’re all flawed. We’re all human.”

  “You’re right. It’s just—” She breaks off, sobbing.

  I grit my teeth. I know it’s hard on her being a single mom, especially with my epilepsy. But I want to scream. She’s not the victim. She’s not the one who deserves to be comforted. It’s me. I’m the victim. I’m the one trapped in this nightmare.

  I want to stomp my feet, punch my pillow, bang my head against the wall. But I can’t. I can’t do anything but lay here. The high doses of Phenobarbital or whatever they injected me with slow everything down—my speech, my breathing, and the muscle contractions required to stomp, punch, and bang. I bite back the scream rising in my throat and taste hot, coppery blood on the back of my tongue. When I gag, their conversation screeches to an abrupt halt.

  Mom peeks around the curtain. She sees me awake and steps into my white cubicle. Her posture is ramrod straight, her face dry. But she can’t hide the swollen eyes.

  “Hey, sleepyhead.” She stands over me, running the fingers of her left hand through my tangled hair. Our eyes meet for a second before I look away. A clean pair of jeans and the Cape Hatteras National Seashore sweatshirt lay on the chair beside the bed. The dark green hoodie reminds me of Chatham and the other people I lied to. I won’t be able to hide from the wreckage forever.

  I shake my head.

  “What’s wrong, baby?” Mom glances from my face to the chair, obviously trying to read my thoughts.

  Hmm. Let’s see. “Nothing,” I lie, already falling back into the deception routine. It’s like riding a bike. Once you master the technique, you never lose it. You might be a little wobbly at first, but you never forget. “Nothing. I just . . . I just want to go home.” I fiddle with the IV taped to the back of my left hand, wincing at the pressure when I jar the needle.

  Mom pulls my hands apart, gripping each of mine in her own. “The nurse said she should have your discharge orders after the next vitals check.”

  I know this drill too. Mom will be comforting and nurturing for a few hours, maybe a day, but eventually she’ll get tired of me feeling sorry for myself. Then we’ll go back to the merry-go-round of our life. But instead of ponies and gold rings, our carousel sports ghosts of dead dads and epileptic demons.

  I shake my head, trying to rid myself of such morbid thoughts, but what’s the use? This is my life—real life. I tried public school. I tried making friends. I did everything Mom and Dr. Wellesley wanted me to do and then some. I climbed a lighthouse with the cutest boy in school and kissed him, and look where that got me.

  Right back where I started.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I’ll tell you how the Sun rose—A Ribbon at a time—

  EMILY DICKINSON

  Mom lets me stay home Friday. Even she isn’t crazy enough to try to send me to school after a grand mal seizure and a sleepless night in the emergency room. She’s pretty cool Saturday. Sunday morning, she reaches her limit on my wallowing. I hear my bedroom door creak open. Hitch lifts his head, ready to greet the day. I stay frozen in my fetal position with my back to the door, hoping she’ll go away. I’m pretty sure it’s her Sunday to work at the library.

  If I stay in bed long enough, she’ll have to leave, and I won’t have to deal with her. I wait for the door to close again, but it doesn’t. Instead, soft feet pad across the rough floor to the side of my bed. I bite the inside of my cheek and count silently. One one thousand. Two one thousand. Three one thousand.

  She sits down on the edge of the bed. Hitch lays his heavy head gently on my hip. The bed shifts when she pets him.

  Four one thousand. Five one thousand. Six one thousand.

  “Sweetie, I know you’re awake.”

  Crap.

  “Listen . . .” She rubs the back of my arm. “I’ve been thinking.”

  Not good.

  “I’m not going to force you to go back to school against your will.”

  I open my right eye a fraction of an inch. If I’ve heard Granddaddy Day say it once, I’ve heard him say it a hundred times: “If something sounds too good to be true, it is.” Lying perfectly still, I wait. I know Mom well enough to know there has to be a catch. There’s always a catch.

  “Really, though.” Her hand freezes on my bicep. “I don’t think you should stay home. You’ve made huge accomplishments—come a long way. I think you should go back to school and finish what you started.”

  Umm, not in this lifetime. Or the next, for that matter.

  “Your friend Ayla and several others left the game and followed the ambulance to the hospital.” She pauses when I stiffen. “They were worried about you. It wouldn’t have been so terrifying for them if you’d been honest about the seizures.”

  Well, imagine that—me, wrong again. Seems like my secret’s out and Mom knows I didn’t tell people the truth about my epilepsy. Biting my lip, I refuse to submit to the tears welling behind my closed eyes.

  She squeezes my arm when I still don’t respond. “But no matter what—” Her voice cracks. “No matter what I think . . . I’m not going to force you to go back against y
our will.”

  Now a twinge of guilt nibbles my insides. She loves me. And I love her too. But I don’t know how to show it anymore.

  “You’re practically an adult. I’m going to trust you to start making some of your own decisions. I’m not going to pressure you to go back.” She lifts her hand to Hitch’s head, wiggling the thick fur and loose skin on the top of his skull. “But I’m not going to let you lay here and feel sorry for yourself either. So get up. We have breakfast to eat and errands to run.”

  I’d rather take an ice bath than tag along on her errands, but I bite my tongue. “Give me a second, okay?” Squeezing my eyes shut, I swallow the victory chant rising in my throat. There’s no way I’m arguing a minor technicality like weekend duties when I just won the whole freaking enchilada, the golden ticket, the war.

  Woo-hoo. Yippee. Yee-haw. No more risk of humiliation—at least not in a public high school. I’m not going back, not going back, not going back.

  “Come on, Hitch.” She pats her thigh as she pads out of the room barefooted. “I’ll take him out so you can get ready.”

  Hitch leaps off the bed. Normally, I’d disagree. He’s my dog, my responsibility—my best friend. But there’s no way I’m risking opening my mouth and inserting my foot.

  The door clicks shut, and they’re gone. I sit up, looking around my silent room, frozen in time exactly the way it was when Dad died. My sails deflate a little. Not going back to school means staying cooped up in my sad little shell and watching from the shore as everyone else, including my mom, ventures out into new territory, spins the wheel of fate, and takes a chance on life. Staying home means no Chatham, no Ayla, no life. No Ms. Ringgold, no lit mag, no nothing.

  Am I seriously contemplating going back to school? No. Avoiding the mirror above the dresser, I drag myself across the room and into a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt.

  Less than an hour later, a waiter at the Crow’s Nest seats us in a corner near the back door, away from the Sunday-morning breakfast rush. Unlike most of the restaurants on the beach that close in the off-season, the Nest stays open year-round. And it’s always crowded. They serve the best pancakes and sausage east of Raleigh.

  But I’m not ready for pancakes yet. I’m still a little groggy, and my stomach’s weak from the extra meds and the missed sleep Thursday night. A dull headache pulses behind my left eye. I imagine this is what a hangover would feel like. Not that I’ll ever know. There are so many firsts I’ll never experience now that the seizures are back: driving a car, drinking champagne at my wedding, skinny-dipping in the Atlantic.

  “What can I get you?” a twenty-something waiter with ash-blond hair and a nice smile asks, interrupting my mopey thoughts.

  Mom orders without opening the menu. “I’ll have the Captain’s Special.”

  The guy looks up from his notepad, eyes wide. “With all the fixings?”

  “Yep.” She beams, her cheeks flushed. “I’m starving.” And she must be if she’s going to eat eggs, sausage, grits, hash browns, and pancakes.

  Charming Waiter Boy turns on me. “And for you?”

  “An English muffin and apple juice.”

  His face drops. “How ’bout some ham or a side of grits?” He winks. “Something that’ll stick to your ribs.”

  “No, thanks.” I fidget with my fork as he scribbles down our order. Swallowing a sip of lukewarm water, I wish he’d head back to the kitchen. When I look at Mom, she raises an inquisitive brow.

  “What about some orange marmalade or honey for the muffin?” He grins hopefully.

  So much for him leaving. It’s like he’s vying for some Server of the Year award or something. “Okay.” I compromise. What’s the point in arguing? “The marmalade sounds good.”

  He nods, satisfied, and tucks his pencil behind his ear, then finally turns on his heel and scoots around a group of old men seated in the noisy dining area.

  Mom excuses herself to go to the bathroom, and I reach for a folded newspaper left wedged between the condiments and the wall. When I pull it toward me, it flops open to the sports page. The large-font headline reads “Buzzer Beater Decides Match between Local Rivals.” I skim the first few lines. “North Ridge loses to the War Eagles by two.” My stomach turns. “After a medical emergency in the stands interrupted the game at the halftime buzzer, starting point guard Chatham York walked off the court, leaving teammates in a lurch. The Ridge managed to hang on till the final seconds of the game with Seth Ross filling in.”

  My eyes race to the end of the article, but my brain fails to comprehend the words. Chatham walked off the court in the middle of a tied game with everyone watching, including his dad, to follow me to the hospital—where I refused to see him.

  My eyes pause on the last sentence. “War Eagles center Matthew Thomas fired off a half-court shot for the win at the buzzer.”

  I’m glad I’ve already decided not to return. Facing the student body, who surely blames me for the loss to their major rival, would be too much even if I wanted to go back.

  I cringe at the sidebar image of a crying North Ridge cheerleader wrapped in the arms of another face-painted member of the squad. A second photo shows the War Eagle bench charging the court, ready to dog pile the teammate who sank the winning shot.

  I shrink down in my seat and undo my ponytail in an effort to camouflage my face. Folding the paper inside out, I shove it back where I found it and hope nobody recognizes me.

  “Why so glum?” Mom slides into her seat. “I thought you’d be in a better mood after our discussion.”

  I shrug. What is there to say? She’s right. I should be happy now that I got my way on the school thing.

  Chipper Surfer Waiter Guy appears, grinning from ear to ear, and slides four plates heaped with food in front of Mom. He turns to me empty handed. “Your food will be out in a second.”

  The muscles in my face twist into a stiff smile. “Thanks.”

  He scurries off in the direction of the kitchen as Mom digs into a pile of hash browns smothered in fried onions, cubed ham, and shredded cheddar. “Want some?” she asks around a mouthful of potatoes.

  “No, thanks.” I try to relax my rock-hard face. Nothing happens. I think I’m fossilizing.

  When Chatham and I first started researching Emily Dickinson, I couldn’t understand how such a gifted writer could become a recluse. But I get it now, because all I want to do is go home and crawl under the covers. I glance across the crowded dining room, contemplating an escape to the bathroom.

  Our waiter weaves his way toward our table with my sad little English muffin and a ramekin of marmalade. “Here we go.” He slides the white bread plate in front of me. “Can I get y’all anything else?”

  Um, yeah. Some camouflage and a good hiding place. “No, I’m fine.”

  Mom lifts her shoulders, her mouth too full to do anything but shrug.

  Waiter Dude turns to check the table behind us. “Do we have many errands?” I ask, ripping my muffin into tiny pieces and nibbling at the rabbit-sized tidbits.

  “No. I need to drop a birthday card for your grandmother at the post office and grab a few things at the grocery store.” She swallows a cheekful of pancakes. “Oh, and . . . I have a couple of boxes to drop off at The Potter’s House. A few of Dad’s things.” Her hand shakes a little when she dabs the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “It’s time, sweetie.” She reaches her free hand across the table.

  I stare at it like its grown a sixth finger. The toasted muffin scratches the back of my throat. I chase the dry crust down with a swig of water. “The, uh . . . Potter’s House?” A few of Dad’s things?

  She nods.

  The slick glass slips against my wet palm, and water swishes over the rim. I mop the spill with my napkin, bumping the glass with my shaky hand and splashing more liquid on the table.

  I’m not sure what freaks me out more: the possibility of running into Chatham volunteering at the thrift store or Mom’s decision to get rid of Dad’
s stuff without consulting me.

  All I know for sure is I’ve got a problem—a big problem.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Each that we lose takes part of us . . .

  EMILY DICKINSON

  Earth to Emilie. Come in.” Mom hip bumps me in front of the avocados.

  I look up from my white-knuckled hands on the grocery cart handle. “Um, yeah?”

  “Do you want taco salads for dinner?” She digs around in a bin of tomatoes.

  I shrug, propping a foot on the metal basket beneath the cart. “Sure.”

  She drops two almost-ripe tomatoes into a plastic produce bag and heads over to the lettuce. I follow, racking my brain for an escape plan. I cannot—repeat cannot—enter The Potter’s House. Personally, I’d rather not enter the parking lot, but I know my mom. Nothing short of a natural disaster will keep the woman from her to-do list. So I’d better come up with a good reason why I need to stay in the car.

  We’re heading up aisle three when I start laying the groundwork for my master plan. “Is it hot in here?” I ask, pausing behind her when she stops to compare prices on the black olives.

  “Not really.” She counts on her fingers, calculating the cost per ounce, her eyes narrowing. When she doesn’t look at me, I clear my throat. She glances in my direction and adds two cans of chopped olives to our cart.

  I massage my temple, wincing for added effect. “I’m not feeling so great.”

  “We’re almost finished,” she says, sashaying around the endcap and up the next aisle. “You’re probably just tired.”

  I sigh through parted lips, trying to gain her sympathy without going overboard. But she’s not biting. She’s totally oblivious as she triple checks her list.

  I pray for divine intervention as we navigate the frozen food section. When we approach the register, I’m still praying. The tightness in my gut tells me I’m wasting my time, and my gut is always right. God knows I should’ve listened to it at the game on Thursday.