by Ginger Scott
“Thanks, and sounds good,” I say. “Call you later.” I end the call and hold my phone to my chest, lying flat on my back, eyes closed again. They just need rest. I’ll just rest until six, until I need to go to the airport.
Ty is coming to visit, flying here from Arizona since it’s such a short flight. My parents are letting him stay in our guest room. I asked, expecting a battle, but my dad surprised me, saying it wouldn’t be a problem at all. My mom didn’t protest. I might be in the Twilight Zone. I don’t care. I’ll stay here in fantasyland if it stays like this.
I put the cold compress back over my face, pushing down on my eyes. I don’t know if this works, or even helps, but I read it on one of the MS blogs. I’ll try anything. Rest…yes. I just need rest.
“Cass, your phone alarm has been going off, for like, forty minutes!”
Why is Paige in my room? I must have slept harder than I thought, longer—deeper. Everything hurts. The cold compress on my head feels lukewarm, not at all relaxing. I slide the gel pack from my face, my arms tired, tingling from being folded over my head for so long.
“I need to pick Ty up. He’s coming in at seven. I need to get ready,” I say, rubbing the tiredness from my eyes.
“It’s six-thirty. You’re going to be late,” Paige says, turning my phone alarm off and tossing it on my bed next to me.
“Shit!” I stand quickly, the blood rushing from my head. Woozy. I’m woozy. I sit at the edge of my mattress and focus on my flip-flops—where they sit on the floor. They’re…cloudy. Everything’s cloudy.
“No, no, no, no, no!” I squeeze them shut. Deep breath. When I open, everything will look fine. Everything’s fine. I’m fine.
Fuzzy. Everything I look at through my right eye is fuzzy. That’s okay. It’s better. I think it’s getting better. Clearing up.
“Cass,” Paige says, her voice cautious. She knows. My sister knows. “Cass, are you having a flare-up?”
“I’m fine,” I say, standing quickly and moving to my closet. I miss my target, my steps suddenly off-balance, and my right rib crashes into the corner of my dresser. “Damn it!”
“Cass, you’re not fine. And you’re not driving. I’m getting Mom,” she says, moving to my door.
“No, I’m fine. Paige, look at me,” I beg. She stops short of the door and turns to face me. I close my right eye and she looks normal. I close my left eye and she looks like she’s standing in the rain.
I’m not fine. My lip quivers. I’m not fine, and now I’m starting to cry.
“Goddamn it! I hate my body!” I scream, stroking my arm along the top of my dresser, knocking over some pictures and knickknacks.
“I’m getting Mom,” Paige says, her hand around my arm. “I. Have. To.”
I look at her, in her eyes. She doesn’t want to do this to betray me. She has to. I know she does. I have to see my doctor. This isn’t normal. I’ve been through this before. I nod, a slight movement, but enough that Paige gets the answer she needs.
“I’ll tell Mom, and then I’ll go pick up Ty,” she says, and I move to the floor. Being lower, it helps. I have my bearings, and I crawl back to bed and lie down. And I cry. I hate crying. I hate my body.
None of this is fair.
Ty
I know the second I see Paige that something isn’t right.
“She’s having a flare-up,” Paige explains as we wait for the elevator to come to take us to our level in the garage. “She’s probably been having it for a while. Did she tell you?”
Her tone is accusatory, and my gut instinct is to say something back to her in the exact same tone. But I don’t. Because no—Cass hasn’t said anything to me. If she’s been feeling things, she’s been keeping it to herself. And it hurts a little that she didn’t tell me. I shake my head no and move into the elevator as it opens.
“Mom is getting her in with her neurologist. Hopefully tomorrow.”
I nod again.
“She’s been pushing herself,” Paige says.
That one was directed to me. She’s making this my fault. That’s not happening.
“She’s also been stressed,” I say back, keeping my eyes forward. That one was for her.
“I brought Cass’s car. She has more room,” Paige says, pulling the passenger door open for me, and then stepping back. She’s not sure what to do, and that’s okay. I understand. I pull myself into the passenger side and then reach over to collapse the chair for her.
“You’ll need to get it in the trunk. It’s not as heavy as it looks,” I say, and she nods. She struggles with it a little, but she doesn’t say anything. I watch her in the rearview mirror as she pushes and grunts until my chair is in the trunk, and then she closes the heavy top.
Cass’s car is hot. It’s something I would drive. And I bet she wanted to be the one to show it to me. I only let myself look at the interior, and not awe over it for long, so that way she can take me out in it again when she’s ready. I bet she drives it fast.
Paige drives it like a grandmother. It takes her four attempts to back out of her spot, and she rides the break all the way down the turn-ramp for the garage. I keep my mouth shut, though. I could easily make her more nervous, pick on her—like I would if Nate were driving. But I don’t feel like joking around with Paige. Our last conversation consisted of her telling me I didn’t deserve her sister. Now I felt like saying the same thing to her.
“They can’t make her quit,” I say after a few long minutes of silence. Turns out I’m not very good at keeping quiet.
“Hmmmm?” Paige says, looking over her shoulder to switch lanes on the highway. She drives this car like a boat. It’s a little funny. And scary.
“Soccer. Your parents can’t make her quit,” I say, keeping my eyes on her, putting a little pressure on her so she gets my point.
“That’s not up to me,” she says finally, still not glancing in my direction.
“It’s not up to them either,” I say back, turning my attention to the passenger window for the rest of the drive. My first trip to California, and it’s too dark to see the beach. Just one more thing I’ll save for Cass.
The driveway is dark when we pull in, and no one comes out to help. “Cass is probably inside. She’s a little wobbly on her legs. Or at least, she was this afternoon,” Paige says, popping the trunk and moving to the back of the car. I hate that I have to depend on her right now.
She manages to work my chair out and unfold it so she can push it next to me. “I’ve got it from here,” I say, pulling myself in and grabbing my bag from the floor of the passenger side.
I push the door closed and follow Paige up the driveway through the garage to a back door. There’s a little bit of a lip, but I manage to make it over and into the house.
“We’re here!” Paige yells, dropping her purse on top of the washing machine in the laundry room.
I follow her through the kitchen to a large living room with a gigantic television and fireplace. Cass sits up quickly and looks at me over the back of the sofa. As painful as the ride here was with her sister, seeing her eyes light up like that made it all worthwhile.
“Hey,” she says, her voice raw, like she’s been sleeping. Good, I hope she’s been sleeping.
“Not cool,” I say, pushing closer until I’m next to her at the sofa arm. “Faking a flare-up for attention.”
I’m kidding, and Cass knows I’m only joking. Her Mom, however, does not.
“Tyson, Cass is not well,” she says in the most serious voice I am pretty sure I’ve ever heard.
“Mom, he knows. He’s joking,” Cass says over her shoulder, turning back to me to roll her eyes and shake her head. She leans forward and places a hand on either side of my face. “God I’m glad you’re here,” she says, kissing me and holding her lips to mine like she needs them to breathe. I think she just might.
“Well, that’s not a very funny joke,” Cass’s mom says, standing up from her chair, looking for an excuse to leave the room. She doesn’t like me,
but I don’t want that to be my fault, so I move to meet her before she can leave the room.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I say, Southern drawl doing it’s thing. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. Humor—sometimes it takes the edge off, that’s all. Thank you for having me as a guest in your home.”
I hold my hand out, hoping she’ll take it. She finally does, though her grip is weak and timid. Nothing at all like her daughters’—either of them. “Let me show you to your room,” she says, leading me down a hall to the back of the house. I look over my shoulder to Cass, and she’s laughing quietly at me, but she gives me a wink.
“I hope you don’t mind, the only other guests we have are usually my parents, so the room is a little…Victorian,” she says, reaching for a pillow on the bed and straightening the ruffled case that’s covering it. This room puts the pink Barbie room to shame.
“It’s fine. And again, thank you,” I say, her mom turning to look at me with a pause. She breathes in, ready to say something—before pushing her lips into a tight smile, and nodding as she turns to leave. Cass comes in a few seconds later.
“Your mom is not a big fan,” I smile. I don’t think her dad is a very big fan either, based on our phone conversation, but I don’t tell her that.
“She’s just not used to a boy being here. It’s weird for her. I was sort of surprised she said yes, but my dad made this face at her. I think he’s sort of on your side,” she says, her smile bigger. There’s a part of me that thinks her dad may have lured me here to murder me. But I keep that to myself too.
“So, how long?” I ask, unzipping my bag and pulling out my few toiletries. I don’t look at her while I do this, because I don’t want her to see the hurt on my face. She senses it anyway.
“A few weeks…nothing big until a few days ago, though. I’m sorry…” she says, and I look up with a soft smile.
“Sorry for what?” I shrug. I don’t want her apologizing. I’ll get over being hurt. This isn’t about me. It isn’t about Paige or her parents. It’s about her, and people need to let it just be about her.
“That I didn’t tell you,” she says.
I shrug again and go back to putting my things on the night table. I pull my watch off and hold it in my hand, running my thumb over the always, soaking in it’s meaning. “I get it. You were scared. And talking about things like weaknesses makes them real,” I say, handing my watch to her.
She takes it and looks at it closely. “Something like that…yeah,” she says, her fatigue showing through. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.
She hands the watch back, but I shake my head no. Her brow furrows.
“You keep it,” I say. She looks back down, rolling the metal band through her fingers until she gets to the always. “This…isn’t meant for me.”
“It’s meant for whoever needs it,” I say quickly, holding my hand around hers, clasping the watch in her fingers tightly. She looks up at me, unsure. “It’s mine to give. And you need it.”
Her hands stay in mine for a few more seconds, and I relax my hold slowly, until I’m sure she’s going to keep the watch. She puts it around her wrist, clipping the clasp. It’s about five rungs too big for her thin arm, and it makes her laugh.
“You can push it up to your bicep, wear it like an iPod,” I joke, and she chuckles back.
“Yeah, that won’t look weird,” she says, twisting the silver around her arm a few times, her breath held, until she looks back at me. “Thanks, Ty.”
“It’s nothin’,” I shrug back. That was a lie—it’s everything. I never thought I would be able to live without that watch. Now, I don’t think I can live without Cass’s smile. I’ll do whatever it takes to get that back, make it permanent.
“You hungry?” she asks.
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
She stops me at the doorway as I follow her out. “Yeah, uhm, maybe turn the Ty down, just a notch, until my mom warms up to you?”
“What? Your mom hates bears? Damn, what kind of household is against Leo and grizzlies? I don’t know, Cass, I’m starting to think y’all have some prejudices that I just can’t look past,” I say, wincing like I’m serious. I drop the act fast though when I can tell she’s not in the mood. “Got it, tone down the bear shit. Done,” I salute her.
I watch her carefully for the rest of the night. Her mom hovers, bringing her a plate to eat on the sofa. I join her there, deciding to stay near her instead of at the table with her mom and Paige. Even if laser beams of disdain didn’t come from their eyes, I’d still sit with Cass. I can’t be close enough to her. I missed her. And she’s faltering. She needs me now.
We watch television, a full couch cushion apart while her mom and Paige are in the room with us. It’s weird how nobody is talking. In my house, everyone is always talking—we talk over each other. Hell, I’m not sure any of us actually listen we love talking so much. Here, it’s pin-drop kind of quiet.
“Where’s your dad,” I whisper to her, after her sister finally leaves the room.
“He works late. His office is downtown,” she says, the corner of her lip curling in apology. “You’ll see him tomorrow though. He has the day off. We make the doctor-visit thing a family affair.”
I don’t have an answer for that. I know how she feels. It’s smothering. But I also know that her parents—though they show it in freakishly overbearing ways perhaps—are probably just worried.
“Well, I’m totally coming too. I mean, this will probably become the topic of conversation at dinner tomorrow, right?” I ask, and she smiles, amused. “I don’t want to feel left out. It would be like not watching one of those big cable shows and then trying to decipher everyone’s OMGs on Twitter.”
I OMG-ed. It felt dirty. But she laughed, so it was worth it. Maybe.
“You may have noticed, HIPAA laws don’t apply to Cass Owens,” she says, a wry laugh coming through.
“Welcome to the club. I was a medical-student case. Had twelve doctors. Oh, and...my legs are in Newsweek.”
“Shut up!” she says, shoving me on the shoulder.
“Google it. Look up my name, Louisiana Samaritan Hospital, and Dr. Bunshee,” I say, and she studies me for a few seconds, waiting for me to break. I cross my heart and her eyes widen.
“Okay, I’m Googling that. Tonight,” she says.
“Go right ahead,” I say.
“Oh I am,” she says back.
“Whatever. That’s fine, go do it,” I tease back.
“I’m totally doing it,” she smiles.
“Go on then. Go ahead,” I hold my arm out, and she stands, challenging me.
“Okay. Here I go. This is me…going to Google you and your famous legs,” she says, folding her arms over her chest while she walks by stomping. Her body is perfectly straight, and her steps come easily. No weaving or stumbling. I notice. Her mom notices. Neither of us says a word.
“Whatever. You’ll find it online,” I say back, keeping our silly banter going.
“Oh, I’m sure I will,” she says over her shoulder.
I watch until her door closes to her room and then I turn my attention back to the television. It’s some nature show, and it sucks balls. “Mrs. Owens?” I ask, trying to be as polite as possible, and not insult her absolutely horrid taste in television. “Would you mind too terribly if I maybe changed the channel, for just a few minutes?” And then lost the remote and somehow stabbed this channel so you could never get it back?
Cass’s mom closes the magazine she’s been reading, pulls her glasses from her face, and then clicks off the small reading lamp next to her chair. She stops in front of me and hands me the remote. “You can call me Diana, Tyson,” she says during our exchange. And then she smiles. Not a fake one, but a real one.
“I’ll do my best, Mrs. Owens,” I say, and her eyes soften.
As soon as she leaves the room, I switch the channel for Sports Center, and I watch just long enough until I feel like it’s safe to follow Cass’s
steps down the hall to her room. I knock with the tips of my fingers, just loud enough for her to notice, and she opens her door. Standing. Not swaying. Her eyes focus on me. Her laptop is closed on her bed where she was sitting.
She pokes her head out and scans the hall, then she opens her door wide and waves me inside.
And somehow I end up holding her until the morning.
Chapter 28
Cass
It was literally a caravan to my doctor’s office. There were five of us in the waiting room, and everyone wanted to join me when they called me back. The scene was a bit mortifying. My neurologist sees mostly older people, seniors. My visits already garner a lot of attention because I sort of stand out. But when I walked in with a posse?
I really only wanted Ty, but that would have opened up a whole new shit storm. So I let my mom come. It seems like doctors are places moms are supposed to be at with their daughters. We should do some things that are…normal.
Nothing was a surprise. I was relapsing. I haven’t relapsed in a while, since I quit playing soccer. My mom hasn’t said it, but she’s thought it. I can see it behind her eyes. My body was fatigued—under unnatural stress—and even though the doctor threw in that flare-ups can happen at any time, for any reason, I knew on some level that those things probably played a part. It was my mom’s conclusion. It was my conclusion, even if I didn’t like it.
Dr. Peeples ordered intravenous steroids at the medical center for a few days, plus an MRI to see if there was any active cell damage happening in my brain that would be causing the blurry vision, or maybe one of my old lesions is getting bigger. Either way, the steroids should calm everything down. Then, I’d be good to go. “Good to go,” Dr. Peeples said.
I had a feeling my parents and I were bound to have different definitions of “good to go.”
“He said you could start today, if you want. I really think that’s best,” my mother says as we all stroll through the parking lot. I nod in agreement. Steroids make me sick to my stomach and turn my face red and puffy, like an Oompa Loompa. So Ty should get to see that during the week he’s here. Awesome.