“Probably not.” I got up, pulled on some underwear, and looked around for the menu, spying it over on the desk. “What do you like? Pancakes? Eggs? Bacon? Do you want me to ask if the pig was—” All of a sudden, something about the way the sun was slanting through the window seemed to blind me. Bubbles of light came at me from all directions, and the room faded to white. I stumbled and grabbed the back of the chair.
“Dallas? Are you okay?”
I wasn’t. My head hurt. My right hand was tingling and my right arm felt too long for my body. An intense wave of déjà vu washed over me. My stomach billowed up like I was cresting the top of a rollercoaster. I couldn’t speak. My heartbeat echoed throughout the room. Fuck me. Fuck. Me.
“Dallas?” Maren was standing behind me. Her hand was on my back. “Dallas, what’s wrong? Say something.”
Suddenly, I realized I was fine again. Mortified and sweaty, but fine.
“Sorry. I’m okay.” I looked at her. “I sometimes get … these headaches that affect my vision. I woke up with one.”
Her expression was concerned. “Like migraines?”
“Sort of.”
“Do they make you dizzy?”
“Sometimes. I think I got up too fast. The room sort of spun.” I looked at my right hand, opened and closed my fist a few times.
“What’s wrong with your hand?” she asked.
“Nothing. It’s just numb. That happens sometimes, too.”
“Come sit down. You’re all flushed.” She tried to lead me over to the bed, but I gently pulled my arm free.
“No, I’m okay. Really. I took something for it already, and some food will make me feel better.”
She didn’t look totally convinced, but she let me go. My stomach was upset, like it always was after an episode like that, but I pretended everything was fine. I looked over the breakfast menu and ordered some eggs and bacon for myself; fruit, yogurt, and granola for Maren; coffee for me, and tea for her.
“I guess I’ll take a quick shower while we wait for the food,” I said.
“Okay.” She grinned. “I’ll get dressed in case I have to answer the door.”
I tried to smile back, but the muscles in my face felt strange. Disappearing into the bathroom, I shut the door and got in the shower.
Fuck! Why today of all days? Couldn’t this thing in my head leave me alone for one goddamn weekend? Couldn’t I feel like myself again for forty-eight fucking hours? I knew it could have been worse, and I was thankful I hadn’t lost consciousness, but Jesus Christ. How embarrassing, to be standing there in my goddamn underwear, unable to move or speak.
What if it happened again? What if it happened while I was driving? What if Maren was in the car with me? Goddammit! I didn’t want to, but after I got out of the shower and dried off, I took a Depakote just in case. I wasn’t sure it would help, and it would mean I couldn’t drink and I’d probably feel a little shitty today, but I didn’t know what else to do.
Moody and frustrated, I came out of the bathroom and got dressed.
Maren was watching me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I forced myself to smile at her. “Just my head.”
Breakfast arrived, and we ate sitting on the bed. If she noticed I didn’t eat much or talk much, she didn’t mention it. When we were done, I purchased tickets online for the 6:10 p.m. baseball game, and we went down to valet to get the car so I could take Maren home to change.
“Hey,” she said, slipping her hand in mine. “What’s going on in there? You’re so quiet.”
“I’m fine.”
“Is it the headache?”
“Yeah. The meds I take have a few unpleasant side effects.”
She squeezed my hand as my car arrived. “Let me drive, okay?”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to put my fist through a brick wall. I wanted to be someone strong in her eyes, someone who could take care of her, not someone who needed to be driven around like a fucking child. This was exactly why I couldn’t tell her the truth.
But my pride wasn’t worth her life. I nodded, and when we walked out, I went around to the passenger side, feeling like I’d just taken a punch in the gut.
Maren was all smiles, though, excited about the game, chirping away about how long it had been since she’d taken days off, and how glad she was that she’d done it.
We arrived at her house about twenty minutes later. “I won’t be long,” she said. “Make yourself at home. Do you want anything to drink? Water or tea?”
“No, thanks, I’m good.”
Maren disappeared into her bedroom and I sat on the couch, pulling my phone from my pocket. But instead of checking messages, I looked around at her living room. When I’d been here yesterday, I hadn’t really gotten the chance to look at anything besides a few photographs. The room was totally her—feminine and bohemian and colorful. Her couch was a neutral color, but it was covered with pillows in every imaginable hue. In fact, it was clear she was a big fan of pillows. The only other furniture in the room were giant pillows lined up under the window across from the couch. She had a fireplace to the left, but instead of wood, it held candles. In front of the couch was a coffee table that looked sort of Moroccan, and on it sat lots of oversized books on subjects that ranged from Buddhism to Russian ballet to the pin-up art of Alberto Vargas. It smelled good in here too—like the fancy candles Beatriz sometimes lit at the shop.
I skimmed through the Vargas book for a few minutes before deciding I’d better get the call to my mother out of the way. First, I glanced at my messages—one from Evan checking in, one from a client looking for an appointment, and three from Finn wondering how the drive was going, the last of which was pretty frantic. I hadn’t told him I’d decided to fly and was stopping in Detroit. I’d text him back, but first I replied to Evan that all was well enough, to the client letting him know that I was unavailable for a while but to contact Beatriz at the shop. Then I took a breath and pulled up my mother’s cell number. But before hitting call, I went outside and sat on the front porch, making sure the door was unlocked behind me. I didn’t want to take the chance Maren would hear me.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Dallas?”
“Yes.”
“My goodness, I don’t remember the last time you actually called me. I usually have to chase you down for weeks to get you on the phone.”
Did she have to scold me at the beginning of every conversation? It made me feel ten years old again. “Yeah, I know.”
“Your brother said he’s been trying to reach you too. Did you change your number or something?”
“No. Just been busy.” Unable to sit still, I walked around the side of the house and began to pace up and down the driveway. I could hear the shower running through the open bathroom window.
“Doing what?”
“Working.”
“Oh, really? Where?”
My headache intensified. “At the tattoo shop, Mom. Same place I’ve been for the past few years.”
“Oh. When you said working, I thought you meant you’d gotten a real job. But what can you expect when you drop out of college?”
I pressed my lips together. In my mother’s mind, tattoos were for “lowlifes and inmates” and “people who don’t know any better,” and tattoo artist was not a real profession because I didn’t have to wear a suit and tie or even a uniform to work.
But those were not arguments I wanted to have again.
“Listen, Mom. I’ve got some news.”
“What kind of news?”
This was the part I was dreading. I was pretty sure my mother had majored in overreacting at college (with a double minor in snobbery and playing the victim), and I could see her freaking out about this and then throwing a massive fit that I hadn’t said anything to her yet, but my brother already knew. I had to tell her something, though.
“I’m going to Boston for a consultation with a neurosurgeon Finn knows.”
Silence. “A consultation with a neurosurgeon? Why?”
“Dallas? Are you okay?”
I wasn’t. My head hurt. My right hand was tingling and my right arm felt too long for my body. An intense wave of déjà vu washed over me. My stomach billowed up like I was cresting the top of a rollercoaster. I couldn’t speak. My heartbeat echoed throughout the room. Fuck me. Fuck. Me.
“Dallas?” Maren was standing behind me. Her hand was on my back. “Dallas, what’s wrong? Say something.”
Suddenly, I realized I was fine again. Mortified and sweaty, but fine.
“Sorry. I’m okay.” I looked at her. “I sometimes get … these headaches that affect my vision. I woke up with one.”
Her expression was concerned. “Like migraines?”
“Sort of.”
“Do they make you dizzy?”
“Sometimes. I think I got up too fast. The room sort of spun.” I looked at my right hand, opened and closed my fist a few times.
“What’s wrong with your hand?” she asked.
“Nothing. It’s just numb. That happens sometimes, too.”
“Come sit down. You’re all flushed.” She tried to lead me over to the bed, but I gently pulled my arm free.
“No, I’m okay. Really. I took something for it already, and some food will make me feel better.”
She didn’t look totally convinced, but she let me go. My stomach was upset, like it always was after an episode like that, but I pretended everything was fine. I looked over the breakfast menu and ordered some eggs and bacon for myself; fruit, yogurt, and granola for Maren; coffee for me, and tea for her.
“I guess I’ll take a quick shower while we wait for the food,” I said.
“Okay.” She grinned. “I’ll get dressed in case I have to answer the door.”
I tried to smile back, but the muscles in my face felt strange. Disappearing into the bathroom, I shut the door and got in the shower.
Fuck! Why today of all days? Couldn’t this thing in my head leave me alone for one goddamn weekend? Couldn’t I feel like myself again for forty-eight fucking hours? I knew it could have been worse, and I was thankful I hadn’t lost consciousness, but Jesus Christ. How embarrassing, to be standing there in my goddamn underwear, unable to move or speak.
What if it happened again? What if it happened while I was driving? What if Maren was in the car with me? Goddammit! I didn’t want to, but after I got out of the shower and dried off, I took a Depakote just in case. I wasn’t sure it would help, and it would mean I couldn’t drink and I’d probably feel a little shitty today, but I didn’t know what else to do.
Moody and frustrated, I came out of the bathroom and got dressed.
Maren was watching me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I forced myself to smile at her. “Just my head.”
Breakfast arrived, and we ate sitting on the bed. If she noticed I didn’t eat much or talk much, she didn’t mention it. When we were done, I purchased tickets online for the 6:10 p.m. baseball game, and we went down to valet to get the car so I could take Maren home to change.
“Hey,” she said, slipping her hand in mine. “What’s going on in there? You’re so quiet.”
“I’m fine.”
“Is it the headache?”
“Yeah. The meds I take have a few unpleasant side effects.”
She squeezed my hand as my car arrived. “Let me drive, okay?”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to put my fist through a brick wall. I wanted to be someone strong in her eyes, someone who could take care of her, not someone who needed to be driven around like a fucking child. This was exactly why I couldn’t tell her the truth.
But my pride wasn’t worth her life. I nodded, and when we walked out, I went around to the passenger side, feeling like I’d just taken a punch in the gut.
Maren was all smiles, though, excited about the game, chirping away about how long it had been since she’d taken days off, and how glad she was that she’d done it.
We arrived at her house about twenty minutes later. “I won’t be long,” she said. “Make yourself at home. Do you want anything to drink? Water or tea?”
“No, thanks, I’m good.”
Maren disappeared into her bedroom and I sat on the couch, pulling my phone from my pocket. But instead of checking messages, I looked around at her living room. When I’d been here yesterday, I hadn’t really gotten the chance to look at anything besides a few photographs. The room was totally her—feminine and bohemian and colorful. Her couch was a neutral color, but it was covered with pillows in every imaginable hue. In fact, it was clear she was a big fan of pillows. The only other furniture in the room were giant pillows lined up under the window across from the couch. She had a fireplace to the left, but instead of wood, it held candles. In front of the couch was a coffee table that looked sort of Moroccan, and on it sat lots of oversized books on subjects that ranged from Buddhism to Russian ballet to the pin-up art of Alberto Vargas. It smelled good in here too—like the fancy candles Beatriz sometimes lit at the shop.
I skimmed through the Vargas book for a few minutes before deciding I’d better get the call to my mother out of the way. First, I glanced at my messages—one from Evan checking in, one from a client looking for an appointment, and three from Finn wondering how the drive was going, the last of which was pretty frantic. I hadn’t told him I’d decided to fly and was stopping in Detroit. I’d text him back, but first I replied to Evan that all was well enough, to the client letting him know that I was unavailable for a while but to contact Beatriz at the shop. Then I took a breath and pulled up my mother’s cell number. But before hitting call, I went outside and sat on the front porch, making sure the door was unlocked behind me. I didn’t want to take the chance Maren would hear me.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Dallas?”
“Yes.”
“My goodness, I don’t remember the last time you actually called me. I usually have to chase you down for weeks to get you on the phone.”
Did she have to scold me at the beginning of every conversation? It made me feel ten years old again. “Yeah, I know.”
“Your brother said he’s been trying to reach you too. Did you change your number or something?”
“No. Just been busy.” Unable to sit still, I walked around the side of the house and began to pace up and down the driveway. I could hear the shower running through the open bathroom window.
“Doing what?”
“Working.”
“Oh, really? Where?”
My headache intensified. “At the tattoo shop, Mom. Same place I’ve been for the past few years.”
“Oh. When you said working, I thought you meant you’d gotten a real job. But what can you expect when you drop out of college?”
I pressed my lips together. In my mother’s mind, tattoos were for “lowlifes and inmates” and “people who don’t know any better,” and tattoo artist was not a real profession because I didn’t have to wear a suit and tie or even a uniform to work.
But those were not arguments I wanted to have again.
“Listen, Mom. I’ve got some news.”
“What kind of news?”
This was the part I was dreading. I was pretty sure my mother had majored in overreacting at college (with a double minor in snobbery and playing the victim), and I could see her freaking out about this and then throwing a massive fit that I hadn’t said anything to her yet, but my brother already knew. I had to tell her something, though.
“I’m going to Boston for a consultation with a neurosurgeon Finn knows.”
Silence. “A consultation with a neurosurgeon? Why?”
