Fuck him.
I stare blankly at him, unable to return an ounce of his enthusiastic excitement at my deteriorating health. Dr. Whitman sighs the heaviest of sighs and takes a seat on the annoying rolling chair. Pressing his wrinkled hands to his knees, he stares until I sit up on my elbows to meet his gaze. A decade of being his patient has gotten us a certain rapport. He gives me good news, I smile. He gives me bad news, I want to die. Whenhe’s overly cheery, I know the news is going to give me the urge to swim with sharks while bleeding out.
“So, the medicine is losing its efficacy.”
“I’d say so considering I’ve had four seizures in the past six months,” I deadpan.
Dr. Whitman smiles placatingly at me. It’s infuriating. “Let’s try a new medicine. This happens sometimes, Harper. Your seizures were pretty well managed for a handful of years there. We’ll try this new one and see if it can stop the breakthrough seizures. How’s that sound?”
“How were my scans?”
Dr. Whitman blinks slowly at my question, then turns to scroll through my file on his laptop. My anxiety ramps up when he’s silent, but it settles again when he turns back to smile at me. Less of abad newssmile, and more of anothing has changedsmile. I’ll take that one.
“Normal. I don’t see anything abnormal to indicate the increase in your seizures, whichagaintells me it’s probably the medicine.” Dr. Whitman stands with a tired groan, knees popping as he shifts. Old geezer. Just kidding, he’s probably my father’s age. Still kind of old, though. “If the seizures increase, call for an emergency appointment. Otherwise, I’ll see you in three months to see how the new medicine is helping. And remember?—”
“No dangerous activities while the seizures are still happening,” I interrupt him with a deep roll of my eyes.
“Yes, well. Try to avoid your triggers.”
I salute him with a vicious smirk. The old guy leaves the room with a weary sigh, probably used to my antics at this point. Most people make a similar sound after dealing with me. Always too much. Usually too little. I’m never just the right amount for anyone. Honey and I plod out of the stuffy doctor’s office and into the bright sunlight of late fall Florida. If I wasyoung, and able to make bad decisions, I’d spend the afternoon in downtown Orlando getting drunk off my ass. Forgetting all about my problems. Forgetting aboutme.
But no. Instead, my mother idles in her expensive Beemer, waiting to drive me back to Clay Springs, with her strawberry-blonde hair piled up high in a tight bun.
“So?” Mom asks as she pulls out of the parking lot, foregoing her blinker because she doesn’t care about traffic safety.
“Just changing my medicine.”
She hums softly. “All the scans were fine?”
Every ounce of restraint in my body stops me from rolling my eyes. “Yes, Mother.”
This is the way it goes. Doctor’s appointment, she asks how it went, I give her the report, and then she stays silent the entire drive home. Both of my parents are high-profile attorneys without much time for me. Having a kid with a medical issue was a little hiccup they never signed up for. Sometimes I’m not sure they even really wanted me, instead they were just checking off some list that they made up in their head to secure their successful status. But any time I’ve voiced that, my father gets this sad look in his eyes and sayswe wanted you so badly, Harp.
Crock of shit if I’ve ever heard one.
The prescription is ready, so we make a pit stop at the pharmacy. Mom makes idle chitchat with the pharmacist, but I keep my gaze firmly out the window. Everyone in this goddamn town knows aboutHarper, the redhead that needs to be watched. Makes me sick. I wish I could go somewhere without being known, be someone else, not worry about having a seizure and waking up covered in piss. Just once.
My little farmhouse looms on the horizon, settling all the aches and pains I’d gathered from enduring the doctor’s visit. A few years ago my parents gave me an acre of their land, and I’d used savings, some of my trust fund, and the money I’dsquirreled away from a few years of being a data analyst to build a small little bungalow. That had been the argument from hell and also how Honey came into the picture. If I wanted to live alone, there were stipulations to keep me safe.
A service dog was one of them.
One of those old-people monitors was the other.
Let’s just say there’s no old-people monitor in my house and Honey is really good at her job. She can even dial paramedics if she needs to because she’s just a furry human.
Without a word to my mother, I hastily climb out of the car. Honey follows quietly along behind me. Just as I’m about to walk into the front door, my mother shouts, “Harper!” turning my attention back to her.
She leans across the console, eyes firmly on me. “You’ll let me know if the medicine makes you sick?”
I bite back a grimace. “Sure, Mom. I’ll see you at Sunday lunch.”
A few beats pass, as if she’s considering saying something else, before she waves stiffly and drives off towards their side of the property. Once I’ve turned the alarm system off, I pad slowly into the kitchen, staring blankly into my mostly empty fridge. Damn. I need to place another order for groceries.
The clock on the microwave reads early in the afternoon, so I should sit down and do more work… but I’d already taken time off for the afternoon. Alright, no more work. Honey hops up on the couch beside me, resting her head sweetly on my lap as I pull up a grocery order on my phone. Once that’s placed, I lie back on the comfortable sectional and open up a streaming service on my television. Despite my sour mood from the morning’s activities, a smile tugs at my lips when my eyes fall onto my subscriptions list.
I click onto the familiar video of a skateboarder I’ve been following for years. He skates around business parks, onlyending the video once he’s been chased off property. The guy is cute, although woefully straight, if his social media and girlfriend is anything to be believed. But that’s not the point.
The point is that he can do risky things, fearless things, and I live vicariously through him. My mind shuts off as I watch him do tricks on steep stairs. What feels like hours pass by, but it can’t be that long because the doorbell goes off, alerting me to the arrival of my groceries. I give them just enough time to drop everything off. Once I’m sure they’re gone, I open the front door, just barely catching their taillights as they exit my long driveway.
