Her nostrils flare at my words, as they usually do. The adoption is a sore spot and one that I know will easily end an argument. It’s like pushing on a nasty, barely healed bruise. I think they wanted a healthy kid without embarrassing seizures, and they know that’s what I think, no matter how often they argue against my supposedly irrational thought. As predicted, my painful jab ends the argument, and she promptly spins toward the front door.
Hand on the knob, she turns back to fix me with a hard stare. “I will pick you up Friday morning for your scan.”
“Fine.”
And then she’s gone.
Jackson texts me good morning, but I ignore it. My mood is sour, and I don’t want to pass it on to him. I easily distract myself with work, almost forgetting about the argument with my mother.
I keep Jackson at a careful distance through the week, only answering him enough to stop him from storming my house. I’m used to this by now. Keep people held carefully at arm's length, telling them just enough so they know I’m not dead or haverun off to become a bookkeeper in a small beach town in South Carolina.
The ride downtown to the imaging center with my mother is silent and stilted. The normal order of things. Honey pants in the back seat of the Beemer, and I pray to God she doesn’t accidentally rip the leather seats with a nail. A worry that I’ve never once had with Jackson because even if Honey did that accidentally, he wouldn’t care. No matter how much he loves that damn car, he loves Honey more.
Suddenly, I wish I was in the car withhim,heading to my appointment. I wish he was holding my hand as the nerves wash over me. I wish he was waiting right outside the door when the scan was over to hug me and take me out to lunch with teasing smiles. I wish, and I wish, and Iwish.
“Honey could’ve stayed back at your house; she can’t go into the scan with you,” Mother reminds me.
I push open the car door with a huff. “Please just stay in the car with her. I’ll be out in an hour. Maybe sooner.”
I slam the door shut before she can argue. The workers at the imaging facility know me after all these years. Even when my seizures were under control, I came every six months. Dr. Whitman has always wanted a large overview of my health, checking to ensure that all the wires in my brain are still just a little crossed, nottoocrossed. Pathetic.
Thankfully, I always plan ahead for scans. Sweatpants and a T-shirt so that I don’t have to add the embarrassment of a gown to the mix. The radiologist is a kind, older man named Tony that always feels bad for me when I cry during the scan. He never says anything about it though because he’s a consummate professional. God bless him.
Tony delivers the dose of contrast dye for the CT scan with a small smile. A warm, flushed feeling passes through me, along with the feeling of pissing myself, then finally, a metallic tastein my mouth. So pleasant. Always the best experience of my life. The whir of the machine starts, and I stare blankly at the loud machine. At least thirty minutes alone with my thoughts.
What nightmares are made of.
Tony’s voice comes over the speaker. “I’ll start the music.”
And then the gentle sounds of romance ballads from the ’90s fill the speakers. I close my eyes and get lost in the songs, familiar with the humming of the machine over the words. Time ticks by, and I so badly try not to think of Jackson. But he pops into my brain unbidden because he takes up more space in my mind than he should. The man also takes up too much space in my fragile heart.
As usual, towards the end of the scan, the tears fall down my cheeks like silent rivers. Worries about if this will be the scan that finally says I’m not long for this world. Worries that they’ll find something that has no explanation that’ll add even more anxiety to my life. I worry that Dr. Whitman will have something terrible to tell me about at the next appointment. Worries that I’ll have to break up with Jackson to spare him the pain of being with someone who has a lifelong, unpredictable brain disorder.
The CT scan ends with a small silent scream from me.
“See you again in a few months, Tony.”
Tony grins. “Maybe it’ll go back to every six months soon.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I lie easily.
I rub angrily at my face as I make my way down the long hallway. Hopefully, no one can tell that I was crying. But the closer I get to the exit door, the more convinced I am that I’m hearing a very familiar voice.
When I push through the door, my mind shutters to a stop, static filling my brain.
Jackson stands at the check-in counter, elbows propped up, eyes filled with worry. He’s here. At the imaging facility.Terrified and looking for me. My throat itches, and my eyes well up with more tears.
“I don’t need your help anymore; I’ve found him,” Jackson says loudly, just before tugging me against the strong line of his body.
For the first time in my life, I don’t give a shit about the people watching me. I don’t care about the people scattered around the waiting room that are witness to my weakness, to my fucking need for this man. None of that matters as long as Jackson holds me in his arms. Without letting go of me, he hustles me outside. A sob breaks free from me once we’re no longer in front of a large audience.
“Why didn’t you tell me,” Jackson says, voice sad, even a little heartbroken.
“It’s embarrassing,” I cry into his chest.
Jackson’s hands spasm against my back, fingers tangling in my shirt to drag me closer against the strength of his body. He doesn’t reply; just keeps holding me. Finally, the tears slow, but I don’t wipe them away. Instead, Jackson tenderly reaches between us, using the pad of his thumb to wipe the lingering tears away.
“I want you to tell me these things. I want to be there for you, even if it scares you to allow me to see you vulnerable. Please, Harper. We can talk about it later. Do you want to go home?”
