Chapter Twenty
Bizzy (Elizabeth)
Blinking several times to get my bearings, I wake up in a puddle of blood from a nosebleed.
When I dropped into bed last night, I just wanted to close my eyes and shut out the entire world. The emotional exhaustion from the memories, coupled with Ripp’s cautiousness as he brought me back to my dorm room, kept me awake far too long.
The look on Ripp’s face when I pulled away was a mix of resignation and defeat. I feel terrible, but the memories caught me off guard.
Everything had been getting better. Now I’m afraid the medications Dr. Fraine prescribed have run their course. They’re no longer helping. The hallucinations are back with a vengeance.
Time is dwindling…
My legs feel rubbery when I climb out of bed with a wad of tissue pressed to my nose.
“Aghh!”
Stumbling to the ground, my right knee strikes the edge of my bedframe. I don’t bother stopping the tears from flowing. Is it time to level with my parents? I’ve been putting off the phone call to tell them about my diagnosis.
Ripp is the only person in my life who knows what is happening to me.
Crawling to my desk, I rifle through the drawer for painkillers. Then I lay on the floor, resting against my backpack, digging deep for the strength to get dressed for today’s appointment.
No amount of reassuring words or self-delusion about my current situation is helping.
It’s all happening too fast.
My cellphone starts to ring across the room. I don’t even have the energy to slide over to it. It vibrates and lights up next to my bed.
The only thought in my head… does it matter? Any of it, anymore?
The third time it starts ringing, I force myself to scoot across the floor, holding my bruised knee. Still, I miss Ripp’s call.
Deciding to call him back later, I use that small bit of momentum to get moving through gritted teeth. I pull on clothes slowly, knowing if I’m late for my appointment, the front gatehouse will turn me away.
The entire ride to Rockefeller Amherst, I dread the walk to Dr. Fraine’s office. The painkillers have taken the edge off, but my legs are weaker than they’ve ever been.
Noticing my struggle getting out of the backseat, the rideshare driver takes my arm and helps me up the steps into the gatehouse.
“Thanks.”
The word comes out as more of a puff of air than anything understandable.
It’s become a routine. I give my information to the dour-faced security guard, wait, have a seat in the waiting room, wait. Then, when my name is called, I follow the guard to Dr. Fraine’s office.
The difference today is I’m operating at fifty percent, grouchy because of it, and not moving quickly enough for this guard.
“Ma’am?” He turns again to assess me. “Do you need a wheelchair?”
As he disappears into a tucked-away room to fetch one, my pale-faced, open-mouthed non-answer apparently enough to spur him into action, my attention drifts to the big-screen television on the far wall.
A red brEAKING NEWS ticker crawls across the bottom of the screen.
A worried news anchor’s eyes widen.
“...Reports tell us the death toll is climbing into the hundreds after an early morning earthquake in California. Coupled with Hurricane Jasper making landfall in the Gulf and storms intensifying in the southwestern Pacific near Japan, meteorologists are struggling to make sense of it.”
“We are well past hurricane season.”
“Back to you, Gene.”
The guard stands beside me, looking just as stumped.
“Doesn’t that beat all?” he asks, aghast, before nodding toward the chair. “We should get a move on.”
I stare down at it, imagining someone like Hart seeing me, and immediately think better of it.
“I can walk. Is that okay? I want to walk.”
Maybe the guard has an ounce of compassion, because his stride isn’t as hasty as before. I focus completely on each step along the uneven stone path, each breath as we climb the stairs into the building, barely noticing my beautiful surroundings.
I take a seat outside Dr. Fraine’s office, trying to be graceful as my legs give out. My limbs are shaky, and I’m short of breath. But I’m here. I made it.
Most of the staff and students pay no attention to me, as if my lack of the green blazer affords me a degree of invisibility. Today, I’m fine with that.
“Elizabeth?”
Dr. Fraine’s nurse escorts me into his office.
Left to wait for him, my eyes wander over his pictures and degrees before stopping on a wall of ornate wooden shelves. Most of the contents look like antique medical instruments.
My breath catches when I spot a gold cylinder.
“Where did you find it, Biz?” He gives me a half smile. “Should’ve known.” He shakes his head.
Why doesn’t he seem surprised about this?
It’s heavy in my hand. I run my fingers over it.
“I’ll take it.” He holds out his hand.
No.
Not until he tells me what’s happening.
The door closes, as Dr. Fraine strides into the room. “My apologies, Ms. Ahrens. I had a surgical consultation that ran over. How have you been?”
My mind is screaming at me. So loudly I almost miss the doctor’s greeting.
Why do these hallucinations feel like real memories?
I aim to tell the truth, but I miss.
“A little worse.”
But he doesn’t buy it.
“Ah, I see. What symptoms have you had since our last visit?”
Leveling with him, I tell him about the past three days. The worsening symptoms. The nosebleed. The strange hallucinations.
He goes over my medication list and looks over my test results from last week.
Steepling his hands, he taps them against his lips before saying sympathetically, “I would like to start seeing you at the hospital for our appointments. We can make some medication adjustments, but as I said previously… they aren’t a cure. We’re managing symptoms at this point.”
No cure.
Just the end moving closer.
“I know.” My voice sounds small.
While the doctor types in prescription changes, my eyes find the object again, hoping to jog more memories.
Dr. Fraine looks up and notices my attention on the wall. A brief smile crosses his face before he shakes his head. “I really should get rid of that clutter. My father’s artifacts were part of the office I inherited.”
He walks to the shelf, picking up an old thermometer resting in front of the gold tube. “He liked his trinkets.”
“He was a doctor, too?”
Putting the thermometer down, he pushes the cylinder behind an old medicine bag. “Yes. His career meant more to him than anything else. He was very dedicated.”
Dr. Fraine, while warm, doesn’t usually get personal on my visits. He effectively puts an end to our conversation about his father by handing me a list of medications with instructions.
“Do your parents want to speak to me about your treatment regimen or your diagnosis? I know it’s a lot to explain.”
That’s if I tell them at all.
I don’t trust my voice, so I simply shake my head.
How do I tell my doctor that I don’t want to tell anyone about this?
That I want my last days, months… whatever I have left, unfettered by spoiled interactions.
People deciding to stay away, treating me like I’m sick, or maybe even worse, sticking around, either in pity or a sense of duty.
But if they actually cared, it would make my inevitable passing fraught with more unnecessary pain.
Like all my appointments, Dr. Fraine reviews my vitals, listens to my lungs, and checks my eyes. With his nurse sitting quietly in the corner, he gives me a shot, a cocktail of meds.
“Just rest here until you feel it take effect. It should help for a while with the increased weakness and dizziness.”
He throws away his gloves. With his back turned, washing his hands, he asks, “The hallucinations you were having… did they go away when the meds seemed to be working?”
Did they?
When I think back, I had begun to remember the pieces of my past I’d lost. The hallucinations faded away…
“They did.” I sit forward slightly.
Turning, he leans back against the sink with his arms crossed.
“I suspect it’s a temporary increase in the dying neurons.
Each time your body adjusts to the medication changes, you should be prepared for more hallucinatory activity.
Before that time, I would suggest alternate living arrangements.
You shouldn’t be alone. I can give you information for different hospice options. ”
Holding in tears, I nod. There’s no chance I want to hide out and fade away.
I’m not ready. I don’t want to go yet.
Dr. Fraine and his nurse have already left after more precautionary instructions. He’d handed me a file folder full of hospice brochures to read.
I’m holding on to the vestiges of my life.
Not yet. Please, God.
Once they’re gone, I lie staring at the painting initialed by E.B. Housman, remembering my reaction when I first saw it. An all-consuming urge to get up and take the frame off has me on my feet, touching it. Praying for a few seconds’ reprieve, to imagine I’m someone else… somewhere else.
A light knock on the door has me jumping back. Dr. Fraine cracks the door open. “How are you doing? I don’t want to rush you. We can delay the next appointment if need be.”
I have been here forty minutes beyond my normal visit.
“I-I’m alright. I’m ready to go.”
The guard has less patience for me on our way back to the gatehouse, but thankfully the shot of meds has me feeling almost healthy. The only drawback is muscle pain at the injection site.
I see the stone bridge on the path, my mind elsewhere, staring at it. I almost run right into Rett. He grabs my arm, bringing me to a stop. “Whoa, it’s you.”
His friend next to him laughs, “Brilliant, mate. I’ve never heard you have less game.” His British accent is a novelty I want to hear more of.
Rett introduces him as Amadeo, or Deo, one of his housemates and, as evidenced by his green blazer, another Rock Am student. Do they only invite devastatingly attractive people to attend this place?
My face heats as I glance back to see the guard heading our way, a no-nonsense look on his face.
Rett whispers, “Does he belong to you?” A teasing lilt to his voice as he nods at the guard.
I shrug. “Unfortunately, I may be getting arrested for taking too long to leave.”
Both of them laugh. “We’ve got this,” Rett replies.
He pulls some bills from his wallet. “I know you have a job to do, but my friend Bizzy is hanging out with us now. We can just avoid the whole checking back in and so forth, right?”
He hands the wad of cash to the perplexed man.
Rett has a knack for sweet-talking. That, coupled with his fame, makes it easier. The guard waves the cash away. “I can look the other way just this once.”
“Good bloke,” Deo says as I look between the two of them.
Now what?
“We were just heading to JJ’s. Wanna come along?” With a knowing smile, he dips his head. “Course you do. Let’s go.”
I can’t think of a better way to spend the rest of my day. JJ always lifts my spirits. “Do you think he’ll mind?”
“That’s a joke, right?” Rett asks, his arm wrapping around my waist. “Last time I checked, you’re all he wants to talk about.”
Deo adds, “I can see why he fancies you.”
My face is on fire listening to them discuss JJ’s feelings about me.
I’m no longer able to be invisible with Rett by my side. Every person we pass greets him, smiles, flirts, or wants to talk. He handles it smoothly. Deo gives me commentary the whole way to the parking lot.
“...oh, watch this. It's another one of his admirers. She started a fan club for him last year.”
“Oh, here comes the head of catering services. She's going to ask if he has a menu request for next week's banquet.”
The short walk drags on, but Deo is entertaining, Rett is charming.
We approach the lot where Deo’s blue Range Rover sits. I’m happy about how the day has turned out until I see him.
Rippley.
Standing frozen near his car, staring at the three of us. A mix of disbelief and hurt on his face.
Rett spots him, completely oblivious to his reaction, and waves before opening my door. I take a step in Ripp’s direction, but he turns and walks away.
I can understand why this looks bad.
I ducked out on him yesterday, letting him think I wasn’t feeling well. Today I’m parading around his university campus with two other guys, looking just fine.
My mood shift catches Deo's attention. “Ya alright, doll?”
“Uh,” I crane my neck to look for Rippley’s retreating back, but I no longer see him. “I will be?”
Rippley will understand, right? He knows I see Dr. Fraine. I’ll just talk to him about it.
Their conversation moves on, but I don’t.
I try to think of the right words to let Rippley know I’m not another “almost” or letdown in his life.