Chapter 3 #5
I force a smile. “I think it’s just heat exhaustion. I’ll splash my face with some water.”
“Restroom’s over there.” He points to a small brick building. “Let me help you.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Really.”
I feel Edward’s gaze on me the whole way. At the door of the rest-room, I turn and give him a thumbs--up. Inside, I collapse against the cool porcelain of the sink. My head feels like it’s in a vise and my vision shimmies.
I barely make it to the toilet before vomiting, and then everything goes black.
Edward’s face swims in front of me. His hand pushes my hair back from my forehead. I feel swollen and tender and weak.
Gradually, I notice the curtain behind Edward and the scratchy pillow under my head. There’s an IV line snaking out of my arm. “Where am I?”
“In the hospital. You passed out at the barbecue. Scared the shit out of me, Georgia.”
“I must have been dehydrated. It’s so hot out there.” My head still aches. “Your parents—-”
“Don’t worry about my parents,” Edward says, as the doctor enters. She looks about my age, with her hair in a perky ponytail and a koala bear clamped on her stethoscope.
“Georgia,” she says, “I’m Dr. Weekes. How do you feel?”
I take stock. “Shaky. We were playing softball, and I guess I overdid it? I think I have to go back to being completely unathletic.”
“Well, that may have been part of the problem, but I’d also like to talk to you about your blood tests.” She glances at Edward, and then back at me. “Would you like privacy?”
“Anything you have to say to her you can say to me,” Edward insists, grasping my hand.
The doctor’s eyes stay on me, and I nod just the tiniest bit.
“The tests we did show hypothyroidism,” the doctor says. “Do you know if that runs in your family?”
I shake my head.
“Are you on any medications?”
I hesitate. It is one thing to lie by omission. It is another to lie to a physician, particularly when treatment could interfere with the meds I’m on. “Lithium,” I say softly, and I feel Edward’s stare. “I’m bipolar.”
“Mystery solved,” Dr. Weekes says, as if this revelation is a good thing.
“If you get dehydrated, the lithium level in your blood can increase and cause confusion and headaches and vomiting. We can give you some levothyroxine, and we’ll want to monitor your thyroid.
” She smiles at Edward. “Good thing you were there, because it could have been much worse.”
She leaves to give the nurse treatment orders, and I look down at our joined hands. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“Don’t worry about that now,” Edward says.
Someone who doesn’t know him as well as I do might not have noticed the hesitation before he spoke. I tell myself I imagined it as he waits with me for hours until I am discharged, drives me home, helps me shower and get into clean clothes, and explains to Milagros what’s happened.
He sits on the edge of my bed. “I have to go let my parents into the house, but Milagros is here if you need her.”
“I know you must have questions—-”
“Not tonight. Rest.” He presses his lips against my forehead. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning,” Edward says.
Except he never does.
For a week, I leave Edward voice messages that go unanswered and texts that remain unread.
Milagros says it’s called ghosting. And that Edward is a dick.
But after two weeks without any contact, I start to worry about him. I drive to the library during my lunch hour and find Edward at the reference desk. I am so surprised to see him that I let out a little gasp. I had, until that moment, given him the benefit of the doubt. “You’re here.”
“So are you,” he says, eyes shaded with—-guilt? disappointment? He stands, hands in his pockets.
“I was diagnosed seven years ago. It’s not easy, but it’s manageable.” I realize I sound like my therapist. “You can be bipolar and live a completely normal life—-”
“It doesn’t matter to me that you’re bipolar,” Edward interrupts. “That’s not why I can’t . . . why I . . .” He takes a deep breath. “You lied to me.”
“I didn’t tell you the whole truth.”
He barks out a laugh. “You know I’m a reference librarian? You know that my job is to literally find things out?”
A cold prickle of terror races down my spine.
“RISD has no record of Georgia Gilligan graduating. For that matter, neither did Wellesley High School. You know who did have a record of Georgia Gilligan? The DeKalb County court system, because of an involuntary commitment to a mental institution. But here’s the kicker .
. . The state of Massachusetts has no record of the death of a two--month--old named Molly Gilligan. ”
I suck in a breath.
“Who does that, Georgia? Who lies about having a baby that died?”
Even as I start shaking, a tendril of relief unfurls in the soil of my thoughts: he still doesn’t know everything. I reach for him. “Please don’t do this,” I beg.
We both look down at the place I am touching him. “You can’t love someone and keep secrets from them,” Edward says, stepping back. “It’s like I never really knew you.”
I look down, struggling not to cry. Because he didn’t know me. And he never can.
When I glance up again, Edward is gone.