16. Nicola
Nicola
“Who are you talking to?”
I swivel around. Emmy stands in a tee shirt and sweats, eating a bowl of cereal. She stares at me, chewing, her eyes wide and cautious.
“Myself. I’m talking to myself.”
“Who is Martha?”
“Emmy, not now, please. I have a migraine.”
I pinch my eyes shut. “I need my Topamax, but I’m all out. Can you find some? Please, Emmy. I’m in a lot of pain.”
She waits a beat, staring with suspicion before turning and trotting off to the kitchen. Moments later, she returns with an older prescription bottle and a glass of water.
“You forgot your meds? You never do that.”
“Yeah.” I rummage out two little pink pills and knock them back. Emmy is still watching me. “I know.”
“So?”
I peek one eye open. “So what?”
“Where did you go?”
Where did we go? We were gone all night. Until morning, in fact.
“I had to run some errands, that’s all.”
Emmy nods and chews. Her eyes big. “That’s cool.”
“What’s cool? What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Just that, well … you’re a really bad liar.”
“I’m not lying. I got groceries.”
Emmy shrugs. “Sure. If you say so. But your note was really bizarre. Like, I almost woke up and called the cops.”
I pause a second, unsure of what the note says. “Where is it?”
Emmy produces a scrap of paper from her pocket. For some reason, I expect Martha to have written to me. But the note is to Emmy.
Rough night. Your mom is going to feel pretty shitty in the morning. Bring her these.
My heart begins to race again.
“The note was with your pills. I heard you throwing up. But I figured you were hung over.”
Hung over? What game is she playing this time? I shudder, unsure of why Martha would have left Emmy with my pills, only to destroy the rest.
“Well, I am not hung over. I have a migraine.”
“Well, next time, don’t skip your meds.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
I notice the bottle then.
One bottle. Not Topamax, I realize when I spread them out on the counter to count. They’re tramadol for pain.
My eyes move up and spot a slip of paper wrapped around my toothbrush. A note for Emmy and a note for me.
I open it slowly, my hands shaking. Not again. Not right now. I know I need to be here for Emmy. This isn’t the time. The handwriting is simple, almost like a schoolgirl’s. It reads:
You can’t stay numb forever.
What does it mean? Help or a warning? I cannot say.
With Topamax, I’m listless, forgetful, not entirely myself. But that’s what’s so great about it. I can be here, even if I am rather numb a lot of the time. I prefer it that way, actually. Without it? I know the wise thing to do is not to find out.
My head thumps, a sharp pain behind my eyes. I press my hand against my forehead and succumb to taking a couple of tramadol, hoping that with a cold shower, I’ll be able to stop the blood flow to my raging head.
The water hits me, the steady thudding of the jets over my head. I listen to the sound of the old plumbing, my feet heavy on the cold tile floor. Under the cold water of the shower with the pain pills running through me, I begin to rewind.
Pressing my forehead into the tile wall, I get a sudden flash—dark blue carpet. Fluorescent lighting. The ding of cashiers. The sharp scent of something medicinal.
Then it stops. The memory is quick, washed out, like a reel of old film.
The cold, beating spray of the shower hits my back while I struggle to remember.
The hardness of the tile floor drives a long, tender ache up the back of my leg, into my side.
Soon, the pain settles as the pills take effect.
I feel a quick rush of relief, but I know it’s temporary. It’s not Topamax, after all.
The recommended dosage of Topamax for migraine patients is 100 mg, tapering up from 25 mg per day.
I’m on 200 mg twice per day. Doctor’s orders.
They say to avoid operating heavy machinery while taking Topamax.
Side effects may include confusion, dizziness, drowsiness, problems with memory, cognition, language, and the list goes on.
If you have suicidal thoughts while taking Topamax, you should stop taking it and call your doctor right away.
Call your doctor. Yes. I remember.
Everything went dark, and now the moments are becoming clearer.
There’s the stale smell of mildew, a hint of something medicinal. Clinical colors, white and blue. A flash of the store behind me—behind her—at my pharmacy. A voice is speaking, low and insistent. Looking down, I spot her hands signing something.
I step out of the shower and immediately dial the number on the prescription bottle. Two tones. They place me on hold. When a man answers, I tell him, “I need to refill a prescription.”
“Date of birth and prescription number?”
I rattle off the number to him and wait, his fingers clacking loudly over the keys.
“I’m sorry, it looks like your Topamax prescription expired.”
“What?” I say, my voice surprised. “Call the doctor. Request a refill.”
“Oh, actually …” he pauses, sounding unsure. “The notes say that this prescription cannot be renewed.”
“What does that mean?”
He sighs, and static crackles as he repositions the phone. “It means you’d have to get a new prescription from your doctor.”
“Are you serious?”
Silence. More keys clacking. “Oh, wait,” he says. “Actually, it was your doctor who discontinued it. It says in the notes. Looks like they won’t renew it.”
“What? Why not?”
More typing and a huff of frustration. “It says ‘patient complained of adverse reactions.’”
Martha. You bitch.
“You’d need a new doctor to prescribe this medication.”
“Any doctor?”
“Well, a neurologist probably,” he answers and yawns.
A wave of panic hits me, and my body feels limp.
A new doctor, a neurologist. That would mean a trip to my primary care doctor, a referral, then a visit, then a prescription, and then the insurance.
The insurance! Approval of the brand name Topamax took forever last time.
Months of waiting while I suffered. Months of persisting when they wouldn’t cover it, months of working the system just to get this one drug.
I had a small stockpile for this reason.
Now it’s gone.
I don’t have months now. I have hours, maybe a day if I’m lucky.
The phone intones in my ear, the line gone dead.
I glance once more at the note from Martha, at her childish writing.
“What do you want?” I ask her. “Just tell me!”
My head snaps back unnaturally to the ceiling, my eyes wide open, staring at the lights overhead.
I feel her within me—lucid and alert—like a dream you remember vividly but want to forget.
My sternum contracts and expands. My hand reaches out and touches the condensation on the mirror.
One word. Three letters. The moisture collects under my fingers as she writes, then takes my hand away.
I stumble backwards, or rather, she makes me move. The word is like a breath from the other side of the glass. Tiny drops of water fall from the letters, one by one.
H.
I.
M.