language told me everything I needed to know.
“Sure. Why, aren’t we allowed?” My mom sounded a little strange, a little shorter in her response than I was used to.
“Of course you are. Mom, are you feeling okay?”
“I’m supposed to be asking you that,” she said.
And there it was, the subject that would never go away. It wasn’t fair to call it an elephant in the room. You were supposed to be able to ignore those.
For one long instant I thought about telling her. Not the bits about the sex on the train and being some sort of 1970s Italian movie queen. I was sure my mom didn’t want to hear about that. But the small blank moments, the scent of oranges. I didn’t, though. Not only because I didn’t want to worry her, but because I didn’t want to prove her right.
“I’m fine, Mom. Really.” My throat closed on the lie, and my eyes smarted. I was glad we had the distance of satellites between us. I’d never have been able to get away with it face-to-face.
“Where are you? I hear a lot of noise.” “Oh. The coffee shop.”
My mom laughed. “Again? You’re going to turn into a cup of coffee soon.”
“Better that than a pumpkin,” I told her as Jen wove her way back to our table balancing two plates and two empty mugs. “People who love coffee say they can’t live without it. Pumpkins just get made into pie.”
“Oh, you crazy girl,” my mom said fondly. “Call me tomorrow?”
“Sure, Mom. Bye.” We disconnected just as Jen sat down, pushing my plate and mug toward me.
“Your mom must be pretty cool,” she said.
“She can be. Oh, God. Chocolate fudge chip with fudge icing? This isn’t a muffin. This is a new pair of jeans in a bigger size.”
Jen licked a fingertip. “It’s what he likes.” I didn’t have to ask her who “he” was. I wondered if I’d ever have to ask again. “Yeah?”
She grinned. “Some stalker you are.”
Our conversation turned from the tantalizing topic of Johnny Dellasandro, maybe because he was actually there and could’ve overheard us, or because he was with a woman, therefore making any fantasies about him sort of lame and pointless. Or maybe because we had other things to talk about, me and Jen, like our favorite television shows and books, about the cute guy who delivered pizzas in our neighborhood. About all the things good friends talk about over sweets and caffeine.
“I should get going,” I said with a sigh when I’d polished off that sinful muffin and finished my third mug of coffee. I patted my stomach. “I’m going to burst, plus I have laundry to do and some bills to pay.”
“Nice quiet Sunday afternoon.” Jen sighed happily. “The best kind. See you in the morning?”
“Oh, probably. I’m sure I’ll swing by here for a coffee to go. I know I should make my own at home, but … I can’t ever get the brew to taste right. And it seems like a waste to make a whole pot when I can only have one cup.”
Jen grinned and winked. “And the eye candy here is so much nicer.”
There was that, too.
She ducked out before I did, and not because I was lingering overlong trying to get a look at Johnny. I did take one last glance over my shoulder at him as I pushed the door and made the bell jingle. I was hoping he’d look up, but he was still locked deep in conversation with that woman, whoever she was.
It wasn’t until much later that night—bills paid and laundry washed, dried, sorted, folded and put away—that I thought to look for the necklace in my pocket. I searched them all, even the ones of my jeans, though I knew I hadn’t put it in there. No necklace. Somewhere, somehow, I’d lost it.
Like I’d said to Jen, it was no big deal. It wasn’t a piece I’d had any sentimental ties to, and I was sure it hadn’t been expensive. Still, the fact I’d lost it disturbed me. I’d lost things before. Put them down when I was having a fugue and didn’t remember it. I’d found things that way, too. Once, I’d walked out of a store clutching a fistful of lip balms I must’ve grabbed up from a bin. I’d been too embarrassed to tell my mom I stole them. Every once in a while I found one in a pocket of a coat or a purse. They’d lasted me for years.
I hadn’t lost the necklace in a fugue, I was almost certain of that. I’d walked home from the Mocha with the wind so cold in my nostrils it had frozen my nose hairs, making it possible but not likely I’d missed any scent of oranges. On the other hand, it was possible I’d had a fugue without that warning sign. Lots of people with seizure disorders never had any warning, or memory, of what had happened.
This thought sobered me faster than a high school kid pulled over by the sheriff on prom night.
Blinking fast to keep the tears suddenly burning my eyes from slipping out, I took a long, slow breath. Then another. By the time I’d focused on the third, in and out, I felt a little calmer. Not much, but enough to slow the frantic pounding of my heart and quell the surging boil in my guts.
I’d discovered alternative medicine a few years ago when traditional techniques could no longer diagnose whatever it was the fall had done to my brain. I was tired of being stuck with needles and taking medicine that often had side effects so much worse than the benefits they provided, it wasn’t worth taking them. Acupuncture couldn’t diagnose my problem any better than Western medicine could, but I found I’d rather use it than fill my body with potentially toxic chemicals day after day. Guided imagery and meditation didn’t get rid of my anxieties altogether, but the practice of them definitely kept me in a better mood. And since I’d discovered through lots of trial and error that I was more likely to experience a bad fugue when I was overtired, overstimulated, overstressed or overanything, I’d incorporated meditation into my daily routine as a preventative measure.
I thought it worked. It seemed to, anyway. I’d been fugue-free for the past two years, anyway, until just lately. And even these three had been so minor, so inconsequential …
“Ah, shit,” I said aloud, my voice harsh and strained.
My reflection in my bedroom mirror showed pale cheeks, shadowed eyes, lips gone thin from the effort of holding back a sob. The fugues had never been painful, yet having them hurt more than anything in my life.
I blew out another breath, concentrating while I changed quickly into a pair of soft pajama bottoms and a worn T-shirt with a picture of Bert and Ernie on it. I’d bought it at Sesame Place when I was in junior high and had only rediscovered it while packing to move here. It fit a little tighter than it had back then, but it was comfortable in more than the size. It was a piece of home.
Changed, I settled onto my bed with my legs crossed. I didn’t have a fancy mat or any sort of altar, and I didn’t light incense. Meditation wasn’t so much spiritual as it was physical for me. I’d studied a lot about biofeedback over the years, and while I doubted I’d ever be able to consciously control my heart rate or brain wave patterns the way some accomplished yogis did, I believed meditation did help. I could feel it.
I rested my hands on my knees, palms up, thumb to fingertips. I closed my eyes. I didn’t chant the traditional Om Mani Padme Om or even any of the other traditional phrases.
