“Remember the day we discussed phobias and fears, and Julien said her mom had a terrible case of that, um, sizme…” She pauses, searching for the word.
“Seismophobia,” I say automatically. “Fear of earthquakes.”
Abbey nods. “Don’t you think it’s weird that someone with a fear like that would move out to California? I mean, isn’t that where all the earthquakes happen?”
It is.
I look at Abbey and think of the empty house, something cold and prickly creeping up my spine. I feel like it’s somehow reaching at me, begging me to tell the rest of the story. But I don’t know the rest of the story.
Or at least, I don’t remember it.
Abbey shifts her books and laughs. “Probably just silly of me to think it. I’m sure they have their reasons. I guess you never really know what happened if you weren’t there.”
“No, I guess you don’t.” Especially not if you’re me.
When she closes the door, I pull my phone out of my purse and dial Maggie’s number. It rings straight to voice mail, her soft voice lilting out of the tinny speaker. I wish I’d thought about this longer because I don’t know how to say this. I only know that I have to.
“It’s me. I know something’s going on with us, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want to talk to me, but I had to call.” I take a shuddery breath. “I’m scared, Mags. I think something happened to me, and I think whatever it is, I think it might have happened to Julien Miller too.”
***
Dad and Mom are home early when I get the house, which I expected. It’s Taco Tuesday. We started this when Dad worked horrible hours and Mom was still going for her master’s degree, one meal a week when we’d all be together.
At first we’d trot out the good dishes and make a chips and salsa bar and a buffet of taco toppings. Most of it fell by the wayside after a couple of months. But I guess old habits die hard, because we still get Mexican takeout every Tuesday night, and we usually end up on the couch together watching something on TV.
They look up at me with matching smiles as I head in, hanging up my purse and my coat. I smell salsa and can see a spread of chalupas and chips spread out on the coffee table. It’s a happy, easy scene. I’m about to fling a flaming wrench into the middle of it.
I don’t want to do this. What I want to do is be this new version of me, the one they’ve probably been hoping for all along. They probably think I’ve finally got it all figured out. Except that I can’t even figure out where I sit in my fourth-period trig class.
“I think something’s wrong with me,” I say, because there’s not much sense in beating around it.
Mom turns first, a crease forming between her brows. Dad follows, his smile quickly fading when he sees I’m not joking.
They watch me with a look of growing fear that probably matches my own expression. Ever since I saw the Millers’ empty mansion, I’ve been scared to death. And I know I look it.
***
Four hours later I’m strapped down in a hospital testing room that smells like disinfectant. The gown scratches at my skin even though I’m trying to hold still like they asked.
“You’re doing great, Chloe,” a tinny voice assures me over the speaker. “Still okay?”
“I’m okay.”
Total lie. This is not okay. Anytime you spend four hours getting poked and prodded while wearing a gown that leaves your butt flapping in the breeze, things are not okay.
At least in this dark machine no one will come in to shine a light in my eyes. Or ask me the same five questions the last ten doctors and nurses have asked.
I thought about writing a list to save myself the trouble. No, my vision is fine. No, I am not sleepy. No, I’ve had no nausea. No, there isn’t any pain. Yes, I’m having some trouble with my memory. Dad and I started making up a song about it after the fourth person, but Mom shot us a look that could wither an evergreen, so we stopped.
The scanner grinds and buzzes around me. I try not to think about it. Instead, I wonder if I should have told them the whole truth. I mean, I said I had some missing time, but I was pretty vague about it.
“You’re all done,” the speaker voice says, and then the little tray I’m on whirs me out of the machine.
From there, they cart me to another room where I wait alone for at least a year. Maybe two.
“How are you holding up?” Mom asks when she arrives. “I knew we shouldn’t have gone to the cafeteria.” She looks like she cried the entire time I’ve been in the CT scanner.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m not dying, you know.”
“Of course not. I know that,” she says.
Behind her, my dad rolls his eyes, making boo-hooing gestures that make it crystal clear how fine she is.
“Contraband,” he says, tossing me a Mr. Goodbar.
“You’re my hero,” I say, shredding the wrapper and scarfing down half of the candy bar in one bite. “I’m starved.”
“George, she’s not supposed to eat,” Mom says.
“I know,” I say around a mouthful of chocolate. “I’m such a rebel. First, Mr. Goodbar.”
“Next she’ll be robbing banks,” Dad says, finishing my sentence.
Mom sniffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s not funny.”
But it is. Pretty soon we’re all laughing. I think they’re buying it. I think they totally believe that I’m not scared anymore.
The neurologist who ordered my CT scan walks in holding my folder. He’s got the longest, thinnest fingers I’ve ever seen and a mustache that looks penciled on. I can’t help thinking he’d be a perfect Disney villain.
“The good news is, I don’t see a concussion,” he announces. “Your scan looks perfectly normal, Chloe.”
Apparently the stress that’s been holding me upright evaporates, because the minute I hear perfectly normal, I drop back to the pillow like my bones have melted.
My relief doesn’t last. I prop myself back up on my elbows, frowning at him. “Wait. Then what’s wrong with me?”
The doctor tips his head back and forth, like he’s weighing something in his mind. My parents squirm in their chairs. Oh no. I know that look. I also know my parents probably filled out a lot of helpful information regarding my mental health history.
The doctor clears his throat and glances at my file. “Your parents tell me that you had some trouble with panic attacks. A little over a year ago?”
“Yeah, I had panic attacks. I didn’t start losing time.”
Nobody speaks. They all just look at me in that careful, guarded way. The way kids at school looked at me after the ambulance took me after that first attack.
I shake my head, frustrated. “I’m not crazy.”
“No one’s saying that,” Dad says.
Mom says nothing.
The doctor dons an expression of neutral compassion that they probably bottle and sell in pill form at medical school. “Doctors don’t like to use words like crazy.”
Yeah, not with people they think are crazy.
He tucks my file under his chin and looks thoughtful. “Chloe, stress can manifest itself in hundreds of ways, and the effects are very real. As a high school senior, you’re at a critical turning point in your life and that creates pressure. I think you need to find ways to cope with these issues.”
Unbelievable. I’m missing time, and this doctor, this highly trained medical professional, wants to pat my hand and tell me I’m stressed? He’s still talking, but I’m done listening. All I can think about is my medical chart, of the section on panic attacks that’s going to stay with me for the rest of my life.
I take a breath, and I can almost smell the chlorine from the pool that first day it happened. Everything should have been fine. I mean, yeah, I had stuff going on. My homecoming date backed out, I failed my first two history quizzes, but it was just stuff. It wasn’t tragic.
Every girl in my class swam their timed lap and got out, except me. Halfway down my return lap, I felt my whole body curl in around a crushing pain in my chest. I was tumbling in agony, sputtering wildly for the surface. Our gym teacher, Mrs. Schumacher, had to drag me out of the pool, and I screamed like a banshee; it hurt that bad.