Heartsick (3 page)

Okay, fine, I guess now it’s a two-time thing. But whatever it is, it’s done now. Really.

Chapter Three

My eyes pop open as the scream shudders out of our bathroom. Sunlight smacks against the shadows in the collage on the ceiling above my bed. I flop off my mattress, tripping over sheets to get to Mandy.

“What’s wrong?”

She clasps both sides of the sink and leans close to the mirror. Her nose kisses the glass.

“You okay?” I ask again. I step forward and put my hand on her shoulder. Her head droops and she stares at the drain in our sink. She turns to me.

“My eyes,” she says. “What happened to my eyes?”

Purple. Her eyes are purple. It’s not a trick of the light like I thought last night. Full-fledged brilliant violet irises are surrounded by crinkled, worried skin.

“Are you wearing contacts?” It’s a dumb question. If she had purchased and put purple cosmetic contacts in, she’d probably remember.

“No.” She clutches her hair. She doesn’t call out my stupid question, which is not like her. Maybe she had even asked herself the same thing. When you have no idea what’s happening, even inane questions deserve their place.

I cup Mandy’s chin so that I can get a better look at those irises while trying to tame my own wild heartbeat.

I take care of Mandy because she takes care of me. Like the time someone snuck tequila in the sangria and I ended up with my knees on our puffy pink bathmat, praying to the porcelain god as Mandy rubbed my back and ordered me to drink water.

When that jerk Jason broke up with me over a blush brush (I left it in his dorm, accidentally, so obviously I was purposefully encroaching on his space), she was also there for me. She blared one of my favorite country songs, stood on my bed and played an air banjo.

I took care of her when she lost the sophomore class presidency. She curled up in a ball at the foot of my bed, raw, bare teeth skidding against the ground as tears slid over her lips. I lay on the bed, my chin over the edge, just listening and tossing down the occasional tissue. When she was ready, I blasted some old-school Snoop Dogg and, in my baggiest clothes, did a beep-bop hip-hop thing that I can assure you was actually pretty slammin’, considering I’m a rich white girl.

But I don’t think my rapping talents will save her now. “Well, how do you feel? Do your eyes hurt?”

“They felt weird last night,” she says. “But they’re fine now. I feel completely fine!” Her exasperated tone doesn’t match the sentence.

Finally, after staring into the violet streaks surrounding her pupil, I render my verdict. “You should go to the doctor.” I say it like a pin prick. Zip. Bang. Done.

Mandy pinches her nose and sighs. “Thanks, that’s a big help.”

I cross my arms. “We could look it up , but that’s weird. I’d go to the clinic.”

“They aren’t going to be able to fix this,” Mandy snaps. The air between us crackles. I sigh and reach my arms out. Mandy’s head lolls around. “Will you come with me?” Her voice slips and slides with a fear I didn’t realize she could possess.

“Of course,” I say.

We pull on some clothes and head to the little college clinic. First we have to get by Jared. He’s this creepy religious guy with sandy white hair who thinks it’s his job to tell everyone how awful they are. This morning, he stands in front of the clinic holding up a poster of what I think is a bloody fetus (I don’t look long enough to confirm) as he blesses us and tells us to make the right decision. I don’t even think they perform abortions at the clinic. He’s just assuming since we’re college girls with a health problem we must be preggers.

He clasps his hand over his chest as we get closer. “Your eyes,” he says, his shoulders rising in fear like he’s some kind of wild animal. “It’s happening.”

Mandy’s aforementioned eyes narrow and her mouth opens. I grab her elbow. “Just ignore him,” I whisper.

Of course, the clinic staff also thinks we’re pregnant. After seeing Mandy’s purple eyes, a woman escorts her back to an examination room. Then the woman asks me how I am and if I would like to pee in a cup.

“I haven’t had sex in months and, don’t worry, my bathroom trashcan has gotten properly filled with tampon wrappers right on time,” I say with a sparkling smile. This is not a lie. Rashid and I had kept it pretty tame.

The nurse tilts her head and raises an eyebrow, because of course twenty-two-year-olds never know what they’re talking about. “Okay,” she says. “You can wait over there.”

I take a seat, but I’m slightly bristled from the implication that I must be sexually irresponsible. My body is also fidgety with worry. So I get up. I lean over the bowl of condoms in the waiting area and sheepishly put one in my pocket. I sit down and then get up, hesitantly, and get another one. I do this ’til the nurse eyes me.

I sigh. “I just don’t know. I mean, do you think six is enough for one night out? Especially as there’s a limit to how many times you can use one, I think. I read that somewhere...something about how you can turn it inside out and use it again, but only once...” I trail off, finger and thumb against my chin as I look to the ceiling in deep, perplexed thought.

“Very funny,” the nurse says before she goes back to her paperwork. Her lips tense, as though she’s fighting to keep a laugh in. She’s not so bad.

I walk over and lean my elbows on the panel and scrunch my eyebrows together. “It’s nothing, right?”

“What’s nothing?”

“The purple eyes. I mean, she feels fine, so she is fine, right?”

To her credit, the nurse doesn’t hold my previous sass against me. Her shoulders relax and she smiles softly. “I’ve never heard of a condition with purple eyes. But our bodies are funny. Some people’s eyes change color a little over the course of their life. Some products, like eyelash enhancers, can also affect eye color.”

“Like allergic reactions?” I ask.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Thanks.” I return her graciousness by leaving her alone until Mandy comes out from the backstage of the clinic a half an hour later.

Their verdict is similar to mine: We don’t know shit. Go to the emergency room. Okay, they might not have used that exact phrasing.

Fortunately, Allan is pretty tiny, and the hospital is only eight blocks from the clinic. And it’s not like Mandy’s actually injured, or even feeling crappy. In fact, she says, aside from being wracked with worry, she feels pretty good. So we walk. We pass adorable shops that sell knickknacks that are cute enough to buy even if they serve no function. We pass townhouses and people reading the Saturday morning paper in wicker chairs on their porches, steaming mugs of coffee cupped in their hands. We smell autumn the way you can only smell autumn when you’re in an ancient mountain town surrounded by flourishing forests. Mold and wet brick and burning wood.

“I met a cute townie last night,” I say.

“A townie?” she says, face forward. Mouth straight. “What’s his name?”

“Well, I guess I didn’t actually meet him.” I fold my arms in on myself and rub the outside of my elbows. “I was just trying to distract you.”

She huffs a small laugh. “Thanks.”

We’re quiet the rest of the way.

Allan’s population tends to be more inclined toward antiquing than risky behaviors, so the wait at the ER is not long. Unfortunately, Mandy’s worry has rattled to new levels. I venture into the depths of the ER with her so she won’t be alone.

The nurse who processes Mandy and the doctor who eventually comes into the examining room seem only mildly curious about her condition.

“Well,” Dr. Brown says, “there are several reasons why eye colors might change.” She paces, as though we are a conundrum. “I have heard of melanoma changing iris color, but not to purple.” She shakes her head. “No, not to purple...And then, of course, there is Fuchs Heterochromic Iridocyclitis.”

“Ah yes, Fuchs,” I say. Her face brightens and I can tell she is about to pounce on me with even more medical jargon, until I sway my head and squish my lips to the left side of my mouth.

“Well, yes, of course, you probably haven’t heard of that.” She continues droning on about another disease, Horner’s something, until I can’t even decipher her self-directed mumbles. Finally, she talks to us. “Well, it could be connected to an autoimmune disease or a viral infection.” She walks to one end of the room and back. “Here’s what we’ll do,” she says as though she has had a eureka moment—but her big grand decision is just to run a battery of tests.

When she takes one final look at Mandy’s eyes, seeing past the purple into the worry, the human submerged in Dr. Brown comes out.

“We’ll figure out what’s going on,” she says, confident. “It’s possible it’s just a startling, but natural, change in eye color. Nothing to worry about. But please do contact me if you begin to experience anything else unusual. We’ll need to know about any additional symptoms.”

“Yes, of course.” Mandy nods, and I can tell from her voice that she’s already feeling a little better. Maybe this is all nothing. Maybe everything is peachy keen.

Chapter Four

After the hospital trip, Mandy lies on her bed eating Krizzles, this saccharin-y fruit candy, not caring that the little cardboard boxes litter her comforter. Purple emanating from the cardboard boxes, purple glistening from her eyes.

“You okay?” I ask her, and sit on the foot of her bed.

She fishes a few more Krizzles out of a box and deposits them in her mouth. Krizzles are Zachary’s thing. (“Krizzles are fruit flavored.” Why yes, Zachary, they are.) He eats them as he cooks, or watches science documentaries, or lies around our couch reviewing his research notes.

“Yeah, I guess I’ll be okay,” she says. “I’ve eaten enough Krizzles I’ll have a sugar rush soon and want to clean the whole house.”

I scoot back on her bed, leaning against the wall and hugging my knees. “That’s not a horrible idea. I can get you Pixy Stix and then we can really have some fun.”

She throws the conquered candy box against the wall so it can bounce into her wastebasket. She puts her hands on her head like she’s pulling back her hair, but the hands don’t pull, they just stay near her temples as she looks at the ceiling.

“I hate this.”

Tears swell against the bright-red lining of her lavender eyes. She shifts up. “Quinn, you know how I don’t like it when things happen to me.”

I’ve heard this often.

One time freshmen year we were grocery shopping—okay, we were buying beer with her fake ID and I was responsible for the chips and salsa and other snacks. Anyway, Mandy started acting forceful, weird. She wouldn’t let me make any decisions. I was feeling pretty mellow and didn’t want to get into a spitfire fight next to a bunch of fresh mangos, so I let it go. But when we got back to the dorm kitchen, as I sliced the mango for her (a peace offering), I oh-so-gently inquired, “What the fuck was that shit about?”

She had sighed and rolled her shoulders but finally explained that she had seen a woman who looked like her mom. Not in coloring or features, but in mannerisms and aura. The woman had this long list, typed, and she kept picking up a pack of hotdogs, looking at it, then moving back, picking it up again, hesitating as she looked at the list, then the label. The list. The label. The list. The label.

“So, she’s got a touch of OCD,” I said, shrugging.

“No,” Mandy said. “It’s not OCD.”

Mandy never wants to end up like that woman, or like her mom. And one way to not end up that way is by doing things instead of having things done to you. Things don’t happen to Mandy; Mandy makes things happen.

But this mysterious purple eye condition doesn’t seem to have a whole lot of respect for Mandy’s life philosophy.

“Well,” I say, knowing what might work to rustle Mandy out of this funk. “Let’s see what Wisey has to say about all this.” I stand on her bed and get the stuffed owl, her childhood toy, from its revered spot on the top corner of her shelf. My stuffed cat, Churchill, still resides on my bed. I like that Mandy wasn’t too grown up to bring her lovey to college. But she is too grown up to let it serve its original function. Comfort.

I flap Wisey’s wings and begin my best owl impression. I’ve pulled this out before. It’s very lame, but it usually works. “Whoooo knows better than yoooou what is happening? Whooo has gorgeous lavender eyes? Whooo has an awesome best friend? Whooo should stop pouting and go out tonight?”

“It’s me, it’s me.” Mandy says her requisite response, but it’s dry. Her bleary eyes focus on the ceiling.

I flop back on the bed and plop Wisey into my lap.

“I’m not sure if I want to go out tonight. Maybe I need to escape for a while, just get away from...everyone,” Mandy says.

“Me tooooo?” I ask.

She smiles and takes Wisey, uncharacteristically spooning him. “No, Wisey, I would never leave you behind.”

I shrug. “Well, if you want to stay in, I get it—but then can I borrow that purple dress?” In three ninja-like moves I’m up, grabbing the dress out of the closet and twirling it in front of me. “I mean, it doesn’t match my eyes, you could really own this dress, but...”

“You’re right.” Mandy zips up. I’m not sure if it’s the product of my obvious attempts at manipulation or if the sugar from the Krizzles has started coursing through her veins. “I should go out tonight. I should just own this.”

We debate what I should wear and settle on a red dress that flirts across my upper thighs. I may not be super tall, but I have dancer legs worth showing off. We also share different kinds of perfume—effectively making us a smorgasbord of scents.

But as we walk to Sally’s, I’m still the overprotective roommate. I make sure to walk in between her and the two Allan cops who simultaneously leer at us and tell us—as we use our indoor voices outside—that if we talk any louder they will write us up for a noise violation. Jerks. I also tell Mandy to look out for steps and trip-inducing disturbances along the brick path that, admittedly, she has probably been aware of for three years now.

But what really annoys her is me asking about five and a half times if she’s okay. The half is because, at the door, she cuts me off and swings around, saying in an emphatic whisper, “If you ask me one more time if I’m okay, I’m going to clock you.”

I raise my hands in defeat.

“Okay,” I say. “Calm down.” Mandy lets out a deep exhale. The kind where you can tell her frustration has been jangling in her insides. She steps toward the door, pulling her ID out to show the bouncer.

I tap on her shoulder. “Oh, but Mandy, one more thing—are you sure you’re okay?” I duck as her handbag comes swinging as fast as a carnival ride toward my head. But she can’t hide her smile while she does it.

Zachary is smack dab in the middle of Sally’s. He calls Mandy’s name as though his life depends on it. He looks at me. “You’re out tonight too.” Why yes, Zachary, I am.

I raise my eyebrow at Mandy. “I’ll be okay,” she says, and turns toward him. I am no longer the beloved-yet-annoying friend. I’m the third wheel. I leave with little fanfare.

I curl onto the edge of the bar. The picture I took of the exterior of the pub last spring rests above the line of liquor bottles. I used Photoshop to give it a spooky effect. Deeper shadows than are natural in a normal black-and-white image. I got it framed and gave it to Sally before I went home for the summer. She had clutched both it and me to her motherly bosom as she thanked me. “Now my bar has some real class.”

I’m so soaked in that memory that a voice jostles my thoughts. “Sally told me you took that picture.” The guy who cleaned up the broken glass last night saunters up to me and takes a deep sip of his lager while he waits for me to respond.

“Yeah, I did,” I say.

“It looks...eerie,” he says. A slow smile splays across his face. I wonder if he’s the type of guy who would care to know about the way I manipulated the photo. Probably not.

Not sure what else to say, my hands grow slippery on the edge of the wood bar, which I am now clutching. Fortunately, Sally swoops in. “Pinot?” I nod.

“Can you get me another one of these?” the broken-glass guy asks as he settles onto the stool next to me. “And put that pinot on my tab.”

Sally gives me a look, daring me to say no. I wave my hand. “Thanks but no thanks. I got this.”

This is Sally’s cue to nod and go get the orders. That’s the dance. Because random older guys offering me drinks happens at a pretty high clip. I mean, I’m decently cute. I have these big, round, almost cartoonish eyes, and I tan easily. My chestnut hair, while limp, is not entirely devoid of shine. And, of course, dancing has some positive side effects on my figure. But the real reason I get so many strange men who want to buy me a drink, more than the blonde sorority girls or the hot townie MILFs, is because I just look so darn friendly. I’ve tried to fight this, but it persists. It’s fucking annoying.

And, despite Mandy telling me to just take the drinks and run, I don’t always know what the guys think that drink buys them. So Sally rings up separate checks, and maybe I chat with the guy and maybe that chat leads to kissing, or making out, or more. But I can also decide I don’t need to say a nugget of a sentence to the guy making the offer. That’s the control you get when you buy your own drink.

But, this time, Sally doesn’t go off and ring up separate tabs. Instead, she talks to the glass guy. “Luke, honey, can you do me a favor and get those empty pitchers from that table over there?” She points at a table all the way across the bar. He narrows his eyes but shrugs and walks away. Sally focuses on me. She leans onto the bar, her hands in a fist and arms in a triangle. The faded dragon tattoo creeping out of her cleavage is hard not to look at, but I manage.

“Quinn, honey, I get it, you’re independent. But Luke—” she tips her forehead to the glass guy, who turns around with a skeptical look before resuming his journey, “—he’s just about one of my favorite people on God’s earth, and he isn’t thrilled to be back in Allan and hasn’t had the easiest time of things. So, basically, you’d be doing me a personal favor if you let him buy you a drink and listened to a few of his jokes. You don’t have to laugh, just listen. Understand?”

I’m shocked at Sally’s bluntness, but, as always, her voice is raspy and sweet all at once. She’s not attacking me. She’s looking out for this guy, Luke. And, honestly, I want to shoot the shit with any guy that Sally likes this much. And I wouldn’t mind touching those rough palms again.

“Of course,” I say.

She gets our drinks before he comes back and once he does, I pick up my wine. “Thanks for the drink.”

He clinks with me and takes a sip. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” There’s something sad in his voice that makes me want to find an emotional salve, which I imagine would probably be some kind of chocolate peanut butter concoction.

“It’s nothing personal, it’s just—” I start.

“No, I get it.” His hand flip-flops a coaster between his thumbs and fingers as he stares into the line of bottles of whiskey and whatnot. “I’m Luke, by the way.” He reaches his other hand out, like we’re business partners. I go with it.

“I’m Quinn.”

Those hands. They’re the kind of rough and wild hands that hold truths. And, like last night, I want more than the tactile glimpse the handshake gives me.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Quinn.” I love the way he says my name. With his southern accent it sways more toward the
Q,
the
n’
s are uphill.

“So, where have you been?” I ask.

He tilts his head, sort of like a puppy would do if you hide a tennis ball behind your back. “Ah, you mean...your whole life?”

I’m only semi-successful at stifling a girlish giggle as he watches me with playful eyes. “No, I mean, Sally said you’re back in town. From where?”

“So she told you all that?” he says.

All that? I’ll have to ask Sally about it later. He gulps down a significant amount of beer faster than you should outside of race-themed drinking games and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“She just said you were back.” I mirror him and take a big swig of wine that should be savored. But this is getting awkward.

Apparently he doesn’t agree. He climbs onto the seat next to me. “Yeah, I was in Richmond for a few years.”

“Richmond’s a nice city. I lived there for four years growing up.”

“Oh?” he says. “Why did you leave?”

“My dad’s job.”

“Do you miss it?”

“No,” I say, remembering some pretty not-fun middle school years. Though that likely shouldn’t be blamed on the city.

He smiles. “Well, I do. I loved it. But...” His chest expands. He swallows more beer. “Well, shit happened, and it made sense to come home.”

Silence. My nail digs into a little knot in the wooden bar. He flops the coaster some more.

“So, are you from around here?” he asks, squinting as though he knows it might be a stupid question.

“No, I’m a senior at Poe University. The Fightin’ Black Birds!” I crook my arm in exaggerated school spirit.

“Passion and Purpose.” He recites the school motto. “Anyway, I figured you for a student, but the wine threw me off. Aren’t undergrads supposed to drink Natty? Smirnoff for special occasions?”

“No.” I roll my eyes in feigned exasperation. “It’s Miller High Life, the champagne of beers, for special occasions.”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” he says. I get a little lost looking into his amber lager.

A woman across the way laughs this high-pitched sort of maniacal laugh. It’s so loud, we both turn.

“She’s been here before,” I explain. “Every time I hear her, I want to go Wiiiiiiipe Ouuuut.” I laugh to myself mostly because I’m not sure he’ll get it, but then he starts humming the rest of the surfer song. I stop gripping the edge of the bar.

We discuss the best surfer songs, from the Beach Boys to Weezer. We decide we’re both authorities on the subject because, even though we haven’t surfed, we have been to the beach and we agree that the best beach meal is peanut butter and jelly with French onion chips and a Coke. I’m close to finishing my wine, having taken too many quick swigs. “Want another one?” He’s already signaling to Sally.

Mandy is across the bar, deep in conversation with Zachary. Her forehead is wrinkled and she isn’t smiling. But her concerned look isn’t so severe it would warrant a rescue. I don’t see anyone else I know well enough to latch on to. I look back to Luke.

Sally smirks as she places two fresh drinks before us.

“You going to let him pay for this one too?” she teases. I shrug and say sure. “Good girl,” she says. It’s not condescending; she treats all her favorite customers like they’re her favorite pets. “Have you told Luke about the beer you and Conrad made? Luke loves himself a good lager.”

Before I can respond, she’s off pouring shots.

Luke leans into me. “You made a lager?” He smells like mowed grass and smoke. Not nicotine smoke, s’mores smoke. His breath is in my ear. Hair stands at the back of my neck and my lips part.

“Yeah, I made a lager,” I say, once I’ve gathered myself. I should add the caveat that I am more like Conrad’s sous chef. I’m there for moral support and to help him with tasks that are easier to do with two people, like bottling.