She never did. I jerked a little, ignoring the pain I felt from hitting the cold hard floor. I tried to drool a little, and I let my eyes roll back as far as I could, but it gave me a headache.
Mom cried out for Craig and dropped to the floor beside me.
I knew the doctor had once told Mom to take me to the ER if a seizure ever lasted longer than five minutes. But I had no idea how long I needed to lie there and twitch. I could feel Mom patting my shoulder, smoothing my hair.
Craig loomed over me, his hands in his pockets. I could hear the change jingling as he fidgeted. I didn’t hear Iris. I prayed it was because she’d done as I asked and gone straight to bed.
“Craig, it’s not stopping,” Mom said. Her voice was anxious.
“Should we call an ambulance?” he asked. I could smell his aftershave and had to fight not to gag.
“I don’t know,” Mom said. “How long do you think it’s been?”
I kept up the twitching, even though my arms and legs were getting tired. I didn’t want Mom to leave and check on Iris just yet.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mom crooned. “And you were about to take your driving test on Monday. I’m so sorry.”
I ignored the disappointment smothering the air in my chest. Really. I had had a seizure. I didn’t deserve to get a license anyway. Obviously my epilepsy was not very well controlled, and it would have been irresponsible of me to get a license when it was unsafe for me to drive.
I kept telling myself these things over and over, but it didn’t make it hurt less.
“I’m calling 911,” Craig said. “Do you think she forgot to take her medicine?”
“I don’t know,” Mom snapped. “I’ll be sure to ask her when she comes to.”
They didn’t fight often, but when they did, it was because of their differing views on parenting. Craig always thought Mom should have let me play soccer. But she balked and finally had him convinced I would be a sickly invalid the rest of my days.
I had to work extra hard not to smile at Mom’s irritation. I was growing so tired I was worried I was going to throw myself into another real seizure. I slowed the twitching once I heard the paramedics arrive. I finished my performance with only a few occasional last jerks.
“Andria?” Mom hovered close over me. “Honey?”
Slowly, I opened my eyes. I looked at Mom and blinked.
“I’m so sorry, baby.”
I curled over on my side and started to sob. “No!” It didn’t take much theatrics. The tears were real. I really had just crushed my own hopes and dreams.
The paramedics examined me and discussed my medical history with Mom. They convinced her that I should go ahead to the ER and be checked out by a physician. I felt guilty when I thought of the hospital bill Mom and Craig would be receiving for this.
Mom rode with me in the back of the ambulance, where the swaying motion made me nauseated. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but it was impossible and the ride was thankfully a short one.
I had been ten the last time I went to the ER for a seizure. That one had lasted twenty minutes, and my lips had turned blue. I’ve heard that people who are depressed can be shocked by doctors, who purposely cause seizures in an effort to cure their depression. I can’t imagine going through these painful storms willingly. I worried about my brain being permanently scrambled from each one.
The ER doctor on duty that night was an older Asian woman. She shined a light in my eyes and ordered blood work and a urine test. She must have smelled the pot on me.
My body was drug-free except for my antiseizure medication. My phenobarbital level was within normal therapeutic levels. My oxygen level was fine.
“Did she hit her head?” the doctor asked my mother.
I realized that I might have when I’d had the real seizure earlier, and reached up to touch the back of my skull. When I winced, the doctor ran her gloved fingers across my scalp and ordered a CT.
It was negative. No concussions, no intracranial hemorrhage, no swelling.
It was almost three o’clock in the morning when we finally left the ER. Craig had arrived an hour and a half after we did, with Mom’s car. I fell asleep in the backseat as they took me home.
“Don’t forget to write this episode down in your journal,” Mom said as I dragged myself to my room.
I wanted to cry all over again. Six more months. I didn’t want to think about the stupid journal. Why would I write down a fake seizure anyway? The journal was sitting open on my desk like it usually was, but I shoved it between two astronomy books on the highest bookshelf. I wanted to forget all about my epilepsy.
I prayed my sister would wake up later that morning sober and that we could have a serious discussion about her life choices. I changed into my pajamas and barely stayed awake long enough to brush my teeth before tumbling into bed. I think it was almost four by that time.
I woke up a few hours later to Mom’s screaming. “Iris! Iris! Wake up! Craig! Call 911 again!”
I jumped out of bed, racing to my sister’s room.
Iris was pale, cold and still.
No. No. No. No. No.
Mom tried giving rescue breaths and began pumping on Iris’s chest. She’d kept up her CPR training because of me. I’m sure she never thought she’d be using it on Iris.
She was still pumping and breathing and pumping and breathing when the paramedics arrived and took over. They looked grim but continued to attempt bringing my sister back.
Then there were two policemen there, and the paramedics stopped CPR.
“What are you doing? She needs to go to the hospital!” Mom cried. Craig put one arm around her and the other around me.
I shrugged him off and reached for Iris’s hand.
It was so cold.
This was a nightmare, and I was certain I was going to wake up at any minute. But Mom pulled me away from Iris, and I didn’t wake up.
They zipped my sister up in a big black bag that reminded me of Mike’s little black bag of poison, and I still didn’t wake up.
They wheeled her out the front door, and the police asked me questions about the previous night. I still didn’t wake up. I told them we were at a party, and I thought my sister was drinking. I thought I smelled pot, and I had talked Iris into coming home.
“Were you drinking too?” the police asked.
“No, I take seizure medicine,” I answered.
“She had a seizure last night after they came home,” Mom said. “We took her to the ER.”
“The victim?” one of the police asked.
“No. Andria,” she said, pointing to me.
“Do you know the name of the person throwing last night’s party?” the police asked. “Whose house was it?”
I shrugged. “Someone Iris knew. Over near the college.” It didn’t matter anymore. I couldn’t protect her any longer. So why should I protect the rest of them?
“Her boyfriend, Alex Hammond, was there,” a vicious little imp inside me said. “Maybe he knows whose party it was.”
The police scribbled his name down in their file. “We’ll be sure to talk to him then. Thank you, Andria. Mr. and Mrs. Williams, sorry for your loss.”
CHAPTER 27
“I’m so tired,” Iris had written in that message to me. “There’s no way I’ll get out of this without pissing someone off.” Without hurting anyone.
The death certificate states my sister died from asphyxiation, lack of oxygen secondary to consumption of heroin.
But Iris surprised us. The toxicology report confirmed that she did have alcohol and heroin in her system, but she also had phenobarbital. One of my medications.
She was alive when I left in the ambulance with Mom. Craig stayed behind, possibly to sneak into her room and take advantage of her drugged state. Sometime after Craig drove to the hospital, Iris wrote in my journal, telling me good-bye. She probably thought I’d see it the next day. She still had enough alcohol and heroin in her system that when she took my phenobarbital,
her body forgot how to breathe.
The coroner estimated her time of death between three and four. If I hadn’t faked the seizure, I would have still been at the house and maybe that monster wouldn’t have gone into her room. If I’d only gone to check on her before I went to sleep.
Three hours earlier, Mom’s CPR might have succeeded.
My sister’s death was my fault.
Alex looks up at me, his eyes red and bright. “You can’t know that. If Craig had been in her room many times before without you waking up, what makes you think you would have heard that night? Even if you’d been there to stop her from taking the pills, even if you’d prevented Craig from going in her bedroom, it would have only saved her for one night.”
He stands up and starts to pace. “Dammit, why couldn’t she have told me about him? Did she think I was that fucked-up that I couldn’t help her? I guess she was right.”
“No,” I say, standing up too. I want to move closer to him, but I stop. I don’t think I can comfort him right now.
I swallow the bile in my throat. One more truth that he needs to hear. “It was the opposite, Alex. She wrote that she couldn’t be the light you needed. She thought she was too effed up to help you.”
He’s quiet. So quiet I can hear the heater turn on, hear the warm air blow through the vent in his ceiling.
“I’m sorry I narced on you that day, and gave the police your name.”
When the police went to talk to Alex, his moms made him take a home drug test and promptly shipped him off to rehab. He wasn’t even able to attend Iris’s funeral.
Not that my family would have been happy to see him there.
“Telling the cops about me probably saved my life,” he says. “Thank you.”
I shrug. “I didn’t think I was doing you a favor at the time, but I’m glad it worked out.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, finally. His voice is tired. Defeated.
The despair I’ve been feeling turns to anger. I find myself pushing him in the chest in fury. “Stop saying that!” I say. “You’re always apologizing! I’m sick of it. You don’t have any reason to apologize. Yes, I know I blamed you for Iris’s death for a long time. But I didn’t know about Craig. And I didn’t know she’d taken my pills and I didn’t know she’d written a good-bye note.”
I calm down, and place my hands on his heart. I feel it pounding beneath my fingertips. “I’m sorry, Alex. Please, please don’t blame yourself anymore. I hope you find the light you need.”
I leave his room, then his house. I’m exhausted. Drained. But I walk home without looking back.
I half want him to run after me, to confess that I, Andria, am the light he needs. The light to chase away his darkness. And the heavens will shine down and we’ll kiss like a happy couple at the end of a Shakespearean comedy.
But I know it won’t happen. This is Greek tragedy. And I’m just as broken as he is.
CHAPTER 28
I’ve made peace with the fact that I’m not going to see my driver’s license before I’m thirty. It’s out of my control, really. I’ve accepted that.
My grades are something I do have control over, though. With Verla’s extra credit and me putting more effort into my homework, my English and algebra grades could both jump to high Bs by the end of the semester. I can live with Bs. I can still end my junior year on the honor roll.
Trista and Natalie are upset about the seizure, but still want to take me to Moonlight Madness miniature golf this weekend.
Even when Iris’s diary goes public. Even when the neighbors turn nasty and Mom loses her position as president of the homeowner’s association. Natalie offers to bring enough food and toilet paper for my mom and me so we never have to leave the house. It’s not like reporters and TV crews are camped out in the front yard, but they have been calling relentlessly. Mom got the house phone changed, along with both of our cell numbers. She vetoes the miniature golf outing but lets the girls hide out here with me instead.
She’s kept me home from school the rest of this week, worrying that stress caused last week’s seizure. It’s Friday night, and we’re all hanging out in the living room, which Trista lovingly calls the Bunker. It does feel like we’re under attack.
Even Natalie asks if Craig molested me. I know the rest of Athens must be assuming the same thing. I tell the girls Craig must have been turned off by my epilepsy because no, he never touched me.
Trista laughs until Natalie hits her in the arm.
I shouldn’t mind what people think. It was terrible what my sister went through, and a part of me feels guilty that I didn’t go through it with her. Survivor’s guilt, Mom said it’s called. She is starting to think I do need to see a counselor. She actually made an appointment for me and is thinking about seeing one herself.
I think of Ismene, wanting to share the blame with Antigone for her brother’s burial, and Antigone rejecting her. Iris thought she was protecting me all those years, by not sharing her secret with me. By suffering in silence.
As sick as it sounds, I would gladly have shared her burden if it meant I wouldn’t have had to lose her.
Mom’s attorney says he’s hoping Craig will confess when he is shown the diary. That he will be given a minimum jail sentence of ten years and will have to register as a sex offender. Georgia laws are strict. When he does get out of jail, he won’t be able to live within a thousand feet of any place where children congregate.
I think about Kimber, and how angry she must be at Iris. If Iris had told someone earlier, if Craig had been arrested a long time ago, would Kimber have been safe?
What if there were girls before Iris? Craig was a soccer coach long before he married Mom. They met when Iris first started playing in elementary school, and Craig was helping out with her team.
I feel sick thinking about him. I feel sick thinking about what my sister went through.
Natalie has brought cupcakes over that her mom made. Carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. Trista brought crab rangoons from Jade Palace, where she just started working. Just for one night, we pile on the couch together and watch silly Japanese anime and try to forget how terrible the world is.
Boys are not discussed. Caleb was arrested yesterday for trying to sell weed to an undercover cop. It doesn’t look like Hank had anything to do with it, but he is conveniently visiting an uncle in Florida. No one talks about Alex. And I have not heard from him all week.
I try not to think about him. It’s easy right now, surrounded by people and distracted with colorful characters to watch on television.
But at night, when everyone crashes in my room, I curl up wide awake in my futon chair, with Sophie sleeping underneath. Natalie is already snoring on her air mattress, and Trista is tossing and trying noisily to get comfortable on my bed. I stare out the window, where dim half moonlight has lit up the backyard and the trees beyond.
I can’t help but wonder if Alex is having trouble sleeping. If he’s still having nightmares in his room not far behind those woods.
“Hey.” Trista’s voice is barely a whisper.
I glance toward the dark corner of the bedroom, where my bed is. I can make out Trista, curled up on her side, staring at me.
“Did Iris say anything about me in her diary? Or . . . in the note she wrote to you?”
I wish I could have copies printed up and distributed. We could have a book club meeting at the library to discuss.
But I feel like a bitch for thinking this. Trista was Iris’s best friend. She probably never suspected anything either. She’s feeling just as betrayed and guilty as I am. “She worried that she’d fucked up and that you were mad at her.”
Trista rolls over on her back and stares at the ceiling. “Shit.”
Natalie rolls over on the air mattress, and even with the soft bedding Mom gave her, it still squeaks and makes a lot of noise. But Natalie doesn’t wake up. She snores on, just like Sophie.
“What happened?”
Trista sighs. Or sobs. I
can’t tell in the dark, but I think she’s crying. “That night at the party, she kissed me.”
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. Maybe that Iris had kissed Hank? I’m not sure what to say.
“Why?” is all that comes to mind.
Trista laughs. “Beats the shit out of me. I thought she was just stoned or drunk. I didn’t know about the heroin until the next day. I mean, I don’t know if that made any difference or not. I pushed her away and she looked so hurt. Like she’d been having feelings like that about me for a long time.”
She rolls back onto her side, to look at me. “But I didn’t. And I don’t think I ever gave her the impression that I did. But now you’re telling us her death wasn’t an accident and I can’t help but wonder if it was because of me. Alex wasn’t giving her what she needed, but what if she thought I could? And I couldn’t? Didn’t?”
I should have told Trista she didn’t have to tell me about this. That whatever Iris did or said to her should have stayed a secret between them. But I’m glad she could talk to someone.
“Maybe we all failed her,” I say finally. “Because we didn’t know she needed help.”
“I know, but . . . shit. I didn’t love her that way, but she was my best friend. I should have been more supportive.”
I remember that night, seeing Trista screwing Hank like her life depended on it, and it sort of makes sense to me now. She was trying to convince herself of something.
“Do you love Hank?” I ask.
“Honestly? Yes. I know we act like a pair of bickering five-year-olds sometimes, but yeah, we do love each other. We’ve been talking about leaving together after high school. Getting out of this town.”
“College?” I ask. Somehow, I didn’t think Hank had the GPA or the temperament for that.
“He wants to join the air force, like his dad. I could go to junior college just about anywhere.”
“What do you want to study?”
“Something medical, but not nursing. I peeked at my sister’s books. I don’t think I’d be interested in that. Maybe radiology? Taking pictures of people’s bones all day sounds like it would be cool.”
Dreaming of Antigone Page 17
