when they were about to cover the sun.
‘Neil Young, Jimmy Reed, Prince,’ said Scott.
She looked at him as if to say, Really? I have to do this now?
‘Joan of Arc,’ she said. ‘Dickens and Dostoyevsky.’ She knew why he did it, this roll call, to make her feel less ashamed, less alone. She was part of a club, a member of epilepsy’s renowned society – but it irritated her.
Actually, Scott did it to gauge her responsiveness.
‘They glued me,’ she said lightly. ‘See?’ Her finger hovered tentatively over the dark maroon splice above her brow.
‘Very Harry Potter,’ Scott said, thinking to himself that if he was a religious man he’d want to thank God for medical glue, for the fact that she was OK. But he wasn’t a religious man because he just couldn’t reconcile a God figure smiting someone so beautiful, so vital and harmless, with such an affliction. He sat down and put his hand gently over her wrist.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It just happened.’
He hated the obligation she felt to apologize. He hated God for that too. Why burden the victim with guilt as well?
‘I know, sugar, I know.’
‘I thought we had the meds pretty much sorted.’
Quietly, they both felt suddenly foolish for having had so much hope in the new cocktail and doses.
‘You’re booked in for your EEG next month?’
Jenna nodded. ‘Can I come home tonight?’
‘Doc says tomorrow.’ Scott looked at her and assessed in a glance the new scar she’d be adding to her collection. And then he shrugged, his signature gesture when he’d assessed all the pros and cons in a split second. Jenna had suffered a seizure but see, she’s back.
‘It’s been a while,’ he said, ‘since you had one that’s ended you up here.’ He tucked her hair behind her ear. But Jenna didn’t nod and he found he couldn’t look at her. ‘Tell me it’s been a while.’
Jenna could do neither half-answers nor white lies.
‘They’ve been, you know, manageable. And, as you say – they haven’t put me in here for a good while.’
Scott was appalled. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because you’d react like this? And blame yourself? And worry too much?’
The accusation was fair but it irked him.
‘I kept a note – so I can discuss it with Dr Schultz next month.’
‘You should have told me.’
She looked pale and exhausted. ‘No driving for me, I guess,’ she said. ‘That’s another six months wasted, hoping for normality.’
They both thought of her little red car in the driveway at home, which had hardly moved in two years.
Back home the next day, Scott settled Jenna into the armchair and built a small fire though it was May.
‘I can cancel England next week,’ he said.
‘Are you crazy?’
‘They can do it without me.’
‘No, they can’t – you won’t let them anyway. You have to go,’ Jenna said. ‘That’s what they pay you for.’
‘The team there is great – they know me, I know them.’
‘I’m not having this thing do this to me – to you. You have to go. It’s your career. You need the money.’
They sat and reflected quietly, independently, together.
Scott went to the kitchen and took something out of the freezer. This Thing. Jenna’s epilepsy was indeed just that – an incendiary entity that would grab her when he wasn’t there, that would fight him for her when he was. All these years and he was no closer to finding any peace, any acceptance that this affliction held Jenna hostage right in front of his face and he just couldn’t rescue her. A long time ago, he’d decided that if he couldn’t rescue her, then he’d be right there with her, alongside her in captivity.
He rooted around for potatoes and onions, he clanged pans against pots, he clattered cutlery and muttered inanities under his breath but loud enough to fool Jenna if she was listening. All the while, he tossed the concepts around, like a juggler throwing machetes. It didn’t necessarily follow that though she’d had a bad seizure another would recur any time soon – so if he did cancel England next week, say she was fine? And then, say the next time she wasn’t fine when he was abroad? But how many times had there been recently that he hadn’t known about? She’d said a couple – did she really mean only two? And define ‘recently’ Jenna. How long are we talking about?
England. Would she come with him? But she had work. Anyway, she wouldn’t want to – she’d been there and done that and they both knew he’d have little time for anything other than sleep and work. Her life was here. If only the Thing would do them both the courtesy of some kind of schedule, better warning signs, softer landings. But when had it ever done that? The only predictable thing about most of her seizures was just how unpredictable they were. Scott thought about it as he sliced and chopped and steamed and fried. There was no magic solution, no cure, and still it made him furious.
Jenna was dozing when he went back through with a tray of food. He lifted a strand of hair that he felt was too close to her new wound. He had no appetite. He pushed his tray to one side and kept watch while she rested.
I’ll always be here. I’ll never leave you, baby. His oath was as solemn now as twenty years ago.
Alice Alice Alice.
Frankie paused. She’d been here before, waiting for Alice. There was little point expending emotion on it. She’d just chant Alice’s name again, in case she was creeping up on her, unseen.
What are you up to this time? Frankie asked quietly. Where are we going, youngling – you and I?
She thought she could hear her, in the distance. A snatch of a giggle, the arrhythmic scamper of small footfalls over twigs and leaves, the sound of joy that propelled a leap into the air.
Alice? Are you coming?
Frankie! Frankie! Can you hear me?
Sort of, but you’re very muffled. Come closer, you little minx. Come closer so I can catch you.
Can you see me, Frankie? I’m here. Look!
Yes! There you are! Hold on – wait for me.
And then the back door opened with a creak and closed with a slam and all that Frankie had to show for her day was a stark, staring whiteness. A blankness that was as confrontational as it was empty. A sheet of white paper, with absolutely nothing on it.
‘Hi Mum.’
‘Hi darling.’
‘Are you Alice-ing?’
‘I thought I was.’ Frankie smoothed the paper in front of her as if it was as creased as her brow. It wasn’t. It might as well have been ironed flat, such was the pristine sharpness to the edges, as if potential paper cuts were its raison d’être.
‘Haven’t you done anything?’
‘Almost.’ Frankie looked at her son and glanced away. ‘No.’
‘Mum,’ Sam sighed.
‘It’s so hard –’
‘– there’s no crisps.’