Adelaide
I can remember the day I learned how to ride a dirt bike. I was terrified. The thing looked like a mechanical monster that would tumble over if you didn't use it correctly. Mom and Dad told me that everything would be okay, that I probably would fall but it didn't mean I shouldn't get back up again.
That day, I fell many, many times, continuously losing my balance and taking corners too sharply. I scuffed up my elbows and bruised my kneecaps. It was one of the hardest things I learned how to do, but once I got the hang of it, the dirt bike turned into something else instead of a monster. It became something I love to do, a way to forget about everything that's happening and simply focus on the terrain of the trail ahead of me. It was fun and exhilarating, and also challenging at the same time.
So as Helene opens the door and invites me and Dad inside, I tell myself that this moment is going to be exactly like learning how to ride a dirt bike. It's going to be hard and scary, but I'll eventually get the hang of it.
That is, if Justin wants to talk to me.
"Addie," Helen says, pulling me into a hug. "It's so good to see you." She then gives Dad a hug and asks where Mom is.
"Mira had to go to my sister's place to pick up Jake – he caught the flu."
"Oh, the poor kid," Helene says, shaking her head. "Must be the same flu that Chris had a week before Christmas. It shouldn't last too long."
While Dad and Helene make conversation, I remove my shoes and take in the house. The homey Christmas decorations are down now, but the house still seems to have some holiday spirit to it. It smells wonderful, too – like homemade cookies and spiced cranberry.
"Hey, Addie," Chris calls from the couch. He's watching some TV show on Netflix. It's one the boys like to watch, too. I just can't remember the name.
"Hi, Chris," I reply.
Since our first meeting, things have gotten better between us. Not that they were bad to begin with. They're just not as awkward. I think Chris kind of likes me, actually. Multiple times when I came over to help Justin with his Chem homework and we sat at the kitchen table, Chris would join us. We got to know each other a little better.
"Justin is upstairs if you're looking for him."
Behind me, the parents stop talking and I glance over my shoulder. There are solemn looks on their faces. While I'm very much aware that our parents know about the situation, I didn't ever stop to think if they'd been talking to each other over the holidays. I squint at Dad and he shrugs.
And just by that, my suspicions are confirmed. The three of them have been talking, maybe even acting as spies for each other. I just don't know how much they've said.
"Can I go upstairs?" I ask.
Dad nods.
Helene softly says, "Of course." And then she adds, "Why don't you take some hot chocolate upstairs with you?"
Before I can say that I've already had enough hot chocolate today – seriously, my stomach isn't feeling all that great from the amount I had earlier – she's sauntered into the kitchen and I can hear the clanking of cups.
She comes back out with a small tray that consists of two mugs and several chocolate chip cookies. With a small smile, she tells me to head upstairs.
So I do, wary of the tray in my hands. I'm not a total klutz like my mom, but I have my moments. The last thing I need to do is drop the mugs and stain the white carpet of the stairs.
Justin's door is closed, so I knock.
"Come in," he shouts from the other side.
My heart stumbles a little. It's been a week since I last heard his voice. I didn't realize how much I missed it.
With my elbow, I open the door. Thank God it's one of those handles and not a knob or else I'd be screwed.
Justin is sprawled out on his bed, wearing a pair of dark jeans and a charcoal-grey sweater that really brings out the darker tones of his ashen blond hair, and reading a book. When he looks up, his mouth drops open. He quickly sits up and sets the book down, forgetting to put his bookmark in.
Swallowing my anxiety, I step into the room, shutting the door behind me with my foot, and walk over to the desk so I can set the tray down. Then I turn around and grab the bookmark from his bed. The book is next. He's reading Shatter Me, one of my favourite books. The paperback I have is so old that half the front cover is missing. And why wouldn't it be? My mom has had it since she was my age.
"What page were you on?" I ask.
"Eighty-nine," he replies slowly.
Flipping to page eighty-nine, I stick the bookmark in and close the book, setting it down when I'm done. I look at him and shrug. "Just so you're not flipping through next time you want to read."
Justin gets off the bed, still staring at me, and stands up. He's right in front of me. So close that if I lifted my hand I could reach out and touch him. And I want to. I really, really want to.
We stare at each other, emotions building up and questions beginning to invade my mind. Does he still want to be with me? Is he okay? I can't handle this. The staring and the questioning of the unknown. I wish I could read his mind. Things would be so much easier if I knew what the right thing to say was.
In the next moment, Justin is pulling me into his arms. His embrace is warm and comforting and I feel a huge wave of relief. I hug him back, returning the gesture.
"I'm sorry, Addie," he whispers. "I am so sorry. I didn't mean what I said to you. I should have kept my mouth shut – you did what any smart person would have done. I'm so sorry."
I tighten my hug, so relieved I could start bawling. He's not mad at me. He doesn't hate me. "I love you for who you are, Justin," I whisper back. "Every piece. And even if epilepsy is a part of you, it doesn't change anything."
If he could hug me any tighter, one of my lungs would probably collapse.
"But," I add, "why didn't you tell me?"
Pulling away, Justin sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. "I was scared," he says. "People don't usually stick around after they find out what's wrong with me. And I didn't want to lose you."
"There's nothing wrong with you," I say.
Justin gives me a look that says, Are you kidding me?
"Okay, there's something wrong with your body," I admit. "But there's nothing wrong with you, as a person."
"Thanks, Addie," he smiles.
I don't want to ruin the moment, but the words slip from my mouth before I can stop them. During the week that I didn't see him, I thoroughly searched the Internet for answers about epilepsy, but I came up short. There were too many different causes to even guess what causes Justin's seizures. "Why do you have seizures?" I ask. "What causes your epilepsy?"
I smack a hand over my mouth, cringing. Stupid, Addie. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Without a word, Justin takes my hand and lifts it up until it's hovering near the left side of his head. I frown at him in puzzlement. What is he doing? If this is him trying to avoid my questions, it's really freaking strange.
But the strangeness quickly fades when he rests my hand atop his head so my fingers are touching his scalp. A small gasp escapes my lips. There's the slightest divot in his scalp, but as I drag my fingers back, the divot becomes longer. In fact, it goes halfway to the back of his head and then makes a sharp curve to just below above where his ear is.
I make eye contact with Justin. "What happened?"
Looking a little defeated, Justin walks over to the tray I momentarily forgot about. "Did my mom tell you to bring these up?" he asks.
I nod.
He sighs and takes both mugs, handing one to me before he sits on the bed. I sit down beside him.
"I've been trying for days to figure out how to explain this without confusing you," he says, reaching out for a skinny notebook on the nightstand. He flips to a page that's covered in his writing. "I even wrote down notes." He chuckles in disbelief and then closes the notebook. "But I can't read it off of a piece of paper. I can't do it in order, either. So ignore the timeline and just absorb the facts, okay?" He raises his eyebrows.
I don't know where Justin is going with this, but I nod.
"Okay," he says, loosening a breath. "When I was ten-years-old, I had my first ever partial seizure or a focal aware seizure. It's when the abnormal electrical charge only affects one part of your brain. You won't lose consciousness and they only last for a minute or less. You can remember what happens after them, and the aura before they occur usually involves high levels of fearfulness or anxiety. It's different for everybody, but I mainly just blank out and stare, unfocused, at something. It also affects my speech – that's why I apparently make noises. That's part of the reason why I shock a person when they find out. People just tend to think I've zoned out due to boredom. They've never once suspected a partial seizure before."
I blink, realizing how much this makes sense. I've seen Justin have a partial seizure before, I realize. More than once, actually. There have been plenty of times in English where I've seen him staring off into the distance. And although I hate being placed in the same category as anyone else, I did think he was simply bored.
"The first time it happened, my parents took me to the doctor. I was misdiagnosed with panic attacks. It pisses me off, but I do understand why it happened – the way partial seizures are for me have some common characteristics with panic attacks. This went on for three years. And then one day, after my parents' divorce was final and some other stuff happened, I decided I didn't want to go to school. With everything being so difficult, I couldn't handle school. And with everyone being older, peers started to point out these supposed panic attacks. They would make fun of me and laugh and do anything they could to make me feel down. I'd missed a lot of school already and Mom was getting mad at me. She asked what was wrong and I said I had a headache, which had been my excuse for the past week. So, thinking she'd scare me into going to school, Mom said that if my head was hurting that bad she'd take me to Emergency. Not backing down, I agreed to go."
Justin stops talking, wiping away a stray tear.
I want to reach out and wipe the tear away myself, but I'm frozen in place.
"I went through some tests – blood pressure, blood tests, a CT scan, some X-rays – and then the results from the CT scan came." He pauses and takes a deep breath. "Apparently, I had a brain tumour on my left temporal lobe that had been causing partial seizure for the past three years." He looks up at me. "Things kept going downhill from there. I was sent down to BC Children's Hospital in Vancouver, put on meds, and then told I needed to have brain surgery in order to remove it. The doctors wanted to wait until March, but I wanted it done earlier. We managed a compromise. I was diagnosed in September and the surgery happened in January. Before the surgery, I need multiple MRIs, psychological tests, eye tests, and other stuff like that."
"The surgery was successful up until a month after. A month after dealing with stitches and unexplainable pain and making sure I didn't stumble and crack my head open, the seizures came back. A month. Mom called the neurologist and they told her that cases like this happen all the time; that the scar tissue can continue to affect the brain once a tumour is removed. Since then, it's been meds, meds, meds. Nothing but meds because the seizures keep getting worse. I don't know how or why, but the meds I'm on barely work for me. I almost don't want to take them – what's the point of being on them if they're going to do nothing?"
I take a couple minutes to soak up all the information he's just told me. Everything makes so much more sense now, and I feel terrible for Justin. I can't imagine what it was like to feel that sense of hope with each day that passed after surgery, and then to be devastated with the worst possible outcome.
I look at Justin. He's so brave and strong. Invincible. I could never do what he's done. Reaching out, I lace my fingers with his, giving his hand a tight squeeze to let him know I'm here; that nothing he says is going to scare me away.
"I am so proud of you for getting through this, for being able to sit here and say that you went through that, Justin," I say softly. "It sucks and I wish you never would've gone through it, but you need to know that you are so strong and brave. Thank you for telling me."
Justin looks at the ground, shaking his head. "You might change your mind when I tell you the rest of the story."
"There's more?" I ask, surprised.
He nods. "Ready?"
I take a deep breath. Whatever he's about to tell me has to somehow contribute to all this, and while I'm a little scared to hear, I know that if he can get through tests upon tests and an extremely invasive surgery, then I can get through this.
So I nod my head.