No way out

Chapter Thirteen

I’m at my best in the morning. I shake less, think more clearly, and get more done. I usually exercise in the afternoon, figuring that the better shape I’m in, the better I can shake off the shakes, though my workouts are a double-edged sword, triggering the tics even as they harden me against them. Evenings are an adventure-sometimes easy; other times a pounding combination of tremors and fog, my head feeling as if an invisible hand is squeezing my brain, trying to wring the last drops out of a soggy sponge.

I’ve seen a lot of smart doctors, but none of them can tell me what causes tics. That only seems fair because they don’t know how to cure it either. The upside is that they assure me it won’t kill me and it won’t turn into something worse that will, and that counts for a lot.

I’ve tried the drugs that work for some people. One knocked the bottom out of my blood pressure while the other knocked me for a loop. Neither one worked. The heavier pharmaceutical artillery warns of side effects like Parkinson’s syndrome, so the only drug I take is chocolate. Joy insisted I try neurofeedback, biofeedback, meditation, acupuncture, Rolfing, and subtle energy therapy, none of which helped, but it made her feel better and left me straddling life between taking it easy and taking as much as I can take.

That said, most people don’t know there’s anything wrong with me. I don’t shake, rattle, and roll all the time or most of the time. When I’m with the uninitiated and my neck and head rear back for a direct shot at the heavens or I break out into a speech-throttling stutter, I explain that I have a movement disorder and leave it at that unless they ask for details I’m happy to provide. I’d rather people understand than speculate, but I don’t want to bore them with the details.

It was midafternoon when I got off the bus in Brookside, the long, jostling ride the last straw in a day that didn’t fit my tic-management routine. I grabbed hold of a NO PARKING sign, my knees buckling, my chin locked on my chest, my eyes shut tight as I corkscrewed toward the sidewalk, people skirting me, leaving me blessedly alone. The spasm passed, and I pulled myself up, took a deep breath, and walked home, wobbly at first, finding my legs, my head clear by the time I walked in the door and Roxie and Ruby jumped me.

There is only one thing better than a puppy, and that’s two puppies, even when they are no longer puppies. Roxie is white with a faint honey streak down her back you can see only on the day she’s groomed. Ruby’s coat is amber except for her white socks and chest. She’s the dominant sister, though Roxie is smarter, scratching at the door so that we’ll open it so that Ruby will go outside and she can steal the toy they were fighting over. They greet me like a liberator every time I come home, a few minutes on the floor with them climbing in and out of my lap, licking my ears, and nipping at my nose the perfect tonic.

“They’re glad to see you,” Joy said.

I was sitting on the faded oriental rug in the living den, a room whose hybrid name made up for what our house lacked in space, one room serving as two, the dogs flanking me, their front paws on my thighs. They’d met me at the door, sliding across the hardwood floor, attacking my knees until I surrendered.

Joy stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a dish towel over one shoulder. She’d lost her hair to chemo, but it had grown back, a thin, white downy layer. She called it low maintenance, claimed it was every woman’s dream. She was sickly thin, her clothes hanging off bony shoulders, and straight-line hips. The difference makers were the way her eyes glowed, the ease of her smile, and the sure way she carried herself, the combination saying that she’d taken her turn in the barrel and was determined to live as well and as long as she could. It was enough for her, and it was enough for me.

“Who can blame them?”

“Don’t kid yourself. They do that for everyone that comes in the door except they don’t get so excited that they pee when they see you.”

“Familiarity breeds continence.”

Joy rolled her eyes. “Save it for the revival of Urinetown. How’s that girl, Roni Chase?”

When I was at the FBI, I didn’t talk with Joy about my cases because our investigations were confidential and because I thought I was protecting her from things that would only make her worry. It wasn’t until after our divorce that I realized that the wall I’d built to keep her safe had kept us apart. I may have been slow to learn, but I was educable. I followed her into the kitchen and told her about my day, my visit with Roni, the old man on the bus, and the gang bangers.

“So, is Roni going to be okay?”

I shrugged. “Hard to tell. Depends on what happens. Quincy Carter won’t leave it alone. If he can tie Frank Crenshaw to the robbery of the gun dealer, some of that could splash back on Roni since she kept his books.”

“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the shooting. Is she going to be okay with that?”

That was Joy, more interested in people than problems, a lesson she says she learned the hard way. Fix yourself first and worry about the rest later.

“I think she’s strong enough to handle it. She went to the hospital to see Crenshaw, but the cops wouldn’t let her near him. She’ll probably feel better once she sees him up and around, even if he’s wearing a jail jumpsuit.”

She nodded, opened the refrigerator, the door hiding her face but not the catch in her throat. “That thing with the boys on the bus. I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“I’m sorry. It just happened.”

“All the same.”

She closed the fridge, crossed her arms, and leaned against the counter, biting her lower lip. I put my hands on her shoulders, and we leaned into each other. I rested my face against her neck as a flurry of tremors bent me at the knees. She gripped my arms, and when the shakes passed, I whispered in her ear.

“Okay.”