I Said Yes: My Story of Heartbreak, Redemption, and True Love (3 page)

“I’m Ricky,” he said, adding that he was twenty-one. But the best part ever was his next admission. “My dad makes seats for Ferris wheels!” (true, true, lie).

“Hmm,” I said aloud, intrigued at that last bit of information. “That’s different. Cool!” I didn’t even know that job existed, but hey, what did I know about the amusement park industry? Ricky also told me the boat belonged to his buddy. (Lie. It was his.) I would learn later that because he came from such a prominent family, he preferred not to drop his family name. Instead, he’d often make up interesting stories about who he was and where he came from, just to throw people off. And me? Well, I just made up stuff because it was fun.

While we chatted away, I didn’t think my lies were a big deal. Like any other Key West visitor I ran into while gallivanting with my friends, I imagined this night to be the last I’d ever see of him. Problem was, the more we talked, the more I liked Ricky. So when he asked if I’d meet him for breakfast at a local joint in Key West the next morning, of course I said yes.

My friends and I didn’t stay long, but I didn’t make my curfew. Not by a long shot. All I’ll say is that Dad was not a happy camper. As I got ready the next morning, sporting a hobo vibe with my long khaki linen skirt and matching top, I looked more like a pottery shop owner than a stereotypical Floridian beach bunny. Like always, I was nervous. But
butterflies weren’t quivering in my belly just because I was meeting a cute boy over eggs and coffee. I felt tense thinking about our impending conversation. All cute-girl-meets-cute-boy aside, what on earth were we going to talk about? Sure we got along great, but our first encounter was essentially based on a lie about who I was, or rather wasn’t. Still figuring that I’d never see him again, at least not after our date, I headed down to Camille’s, a casual restaurant AOL voted “best breakfast in the United States.”

Ricky was adorable, funny, and cute. And as I munched on syrup-drenched pancakes, it was truth time. My date came clean. As it turned out, his dad didn’t make Ferris wheel seats. He owned a NASCAR team in Charlotte, where Ricky lived. The Hendricks also owned hundreds of car dealerships across the country. Ricky, a former NASCAR driver who had recently injured his shoulder in a race—thus the sling—owned a piece of his dad’s company.

I, however, did not even think about coming clean. Ricky tried asking me questions about my personal life, but I was strategically quick to change the subject by asking the waitress for more OJ. By the time the check came, I had a little crush on the guy. On one hand, I wanted to see Ricky again or at least talk to him more because he was so cute and nice, but on the other hand lay the obvious quandary. Um, hello, people. I wasn’t nineteen. I didn’t go to NYU. And I wasn’t majoring in broadcasting. I was, however, a fibber. Ricky and I parted ways that morning with a friendly hug and casual exchange of “see you around.” He wasn’t as affectionate as I’d hoped, so I figured he just wasn’t that into me. Well, at least I wouldn’t have to admit to lying, right?

Unbeknownst to me, while Ricky and I were having breakfast, my mom was taking a stroll near the docks and ran into the property manager of Sunset Key. He was walking with a man Mom didn’t recognize but was immediately introduced to.

“Good morning, Susan,” the manager greeted Mom cheerfully. He turned to the man next to him and said, “This is Susan Maynard. Her husband, Dave, and their kids live a couple of houses down.” He then introduced Rick Hendrick and told Mom that Mr. Hendrick and his wife were building a home on the island, adding, “You two are going to be neighbors!”

As the three of them talked more, my mother mentioned she had a daughter. Mr. Hendrick smiled and said, “Oh, that’s right. I think she’s out to breakfast with my son, Ricky.”

Mom gave him a questioning look. “Really?” I had told her I was meeting someone for breakfast but didn’t mention who. Besides, it’s not like she was ever going to meet this random guy Ricky whose dad made Ferris wheel seats. Oh, what a tangled web we weave. As Mom and Mr. Hendrick continued the conversation and bits and pieces of the truth began to unravel, Ricky’s dad was shocked to discover that not only did I not go to NYU but I was also only sixteen. Yikes!

A week later, I was back at Saint Andrew’s, surprisingly and giddily accepting an incoming call from Ricky Hendrick. We jumped into a great conversation that started a slow descent when he started asking questions about my classes and the fun stuff I was doing in Manhattan. Not knowing what to say, I clammed up, then blurted out, “Hold on a second, someone’s calling me.” Pressing mute, I hoped the pause would make him forget the questions. I don’t know how exactly the call ended, but we both said good-bye shortly after I weirdly tried
to dodge his questions. Again, unbeknownst to me, by that time, Ricky’s father had told him the truth. I was sixteen. Still in high school. Nowhere near the Big Apple. There may have been one more phone call after that, but I was too sick to my stomach to pursue any more conversations because I had lied for so long. I was also too embarrassed to fess up. It was a lose-lose situation. I’d look like an idiot either way.

When I came home for the summer, I saw his parents around and we’d wave at each other and sometimes even engage in small talk. Years later his mom told me that soon after Ricky and I met, she had a feeling he’d end up with “Emily from Sunset Key.”

In my third year of boarding school, away from the familiar trappings of home, I started coming undone. It all started in an ordinary enough way—in Jamba Juice of all places. A few friends and I hit the smoothie bar as we often did, gulping down refreshing beverages in the intense Floridian heat. By the time I had slurped most of my drink, I noticed the left side of my mouth was going numb. I couldn’t suck in the last bits of the smoothie. It felt like I had just left the dentist’s office after getting shot up with novocaine. I was disturbed but didn’t say anything out loud. I shrugged it off, thinking the weird feeling (or lack thereof) would just go away.

That night, while tossing and turning in bed stressing about the deadline of an upcoming paper I had to write, I realized I couldn’t fully close my left eye. It felt almost paralyzed, and extremely dry. I passed off the odd symptoms as an allergic
reaction. Maybe there was some weird superfood or something in the smoothie that didn’t agree with me. The next morning, the entire left side of my face felt slightly numb. I couldn’t move part of my mouth. I couldn’t lift my left eyebrow. It was as if the muscles in the left side of my face had decided to just stop working. I got spooked when I looked in the mirror. Half of my face sagged. I looked like I was having a stroke.

When I saw the doctor, he peppered me with questions and immediately ordered a blood test and an MRI. The next few days were a blur of radiology visits, doctors’ appointments, and more tests. Not knowing what was wrong with me was incredibly frightening. I thought of multiple worst-case scenarios, not that I had any medical expertise to reasonably entertain any diagnosis, of course, but the fear coupled with the emotional trappings of being a teenage girl unleashed a wild imagination.

Maybe I was having a stroke. Maybe I had cancer. Maybe I had some rare disease that would soon paralyze my entire body and that doctors couldn’t fix. Oh my word. How would I talk? Walk? Go to school? What if I died? What if I never got married? My heart sank at the latter.

Fortunately, some good came out of this angst-ridden waiting game. When I went for the MRI and lay in that claustrophobia-inducing coffin listening to the vacuum-like roars and obnoxious beeps, the radiologist couldn’t get a clear image because my braces were interfering with the radio waves. There was only one solution—I’d have to get my braces off. Hearing the news, I did an inner happy dance. And I grinned. Well, I tried to at least. I more or less half smiled, half drooped.

I was eventually diagnosed with Bell’s palsy, inflammation of the facial nerves that causes paralysis. It sounded scary, and
while the doctor mentioned its cause being relatively unknown, he assured me that with corticosteroid medication, the use of an eye patch at night so I could sleep, and good old-fashioned time, I would make a full recovery. While I wasn’t thrilled that my symptoms wouldn’t disappear entirely for a few weeks, I was grateful it wasn’t anything more serious.

When a nurse phoned my parents to tell them what was going on and mentioned the words
Bell’s palsy
in the conversation, Mom and Dad rushed to Saint Andrew’s. My father was unusually emotional and cradled me in his arms, whispering how much he loved me. He held me close and in hushed tones told me everything was going to be all right. It was comforting being in his strong arms. I felt like a lost little girl who had just been found. Unfortunately, the special moment was short-lived.

I sat in the doctor’s office, listening to the doctor explain the medical condition in intricate detail, when all of a sudden Dad blurted out, “What?” Armed with this updated information, my father groaned loudly. His reaction indicated some sense of regret, as though he was thinking,
I came down for this?
And with that, the warm and fuzzy feelings vanished. He went back home not long after while Mom stayed behind. Her presence made me homesick. Even though she was right beside me, I missed her. And all I wanted was to go home. Right then and there.

I missed a lot of school at that point and got drastically behind in my schoolwork. I never felt I was that smart, and because of that insecurity, I wouldn’t try harder or study more in order to keep up; I’d just give up. I still attended classes because if I didn’t, I’d get in big trouble. Still, it was a matter of time before I was put on academic probation.

I don’t know how else to describe my desperate state, but I just wanted to go home. It was the only thing I believed would make me happy. I had tried to convince my parents to take me out of school, but they refused. “We already paid your tuition, Emily. You have to stay!” they repeated over and over. I had no choice but to suck it up and stick it out.

I felt emotionally out of control. Unsure of myself. Stupid for not being able to keep up with my studies. Although I had friends, I felt alone. And suffocated by the rules I had to follow. I felt so many different things; I needed some sort of relief or reprieve from my consuming thoughts. Seeing a counselor seemed the best thing to do.

Talking to someone once a week helped some, but I was still gripped by an overwhelming desire, a desperate need to go home. My therapist prescribed a low dose of antidepressants. I don’t remember them making a difference. Days passed, one blurring into the next.

I felt particularly vulnerable and sad during one session with my counselor. I sat on a white leather couch, staring out the windows of the office as a palm tree swayed hypnotically in the breeze and a turquoise sky gleamed behind. It was a beautiful day. Most days in Florida are. The sun was bright. The skies were clear. Bold hues painted the landscape from the blindingly beautiful colors of the flowers, the water, and the Mediterranean-styled homes. But even staring right into the captivating scenery, I felt nothing. Well, I felt invisible. To my parents, to my teachers, to my classmates, and even while sitting face-to-face with someone I had made an appointment to see, someone who was being paid to listen.

In that moment, the tangled mess of emotions that I nursed
under the surface started to boil. I turned my head away from the picturesque window, looked straight into the eyes of my counselor, and mumbled, “I just want to die.”

Now, I didn’t necessarily plan on actually killing myself. Looking back, I was probably being more dramatic than anything and figured saying something so crazy, so extreme, might warrant the attention I wanted. Or at least some kind of attention. Something was better than nothing, right? I didn’t expect my counselor to take me seriously. And I certainly didn’t expect the series of events that followed.

But I can see now that just like you can’t yell the word
bomb
in an airport terminal without being tackled by security, you can’t tell a licensed therapist you want to die and expect her to just yawn, pick her nose, and follow up with a generic, “And how does that make you feel, dear?”

My words hit the counselor like a brick in the face. Her eyes widened and she leaned in toward me, making sure she had heard correctly. “What did you say, Emily?”

The next thing I remember was being surrounded by two police officers. I know, crazy, right? I sat on the same couch, not gazing at a tropical backdrop this time but staring at two husky men in uniforms with shiny badges on their chests. They looked just as concerned as my counselor. I didn’t get what all the fuss was about, especially when they began spouting an intense line of questioning.

“Miss, did you take any pills?” one of them asked, holding a pad and pen in his left hand.

“Um, no, sir.”

“Did you try to kill yourself, miss?” the other questioned.

“Uh, no, sir.”

The officers exchanged perplexed glances. A long pause followed. I guess there wasn’t protocol for someone who said something about wanting to die but was not showing any signs of serious consideration. They didn’t know what to do with me. And then, another blur. Fast-forward about an hour later, and I was being admitted to a local hospital. I sat in a waiting area wondering what the heck was going on when my therapist started talking to me about something called the Baker Act. In a calm voice and a long, drawn-out tone, to make sure I understood what she was saying, she explained how under this particular state legislation, a counselor can commit a patient to a hospital for up to seventy-two hours if she thinks that person is a danger to herself or others. As she talked, someone in light-colored scrubs walked over to me and started removing the shoelaces on my tennis shoes.