Rewind to You (18 page)

I meet her gaze because she nailed one of my symptoms dead-on. “Yes.”

“A cold sweat?”

“Yes.”

“Trembling in your arms or legs?”

“Yes.”

“Palpitations?”

“What’s that?”

“Can you feel your heart pounding?” She rephrases it.

I hesitate to answer in the affirmative, because she’s narrowing in on what my problem is and I’m suddenly terrified to find out. “Yes.”

“What were you doing before the first and subsequent times you passed out?”

I loosen my grip on Austin’s hand, my palms a sweaty mess. “The first time I was in my living room, the second time I was watching fireworks, the third time I was afraid Austin was drowning in the ocean, the fourth time Austin’s friends were driving their motorcycles, and the fifth”—I pause, quickly thinking of a roundabout way to phrase it—“I was looking at a binder of pictures.”

“Pictures?”

Here we go. “Of my dad.”

Dr. Kovac jots a few notes, then glances up, looking confused. “Do you have a fear of drowning, Miss Owens?”

I swallow at least three times, my throat a wall of sandpaper. “Um, yeah.”
A bit of an understatement.

Her lips twitch to one side, her eyelids narrowing. “And what exactly were you doing in the living room, the first time you passed out?”

I try to swallow, but I give up. “Looking at a picture of me and my dad,” I croak out.

A hint of insight replaces the question mark in Dr. Kovac’s eyes. Removing her glasses, she leans forward. “Where is your father now, Miss Owens?”

Austin tightens his grip on my hand. “He died,” I say, and my heart hammers the pain of these words throughout my body.

I see the connection being made on Dr. Kovac’s face. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Really, what do people expect me to say to that?

“Let me ask you, hun, did your father drown, by chance?”

I nod reluctantly, a knot of raw emotions burning my throat. “On the Fourth of July, last year.”

Dr. Kovac lets out a deep breath with a frown. “That explains the fireworks.”

I clear my throat, forcing away the tears I’ll never cry again. “It feels like a cold breeze.” I finally open up. “Then my vision wigs out, like a bright light covers everything.”

“An aura.”

“A what?”

“An aura,” Dr. Kovac repeats. “A common sensation that precedes the onset of a seizure. You probably have a headache and might even feel nauseous when you wake up.”

I nod. I’m caught in a trance, thinking about the bright light and my dad or Austin or whatever I rewind to coming into focus.

“Miss Owens?”

My head snaps up.

“Did you witness the drowning that took your father’s life?”

My voice cracks as I reply, “Yes. Our car flipped off the highway and into a river.”

Her narrow eyes fly open, scrunching her purple eyelids. “You were in the car?”

I rub my finger along the side of Austin’s thumb, a nervous motion. At last, I nod.

“Oh my.” Shock shapes her penciled eyebrows. “I’m very sorry.” After some terribly awkward seconds of silence, she pulls herself together, checking her notes with an audible clearing of her throat. “The first time you fainted, you were looking at a photo of you and your father; the second time you were watching fireworks that reminded you of the accident that took his life. Your third seizure was brought on by fear as well, the fear of someone else you love drowning.” She glances at me and Austin, her gaze dropping to our clasped hands. “And the motorcycles?”

“A motorcycle veered in front of my Jeep. That’s why I swerved.”

“
You
were driving?”

I nod.

She doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch. Just stares at me like she should have guessed as much. I’ve seen the look before.
Reckless teenage driver,
they all think.

“I see,” she says, her eyes shifting back down to her notes. “And the fifth time you were looking at a binder of pictures of your father, you say?”

“Yeah, memorabilia. Newspaper clippings from the accident and stuff.” My heart is pounding mercilessly. “Dr. Kovac, what’s happening to me?”

“Well, we can skip right over the possibility of epilepsy, because it’s clear your condition has a far deeper emotional root. I believe, Miss Owens, you are suffering from psychogenic non-epileptic seizures, or PNES.”

I stare blankly. To me, the only thing that medical term means is that I have a major problem. I know I’m not perfect and my mom has unrealistic expectations. But this is big. Something is seriously wrong with me.

“What’s the difference between that and epilepsy?” Austin asks, filling in my silence.

“Epileptic seizures are caused by a disturbance in the electrical activity of the brain. Non-epileptic seizures are different in that no disruption in that electrical activity takes place. Sienna’s seizures stem from a traumatic psychological experience.”

Austin nods like a student on the first day of class, pretending he fully caught on to all of that.

At last, she addresses me in plain terms. “Your seizures are stress-induced, a result of trauma. It’s your body’s way of expressing what your mind cannot.”

I take a deep breath and exhale.

“Miss Owens, I’m glad you came to talk with me. Patients with PNES are frequently misdiagnosed and treated for epilepsy. When you see a doctor, tell him you speculate you’re having psychogenic non-epileptic seizures. Got that?” She jots it down on a Post-it and pulls it off. “This way, your doctor can make sure you receive proper treatment.”

“Treatment? What kind of treatment?”

“Typically antidepressants. Possibly an antiepileptic drug, but most important of all, therapy with you and your family. Family support is critical.”

I stare at her and almost laugh. Family support? That’s exactly what I don’t have. No way am I going to tell my mom any of this. Stress-induced seizures? Antidepressants? She’ll freak.

I shake my head. “I can’t.”

“You can’t
what
?”

“I can’t do that. Any of it.”

Dr. Kovac pulls out a perceptive grin. “This is serious, Miss Owens. You have post-traumatic stress disorder.”

She doesn’t need to say more. I have a major problem that’s not going away on its own. But she doesn’t understand. My mom’s precious hair has slowly been turning gray from stress over raising an ADHD, bipolar son. Dr. Kovac doesn’t understand what my dad’s death did to us all. The peacemaker in our home is gone. She doesn’t realize that my life, my success, moderates the tension in our home.

I nod, keeping this all to myself. Dr. Kovac nods as well with a proud smile. Her arrogance is getting to me. Makes me feel like a number, a statistic. Nothing more than data on her chart. Sure, she’s been helpful, but I want out of here. I have only one question left.

“Dr. Kovac.” I speak with resolve, finally broaching the most critical part of this all. How should I phrase it, though? “Do people with these seizures ever have dreams, you know, while they’re having a seizure?”

Replacing her glasses on the tip of her nose, Dr. Kovac looks more like a detective than a professor. “Do
you
have dreams during your seizures, Miss Owens?”

I hesitate, wondering if she could possibly provide an explanation. “Yes,” I finally say.

Her eyes flash with interest. She jots a few notes, turns the page, and looks back up at me. “Do you remember anything about these dreams?”

I think about my visits to the garden, seeing my dad. Then I remember kissing Austin for the first time on the beach all over again, and I realize how incredibly ludicrous this sounds. Am I suggesting that I can rewind to previous moments in my life? Moments I can choose? I consider the treatments she mentioned, treatments that will stop these seizures, and I suddenly fear something I haven’t thought of. If these seizures stop, I’ll never be able to go back and see my dad again.

I shake my head. “Not really.”

Dr. Kovac studies me for a second before closing her notepad. She hands me the sticky note, thanks me for coming to see her, and invites me to stay in contact. She and Austin exchange small talk before we leave, mostly about the University of Florida: the campus, football, classes. I listen halfheartedly, still thinking about the moments I rewind to, wondering if I could give them up.

“May I ask one more question?” Dr. Kovac says as she opens the door. “What does it feel like, having a seizure?”

I step out and turn, taking a minute to think. Seeing my dad, reliving those memories with Austin . . . simply the thought makes me smile. “It feels like being in another place for a while.”

She nods, and together Austin and I walk out into the sunshine.

“Why didn’t you tell her,” Austin asks when we reach his motorcycle, “about how you see your dad when you have a seizure?”

I look at the ocean, the distant sounds of kids playing at a park drifting on the breeze. “Last time I had a seizure, in the closet before I texted you?”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t rewind to my dad in the garden.”

“ ‘Rewind’?” His tone expresses the oddity of that word.

“That’s what it feels like, at least—like I’ve rewound to an earlier time, and I’m really there. I can say and do whatever I want.”
So long as I don’t try to change the past.

He nods. “Okaaay, so what did you rewind to?”

I pull my lips between my teeth, suppressing a grin. Would it work again? Could I choose another moment like I did with Austin on the beach and rewind to it? I smile, seeing these seizures in a different light now.

“I rewound to you.”

CHAPTER 28

Sienna

“W
here ya from, anyhow?” Jesse asks me the next morning.

I look up from the dog kennel Austin and I are building to see old Jesse staring at me with an assessing eye matched only by one my mom could give. “Richmond, Virginia,” I answer with a cautious smile. “It’s nice. There’s a lot of neat history. Some good shopping.”

“Huh,” Jesse huffs, wiping away a bead of sweat. “Never liked that shopping none.”

Austin warned me the old man would come off gruff, but I had no idea. You’d think he’d extend a little more Southern hospitality to a couple of teenagers sacrificing their Saturday morning to build his dog a kennel.

“My wife, Marjorie, loved them big fancy malls, though. Named our café after her.” Jesse gibbers on but I lose interest. Austin hammers in another nail. I wonder why he cares for people like this,
volunteers
even, to help crusty old people like Jesse.

“Boom Boom Pow” by the Black Eyed Peas splits the relative silence and my phone vibrates in my pocket. Austin throws me a sideways glance. I swear, Kyle has called at all the wrong times: once while Austin and I returned to River Street for ice cream, another when I stopped by to see Austin in the beach shop, and even once when Austin leaned in for a kiss. How’s that for bad timing? Needless to say, I can tell Austin is getting suspicious about this ringtone.

Slipping away, I pull out my phone. “Hello?”

“There’s that sexy voice.”

“Hey,” I say, drawing a blank as I glance back at Austin.

“Did your mom tell you?” Kyle asks. “We’re coming to Tybee for the Fourth of July!”

“Yeah, she told me!” I try to sound perfectly at ease, incidentally recalling how my mom told me to make sure that first date with Austin was my last. Whoops. I cut the conversation short, assuring Kyle I’m thrilled. I return to the back patio as Austin finishes the last touches on the kennel.

Jesse thanks us, and Maggie barks her satisfaction as she tests out her new kennel.

My stomach grumbles as we leave, starved. Or maybe I just feel sick about the conversation with Austin that I know is coming. I can’t avoid it forever. “Do you want to come to my house for breakfast?”

“You sure your mom won’t mind?”

I give a little laugh like he’s being ridiculous, but we both know better. “She’s on an architectural tour with this guy.”

One of Austin’s eyebrows wings upward in a quizzical arc.

“Gary,” I say.

“Gary, huh?”

I brush all emotion off my face so I won’t have to talk about it.

“He’s a jerk, babe,” Austin volunteers. “Nothing like your dad. Total loser.”

I smile at his use of that pet name, deciding I like it. I let out a deep breath, feeling better already. Austin must understand all too well the need to hate a man who threatens to take my dad’s place. Gary seems nice enough, which only makes it worse.

“I’m sorry,” Austin says and pulls me in, wrapping an arm around me as we walk down the beach. If anyone can empathize, it’s Austin. His mom remarried when he was thirteen.

“You should have seen the glare on Spencer’s face the other day when Gary walked in,” I say.

Austin smiles. “Atta boy.”

I laugh. Somehow Austin takes the worst of the worst and turns it into something comical, less threatening. “Anyway, Mom won’t be back until noon.”

Which will give me and Austin plenty of time to talk.

I open the front door and walk in, tossing my things on the console and pulling my ponytail out. I walk several steps before turning to find Austin standing in the doorway still, scanning the interior with obvious unease. I try to imagine what this place looks like to him, the dark mahogany furniture against the white carpet. Sleek, ritzy, posh.

“Should I take off my shoes?”

“Nah,” I say and gather a handful of his T-shirt, pulling him in for a kiss that lures him inside with no complaint.

I spot a tall glass of kale juice my mom left for me when I open the fridge. Austin examines the green liquid from a distance, like it’s a potion that could turn you into a frog.

“It’s a nutrition drink.” I answer the question evident in his stare.

“You
drink
that?”

I nod. “Or we could have bran flakes with”—I check the fridge again—“almond milk.”

Austin pulls a face with a knee-weakening smile. “Tempting.” He reaches in for the kale juice and dumps it into the sink. His arms frame the space around me, one hand holding the refrigerator door open while the other leans against the freezer door behind me. He leans down, brushing his lips against my cheek, my neck, as he scans the contents of the fridge. I laugh and squirm away, ticklish.