I stayed awake and worried again. If I told my mom, she would be so angry with my father, she’d divorce him. Maybe I should talk to Aunt Lada? I would be staying at her apartment in the city that weekend—one of the rare occasions my mother let her babysit. She thought Aunt Lada was a questionable influence. “That Ukrainian boyfriend of hers? Does he even work? And they both smoke those disgusting cigarettes.” Balkan Sobranies. “God bless the stink of Minsk,” Lada would say whenever she lit one up. Lada has never been to Minsk. She’s only seen pictures my Minskian grandfather took.
But I didn’t speak of it to Lada when I arrived—you can’t just launch into something like that. I’ll try at dinner, I thought. No. I’ll say something after we watch our television shows. The big perk at Lada’s was staying up late with her, watching television shows.
Sybil. Of all the movies that could have aired that night, an old TV movie called Sybil was on. The story of a woman with multiple personalities. A woman who had other people living inside her who did things she never would.
“You’ll get nightmares. She’s bezumny,” Aunt Lada explained as she turned the television off before the second commercial—after Sybil had punched her hand through a glass window during one of her episodes.
“What is bezumny, Aunt Lada?”
“A nut. A cuckoo lady. She has mice running around in her head.”
I took the movie as a sign. I was like Sybil. That cinched it. I couldn’t tell anyone. I was convinced I’d be locked away if they found out how crazy I was.
My mother took me to the doctor a week later to figure out what was causing the worrying symptoms I’d developed. But I didn’t give either of them the whole story. I guess I was too frightened . . . and confused. I was young.
I sat on the edge of the exam table in my jeans and T-shirt, hugging myself. The white paper crinkled under me as I nervously kicked my sneakers at the base.
“Stop fidgeting and sit up straight,” my mother said. She pointed to my feet. “How did your sneakers get so scuffed?”
“Where?”
“That black mark on the side. Right there.”
She frowned from her post in the white plastic chair next to the door.
“Can’t you keep anything nice for five minutes?” she scolded.
That was another reason I wasn’t entirely truthful. My mother had a lot invested in perfection. She wasn’t the easiest person to confide in when something was wrong. She had a way of making the problem your fault. I started kicking the exam table unconsciously again.
“Nora!”
She eyed me angrily. But the neurologist didn’t seem to mind my nerves. Nerves were his business. He stood at a counter studying the papers attached to my chart, obviously pleased with the results.
“I’m happy to say there’s no sign of a head injury. And Nora’s wiring looks completely normal. EEG, EKG. Her brain. Her heart. Blood work. All normal. Reflexes. Everything.”
“That’s a relief,” my mother said. “I was worried it might be a concussion.”
The doctor turned to her. She crossed her shapely legs and smoothed the skirt of her turquoise mohair suit full of little poodle-like nubs.
“And her symptoms began a week ago, you say? She fainted twice in one day?”
My mother nodded and tugged at her pearls.
“I wasn’t there the first time. She was at the movies with her father. She fainted again when they came home. At first, she seemed normal otherwise. But then I noticed she was more and more tired every day. Exhausted.”
“Any headaches?”
“No. Just tired.”
He looked at the chart again and shook his head. “Her blood work is normal.” He looked at me. “Talk to me about the blackouts, Nora. What did you feel?”
“I got dizzy. Then I fell.”
“Did you eat or drink anything before they happened?”
“No.”
“Were you hungry or thirsty?”
“No.”
“Did the movie scare you?”
“We hadn’t seen the movie yet.”
“Anything unusual you can tell me about?”
I glanced at my mother and heard my father’s voice. She’ll leave me, Nora. She’ll go. You don’t want the family to break up, do you? I promise you I’ll fix this.
“Think for a minute,” the doctor urged. “Anything at all?”
“No, I don’t remember anything special,” I told Dr. Nerves.
He kept watching me as he spoke to my mother. By then I think he’d figured out I was holding back information.
“How is Nora sleeping?”
How did he know about that? Get out of my head.
“Fine. No problems there,” she said.
“No problems,” I echoed.
Fainting twice was one thing, but these other . . . what to call them? Zombie spells?
“I’ll need you to step outside for a minute, Mrs. Glasser,” the nerve doctor said.
“Oh?” My mother looked surprised and a little put out, but she stood up and smoothed her skirt again. She fiddled with the delicate pins in her strawberry-blonde, perfect French twist.
“I’ll be out there, Nora. Right outside in the hall.”
She left and closed the door. The doctor stood next to the exam table, but behind me so I couldn’t see him. What was he up to? I wouldn’t tell him my secret, even with my mother out of earshot. I didn’t want to wind up being committed to a mental institution.
“Raise your right hand,” he said.
I put up my hand. “Is this another reflex test?”
“Quiet, please. Do as I say. Raise your right hand.”
I checked my hand. Yes, my right hand was in the air.
“Didn’t you hear me?” he asked, impatiently. “The right hand.”
My face flushed. I felt confused. I stretched my fingers. I pledge allegiance to the flag . . . Right crosses to heart on left. This was definitely my right hand. I lifted it higher.
“Are you telling me you don’t know your right from your left?”
Why are you being so mean? I’m trying.
“Dammit. Just do it, Nora. I’m waiting.”
My eyelids fluttered. The fluorescent lights dimmed. Heat blossomed in my chest and spread to my limbs. I leaned forward, almost falling off the table. The doctor’s arms caught me.
“It’s okay, Nora. It’s all right. I apologize. I had to see if I could induce a fainting spell.”
He put two fingers to the side of my neck and stroked my forehead with his other hand. How soothing his touch felt. A balm for my distraught state.
“You’re fine now. Just lie down here.”
He eased me back onto the table and then walked over to the door. Cracking it open, he beckoned. “Come in, Mrs. Glasser.”
“What happened?” my mother asked, alarmed to find me lying there limp.
“Nora just had another fainting incident. A ‘neurocardiogenic syncope.’ Her vagus nerve went into spasm and cut off the blood flow to her brain. The situation rights itself after the person falls and blood pressure equalizes. How do you feel now, Nora?”
“I feel good,” I said. And I actually did.
“That’s likely what happened in the movie theater and at home afterward. The biggest danger lies in getting hurt from the fall itself. This is the typical age for the start of the problem. Sometimes it’s paired with other symptoms like sleep disturbances, which may indicate a more serious psychological disorder.”
Sybil?
“But Nora seems to have only the one,” he said, patting my arm.
“Tell me this is curable,” my mother implored.
“It is, in the sense that children usually grow out of this by the end of puberty.”
Was he saying this could continue for years? I felt myself growing dizzy again. I closed my eyes and lay unmoving on the table. That seemed to help.
My mother twisted her pearls. “What causes it?”