Stay(11)

“You’re not going to start doing your face like that all the time, are you?”

The package of makeup remover wipes is in my hands, and I start the process of removing the seven layers of makeup I’m wearing.

“Working at Miss Con-Cleaneality is not a full beat type of job.”

“Aunt Lou is always made up.”

“Aunt Lou is a beauty queen.” I toss the first round of wipes and collect the tubes of primer and foundation, the eye liners and eyebrow pencils, the brushes and sponges, dropping them all into my square makeup case. “How are you feeling? Did you take your medicine?”

He falls back on the bed with a groan. “It makes my head fuzzy. I can’t remember stuff.”

“Eli.” Fear squeezes my chest. Every time he has a seizure, I feel like my world is crumbling around my ears. It’s terrifying.

I can barely even think of him lying on the floor, his body rigid and trembling, all his muscles tense and his eyes rolled back in his head. Sometimes he wets his pants… It’s what happened the last time he was at his school, and all the kids saw.

Dashing to the kitchen, I snatch the prescription bottle off the windowsill and tap out a capsule. In a flash, I’m in the one bedroom of our apartment holding a glass of water and his meds.

“Mom…” He groans.

“Take it.”

With another groan, he crawls across the bed on his knees and plucks the pill from my palm, drinking it down with the water while cutting his eyes at me.

“It’s not a choice, Eli. You have to take your medicine.” My eyes heat. “I can’t bear it when they happen. It’s like you’re…”

I can’t say it. I can’t say it feels like he’s going to die.

He softens and his shoulders drop. I sit with my back to the pillows, and he puts his head in my lap, hugging Kona to his chest. I tug his thick blond hair, letting it slide through my fingers as I stroke his head.

Elijah got his hair from me. He got his eyes from me. His personality reminds me so much of my dad. The one thing Burt gave him was this fucking seizure disorder.

This genetic illness my ex-husband refuses to acknowledge came from him. Instead, Burt complains I coddle him too much. As if Eli even wants to play football or lacrosse. He’s interested in pirates and birds and sea mammals. He likes to read and collect ships.

“Are you ready for your bird test?” My voice still sounds shaken, vulnerable. “You don’t have to take it tomorrow if you’re not. We have a whole week left to study.”

“I’m ready.”

“Should we do the flash cards?”

“I don’t need them.”

He’s frustrated, but I won’t let him skip the meds, no matter how tired he says they make him. I took the job with Lulabell specifically so I could afford them.

Picking up my phone, I navigate to YouTube again. Searching quickly, I find the call of a raven and hit play.

“Mooom.” He complains, but I see the smile lifting his cheek.

“You know…”

“It’s a raven.”

Quickly I type in another with one thumb and hit play.

“Whippoorwill.”

“That was an easy one. Try this.” I hit play, and the strange cry reminds me of a cat.

“Peacock.” He shifts in my lap and rolls around to face me. “Remember that guy who knew about the pirates?”

My stomach tightens. I’ve been doing my best to forget Stephen Hastings’s surprise appearance ever since it happened—with no luck.

“What about him?”

“I liked him.” His blue eyes look around, thinking. “He didn’t treat me like a dumb kid.”

The tone in his voice provokes an ache in my chest. As much as I tell him not to worry, I know it still hurts when his dad puts down his interests.

“Stephen Hastings is one of the smartest guys I’ve ever met.” As much as I hate to say it, I’ll admit it for my son. “He graduated with your uncle Ethan.”

“I hope I get to see him again.” He blinks slowly, and I can tell the pills are kicking in. “I can’t wait to start learning about ocean mammals.”

“Here.” I flick on the television and pull up the Netflix app.

It only takes a moment before I’ve found The Blue Planet, and Sir David Attenborough begins telling us about the cycle of life on the ocean floor in dulcet tones. Eli will be asleep before the first segment ends. He’s only seven, and I don’t mind sharing my queen-sized bed with him sometimes.

When his breathing turns rhythmic, I gently move his head to the pillow and finish cleaning up and washing my face. I wash the few dishes from our fancy dinner of chili con carne—heavy on the beans and cheese.

Usually Eli sleeps on the couch in the living room. The tub is in the kitchen with a curtain around it, and the toilet is hidden in a closet behind the stove.

It’s a long way from the posh, Upper East Side townhome where I grew up, or even Burt’s luxurious penthouse apartment. I don’t care. Anything’s better than living with a cheater who’s constantly belittling my son for not being “man enough,” whatever that means.

Our apartment is tiny, but it’s clean. It’s warm in the winter, and we have what we need. With a sigh, I switch off the kitchen light and climb into the other side of the bed. My computer’s in my lap, and I click over to the neurosurgery website.