Page 21 of That's Not My Name

Wayne does a double take and reaches for my arm. He examines the hives, his face as white as a sheet, then looks at the counter. “Did you eat the eggs?”

I nod.

He doesn’t walk, herunsto a brown paper bag sitting by the front door and spills the contents across the floor—bandages, antacids, Pepto, tampons, ibuprofen, Midol, peroxide, Q-tips, Icy Hot, triple antibiotic ointment, bug bite relief. It looks like he swiped the entire first aid aisle into a cart. He snatches a box off the floor and runs back to me, wielding extra-strength liquid Benadryl like it’s the holy grail.

I take whatever dose he gives me. The itching is like little pinpricks all over the inside of my mouth and the hives make me want to claw my skin from my body.

Wayne brings me water and rubs the spot between my shoulder blades. I blink over and over, taking in shallow breaths until his words make sense again.

“—so, so sorry. I should have been paying better attention,” he says. He looks miserable. “I made breakfast on autopilot. The eggs were for me—it never even crossed my mind that you wouldn’t remember you can’t eat them. I’m so sorry.”

Eggs. I have an egg allergy.

Okay, so…downside, hives suck. Upside, I know one more thing about myself.

Wayne moves me to the couch, and eventually the medicine kicks in. My throat begins to lose the itch, but it’s slow going. The hives stop spreading, but they linger. The itching ebbs over the next hour or so until it doesn’t consume my mind anymore, but with it comes drowsiness and a self-loathing I didn’t expect.

What use am I if I can’t even remember what I’m allergic to?

Wayne flutters around me, bringing me water, cold washcloths, asking what I need every other minute until I finally ask him to sit andchill because he’s making me feel worse. This isn’t his fault, it’s mine. He didn’t force-feed me an allergic reaction.

He sits on the coffee table in front of me, and his shoulders sag. “I’ll keep a closer eye, I promise.”

“Is it always like this? How many allergy attacks have I had?” I croak.

He looks away. “I don’t know. Maybe half a dozen before your mom and I got the test done. You were little.”

I stare at the hives on my arm. “Do I need an EpiPen?”

He looks surprised. “Um, no. Not that I remember. It’s always been itchy and annoying, but nothing life threatening.”

I want to ask him more about this, but my eyes flutter closed and the next thing I know, the sun is coming in the windows at a different angle. I look at the clock. I’ve lost an hour. I find Wayne in the kitchen, making a plate of toast. “Don’t worry, this is safe,” he says. “Why don’t you take this and go back to bed? Sleep it off a bit?”

He helps me stand and I take the plate, though eating is the last thing I want to do right now. “Thanks.”

I crash into bed, and he softly closes my door. I pass out before I have a chance to overthink how quickly this morning took a turn for the worse.

Fuck my broken memory. And those eggs.

I wake up several hours later, and surprisingly my mouth feels almost normal. Definitely not full of itchy worms anymore. I’m exhausted though.

It’s already three in the afternoon. I don’t want to flip my schedule and be up all night, so I force myself out of bed. I half expect to find Wayne camped outside my door, but the cabin is empty. All the shades are drawn. I dump the uneaten toast in the trash and spot a note on the island, held down by a brass ballpoint pen.

Hey kiddo,

If you wake up before I get back, I had to run some errands and check in with the precinct about your car. I’ll be back in a bit. Watch some Netflix and stay inside where it’s warm—the remote is on the coffee table. I locked the door for you.

Dad

I put the note down and take a deep breath. Maybe Wayne will come back and tell me they found the car and all my stuff. At least then I’d have clothes that fit. If I keep looking on the bright side, I’ll be fine.

I pull open the fridge and find a Tupperware full of leftover sausage. I don’t bother to heat them up. I’m not particularly hungry, I just want to enjoy something again, and those eggs sucked away all my joy. These sausages are the highlight of my day.

And that’s okay.

Tomorrow it’ll be something else.

The important thing is I have a tomorrow. I know who I am. The rest will come.

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