Page 3 of Charlie Sunshine
He follows me round the stacks as I take books from his arms and shelve them. “You forgot your medi bracelet too,” he says in a foreboding tone.
I look down at my wrist, only now noticing its bareness. “Oops,” I say lightly. “The catch is loose.”
“I know,” he says grimly. “Actually, it’s not so much loose as threadbare.”
“It’s fine.” My tone is dismissive, and thunderclouds instantly gather on his face.
“It isn’t fine,” he says steadily. “It’s very far from fine. With the amount of turns you’ve been having lately, you should be wearing it.”
I wince. He puts the books down and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a leather box the size of an envelope.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says evenly. “If your extrasensory perception isn’t working properly, I’d suggest you open it to find out.”
“So snarky,” I marvel and flick the lid open only to go still. “Misha,” I sigh.
“You can’t wear that old bracelet anymore. You’ve lost it three times this week alone.”
“This looks so fucking expensive though,” I lament, touching the bracelet gently where it lies inside its velvet-lined box. The bracelet is made of woven black cords that feel incredibly strong, and it’s got a laidback hippie feel to it that Misha had known very well I would love.
“Never mind the cost,” he says immediately. “Do you like the colour? I can take it back if you don’t.”
“It’s lovely,” I say softly. I touch the lone bead on it. It’s made of platinum and carved upon it in beautiful script is the wordepilepticand the ‘snake and staff’ medical symbol. “I just wish …”
He pulls me to him in a tight hug. I breathe in his bergamot-scented aftershave and feel some of my tension evaporate.
“I know,” he says fiercely. “Not any more than me, but it is as it is, and it certainly doesn’t help you if you aren’t wearing something that tells people you’re epileptic.”
“I know.” I sigh and pull back. “Okay, put it on me. The world’s most expensive medical-alert bracelet.”
He fastens the cord around me, fussing with its placement on my wrist. I look at his long eyelashes and the tanned angular face that’s so intent on me. To the rest of the world, Misha shows an arrogant self-confidence and a sardonic sense of humour. The people he lets into his inner circle know him for a loyal and brilliant friend, and he’s been wonderful with my epilepsy.
I didn’t grow up with it. I rarely even got a headache until I wastwenty-four. Then, three years ago, I took the stairs at my flat too quickly. I missed a step and fell down two flights, and everything changed. I fractured my skull, and although I recovered, I had something new to deal with. Epilepsy.
At first, I struggled with the diagnosis, but then I rallied and applied myself to the condition the way I’ve done with everything in my life. I’m an optimistic person—my glass is always two-thirds full. Misha once described me as relentlessly cheerful. Therefore, I read everything I could about the condition. I cut out drinking and smoking. I started to walk everywhere and stopped swimming, which I’d lost my love affair with when I realised I could actually drown. I’d spent most of my early twenties in clubs, but I stopped going because late nights and little sleep are triggers too.
My new lifestyle and finding the right mix of medication gradually began to work, and the turns eased off until they were non-existent. I felt happy, good about my chances for conquering the worst of my condition. I was coming up to a full year without a turn, which meant I could drive again rather than walking or busing everywhere. Then one day, eight months ago, I had a turn in a supermarket. Over the next several months, I began having more and more, and now I’m having one or two a day again.
I push that worry away and smile at my best friend. “Thank you for bringing the bracelet,” I say softly. “I know that’s the real reason you jettisoned work, and you shouldn’t have.”
He grins. His teeth are white and even, and his smile contains its usual sardonic edge. “For you, anything,” he says and nudges me. “Can’t have any harm come to my flatmate.”
“Yes, who would pay the mortgage?” I say lightly. “You’d really struggle if my massive wages petered out.”
“You council employees. Always earning the big bucks.”
“The only exposure we’d have to big bucks is if a male deer ran through the fucking building.”
Misha laughs, and I hug him tight.
“I’ll see you tonight,” I say.
He nods. “I’ll pick you up outside.”
“That’s out of your way, Misha,” I immediately protest.
He shrugs. “You’re here. Therefore, it’s in my way.”
