the other rounds of medication prescribed had terrible side effects or tore holes in my stomach. Maybe not literally, but it sure felt like it.
While my father admittedly smoked pot when he was a teen, and he knows that smoking pot can help with the symptoms of my migraine, he’s still a dad. The years of having it shoved down his throat that drugs are bad and you’re an even worse parent if you allow your kid to do drugs, makes him feel like crap. Doesn’t help that anything involving me weighs on him like he’s holding the entire universe.
So the two of us have an agreement—I only smoke when the migraine is tearing me apart and I tell him the truth when I do smoke up.
“Tell Jesse I’m sorry for calling him, but I tried contacting Nazareth and … well…” Dad trails off.
Nazareth didn’t answer, and he didn’t call Nazareth’s parents because no one has their numbers except their children. Even if Dad had their numbers, they wouldn’t answer. While Nazareth isn’t as disconnected from the world as his parents are, he still isn’t the type who follows social rules. He only carries his cell when he wants to, it’s often on silent when he does have it on him, and he has a habit of not checking it for days.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“I know. It’s okay. Can you do me a favor?”
“Anything.” Especially after worrying him.
“I want you to start keeping track of your migraines on the calendar in the kitchen and number them from one to ten for your pain level. They seem to be coming faster.”
My lips squish to the side as Dad on high alert isn’t going to fit into my plans. While I’m hiding the presence of Mom’s ghost from him, I won’t lie to him about my migraines. I promised Dad and my mom I’d always be truthful to him about that. “Okay.”
“If you’re having too many, I’ll ask the doctor to bump up your MRI.”
I hold the cell away as that idea causes my eyes to water. I don’t like going to the doctor, having MRIs, having twenty gallons of my blood drawn and being held captive under a microscope, and I also hate how Dad has to rearrange his life for this nonsense.
“I’m okay. It’s the first day, and you know I’m always like this at the start of school. Give me a few weeks and I’ll be normal again.” Normal for me.
“I know, but you can’t blame me for worrying.”
I can’t, and I hate that he worries.
“Was it a good day?”
Nope. “I’m making a new friend.” Blackmailing Sawyer into helping me. Same thing.
“Good. Listen, I’m driving, and Jesse said Greer made some soup for you. I’m going to get off so you can eat. Text me to let me know if you go home or if you decide to stay there.”
“I will. I love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too.” Dad hangs up, and I rub the wetness and exhaustion from my eyes. It’s going to be okay. I’m going to be okay. I’m not going to get sick like Mom, and I’m not going to end up in a hospital hooked to a machine that breathes for me. Nor will Dad have to make the decision to take me off so I can finally die.
I glance around at Nazareth’s narrow, attic bedroom he shares with three of his siblings. The room is simple: two bunk bed sets pushed against the wall and each bed is covered by a quilt Greer made for each of her boys. Nazareth’s section of the dresser is littered with guitar picks and books, and in his corner of the room are three guitar cases.
Pushing back the heavy curtain of the small window, I spot the sun setting along the rolling green hills. Nazareth’s family owns a small farm, not even close to the size of Jesse’s farm, but about thirty acres. They grow their own food in a large garden and have chickens, pigs, goats, two cows and three horses.
Greer’s voice drifts from the kitchen. “Jesse, I think you should turn your farm into a farmer’s market—like a pick-your-own-vegetables-and-fruit type place. You could bring in schools for field trips and teach them the importance of organic farming.”
“It’s a thought,” Jesse answers, which means, no way in hell, but he likes Greer so he’s respectful.
A bit foggy from the pot, I’m cautious going down the stairs, and when I step onto