Emmy Levine Saves a Life

Chapter 5

What if there's something wrong with me? What if it's another ACC symptom? Will they test me? Will I need medication? Surgery?

My mind was like a hamster wheel: spinning, spinning, spinning. I tried to do my homework, but I couldn't concentrate. Pulled out a book to read — same problem. Video games were hopeless, and even going for a jog didn't pull me from thoughts that something wasn't right with me.

I'm relieved when the doorbell rings that evening, and I jump up from my desk in a hurry, racing down the stairs. Innately, I want to play it cool like it's just any other day and any other visitors, but I need my mom right now more than ever.

I slow when I reach the first floor, watching as Sheila opens the front door, but as soon as I see them, I'm running again.

I bury myself in my mom's cream colored turtleneck sweater, wrapping my arms around her and feeling the zipper from her jacket itching my nose. Her body is soft and familiar, cushioning in every place I need the comfort. I'm embarrassed to hold on too long so I let her go quickly, though everything in me wants to stay in her arms.

My mom's hair looks freshly highlighted, her blonde locks chopped to just above her shoulders. I make a mental note to tell her how good it looks later. Adds some depth, I think, wondering if I should do the same.

Some people hate the idea of growing up to look like their parents, but I'd be happy to. I think Mom's amazingly beautiful. Her eyes are a caramel brown, haloed by gentle laugh lines that let you know when she's truly happy. They're on full display now, a smile spread across her face.

"That was unexpected!" She laughs, reaching a hand out to ruffle my hair. She sniffs, then frowns.

"Hm," she says, "You smell like a campfire."

I tense up. What do I say? If I mention the ringing she might take me to the neurologist again. My stomach knots up, a memory of a giant, sterile room coming to the forefront of my mind. My tiny body is maneuvered into a massive, white machine. The noises it makes give me nightmares for months.

Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump.

I take a deep breath. It wasn't a giant room, I was just small. And the mysterious device was just an MRI machine, the noises just part of the imaging process. Everything seems so frightening when you don't understand. When you aren't in control of what's happening to you.

Still, the fear has lingered and everything in me is screaming avoid, avoid, avoid.

"There were firefighters a few streets over and smoke in the air," I say, "Maybe some of it got on my clothes."

There, I didn't lie lie.

The twisting in my stomach returns though, because I'm not sure a lie by omission is much better. I just couldn't tell her, though. I need more time to think.

My answer seems to satisfy her, and she sheds her jacket and drapes it on the coat rack.

"I hope everyone is okay," she says, smoothing down my hair she ruffled. As soon as she's finished though, my step-brother Sunghoon walks by and messes it up again.

Behind my mom, Appa steps forward to give me a side hug, shifting a bouquet of flowers to the side so I don't squish them. Appa means dad, but it's what I've always called my step-dad instead of his first name.

Appa is a second-generation immigrant from Korea and speaks both languages fluently. He's wicked smart, very polite, and can rap K-pop songs like nobody's business. I absolutely love him.