Narcolepsy (A Love Story)

25: Blake

The Doctor has his Impossible Girl, and I have mine.

Prickly, salty, bitter, and sweet, she's a conundrum, often a mystery, but always, always worth the effort. I just wished she understood that.

Our flight was boarding and she was still out. I set her down next to me and worked on shoving all my other purchases into my bag — toasted bagels and cream cheese, bottles of water, two bananas, and a large bag of peanut M&Ms — cramming everything in and barely getting the zipper closed. I sucked down my coffee way too fast and tossed the cup, hung all our bags off me like I'm a goddamn sherpa, and squatted in front of her. "Abby," I said, shaking her, "I need you functional right now."

I continued to harass and shake her until I got a bleary eyed scowl and a "WHAT?"

"I need you to stand up and show the agent your ticket," I said patiently, ignoring her angry glare. "And walk down the hallway with me. Then you can go back to sleep."

"Just leave me, okay? I'll take care of it later." She pulled away, turning more on her side in her seat, and shut her eyes again, dismissing me.

"No, baby," I said, shaking her again, partially lifting her from the seat. "You need to come with me. It's two minutes and then you'll be in a big comfy chair and you can sleep all you want." She struggled a little, protesting, but I insisted and eventually I got her upright and walking on her own to the gate. Luckily the line had died down by then — because the entire plane had boarded and we were on the verge of missing it — and we could walk right up to the annoyed and suspicious agent.

"Has she been drinking or taking illegal substances?" The agent — Monica, according to her name tag — asked, eyeing my girl who sneered back at her.

"No," Abby said, her voice dripping with scorn. "I'm narcoleptic. It's a disease. Don't fucking accuse me of—"

"I'm sorry," I said to Monica, moving Abby to the other side of me. "She's not totally awake and isn't thinking clearly. It's been an emotional day and that triggers her disease. She'll be fine once she can sit down again and go back to sleep."

The agent eyed us warily, glancing over at another agent standing at the gate next to ours. That agent scurried over, and I saw she had a manager title and her name tag said Mrs. Simpson. "What seems to be the problem?" She asked Monica, ignoring us.

"This passenger is belligerent and when I asked about alcohol or illegal substances, she used foul language. He says she has a disease, but she was crying in his lap not ten minutes ago — which was very inappropriate — and is now angry and confused. She's behaving erratically." Monica looked over at Abby, a stubborn expression on her face, and inwardly I cringed at the rage suffusing Abby's face. She was about to explode, and in her half-conscious state, I had no idea what would come out of her mouth.

"PLEASE," I said loudly, ignoring Monica and focusing only on Mrs. Simpson. "My fiancé has a disease called narcolepsy, which is triggered by stress and emotions. She's not even fully awake right now, so she's not able to communicate with you in a normal, calm way, and the more agitated she gets, the more out of it she'll seem. We're on our way to Vegas to get married, so you can imagine how emotional today has been already, and we had our first fight on the way here. That's why she was crying, and when she fell asleep because of it, I had her sit on my lap so I could hold her up. I tried waking her up to get her on the plane but she's not really awake. She hasn't been drinking and isn't on drugs except her medication. Please don't kick us off this flight, she'll never forgive herself if we miss our flight and have to delay the wedding." Abby was grumbling off to my side but I ignored her, holding her in place with an arm around her shoulder and concentrating on the gate agents.