Throat Read Online Free PDF Page A

Lost time away from work. Etc. Whatever credits I had built up in my motherly bank account by nearly bleeding to death in the forest had rapidly been depleted.
    I hobbled into Ms. Rose’s room, trailed by the little sophomore office aide flunky who was toting my books. Luckily, I was early. Gretchen came in, her nose buried in a mass of white bandages, raccoon circles under her eyes. Her tawny lion’s mane hair was restrained in a strangled ponytail.
    Bite the bullet
. I struggled over to her desk before the classroom could fill up. She wouldn’t look at me.
    “Gretchen. I’m sorry. There is nothing I can say … but I’m sorry. What I did was … it was really … stupid.” I waited for her to say something to ease my fledgling conscience, but she never looked up from her notebook. “I just wanted you to know—”
    “Get away from me,” Gretchen said.
    “What?”
    “I said get. Away. From. Me.”
    I went to my seat, dragging my tail between my legs. When Ms. Rose came in, she tripped over my crutches.
    *    *    *
    The bus was a complete nightmare. When I finally got home, the apartment had never looked better. The minute I struggled through the door, I threw down the crutches, dropped my backpack, and hopped over to the couch.
    “We’re having cheese sandwiches,” Manda said, bouncing up from
Hannah Montana
and throwing her arms around my leg. “And lentil soup.”
    “Nice. Is Mom home yet?”
    “It’s Wednesday, Emma.”
    Wednesday. I was losing track of time. Mom worked days for an accountant, but three nights a week she filled in as a waitress at a restaurant called the Blue Onion.
    “Can I wear your glasses?” Manda said.
    “Sure. Are you really watching this?” I changed the channel and dropped my shades in her hand. “Don’t lose them. I’m blind if I go outside without them.”
    We watched TV together until I couldn’t put it off any longer, then I made supper. Manda sat on the counter next to the griddle, peeling the American cheese slices out of the plastic and putting them on the bread. That was her job.
    After we ate, we watched several more hours of sucky TV. Then I carried Manda piggyback to her bedroom and read to her like I always did. Manda’s all-time favorite was Dr. Seuss. We read about Sneetches who were the best on the beaches until she fell asleep in my arms. I tucked her in bed and watched her while she was sleeping. Her golden hair was spread over the pillow. I wondered how old she would be before she learned about real disappointment. She still had my sunglasses in her hand. I turned her light out and went back up the hall.
    I tried not to notice the calendar where I had been crossing offmy seizure-free days with big red Xs. It was too early to even start counting again.
    I loaded the dishwasher—had to start building up that motherly bank account again. I replaced the bandage on my leg, slathering the wound with goopy antiseptic while watching a rotten movie on Lifetime, Television for Battered Women. Ate some stale ice cream I found in the back of the freezer. When Mom came in at eleven, I had turned the TV off and was sitting at the kitchen table making a halfhearted swipe at my homework. She dropped her purse and fell over my backpack.
    “Emma!”
    “What?”
    “Where are you! What’s going on?”
    I came hopping up the hallway. “I’m right here. What are you talking about?”
    “Why are all the lights out?”
    “Huh?”
    I didn’t believe her until she flicked the switch and the sudden light drilled my eyes back into my skull. It was true. I’d been able to see everything. Even colors. In complete darkness.

“It’s called photophobia,” the eye specialist said a few days later.
    “Fear of photography?”
    He ignored me. “It could be from a corneal abrasion. Or uveitis. Sometimes a retinal detachment. Even a nervous system disorder like meningitis.”
    My mother drew in her breath. “Oh my God.”
    “Do I look sick to you?” I said,