“It’s not until February—and it’s in central London somewhere. Maybe by then…”
I’m conscious of my throbbing glands, and my heart’s pulsing, too. I feel weak but I also feel a surge of determination. I look Ellie in the eye and tell her, “I will be better. I can’t miss something like that! And I’m going to get back to school, Els.”
“Have you been downstairs yet?” Ellie asks.
“No, but I’m going down for dinner today. Don’t tell Mom—she doesn’t know! I want to surprise her.”
“Really? That’s great!”
Ellie’s being a supportive best friend, but I can see she still looks doubtful. She knows how long it is since I’ve been downstairs.
We read the letter again, together. I still can’t take it all in.
“Oh, look, you get a gift card for books and a selection of books donated to the school,” Ellie tells me.
“Miss Giles will be happy about that!” I smile.
“Look, I’ve got to go,” says Ellie. “Tons of homework. I’ll try and come again on Thursday.”
It’s only after she’s gone that I realize I forgot to tell her about last night.
3
My words to Ellie may have sounded brave and determined, but I know it’s not going to be that easy. I am not in the same classes with all my friends but, back in September, I did try to be. Nobody knew I was going to be so sick for so long.
I remember Ellie waiting for me at the school entrance, a beaming smile spreading across her face when she spotted me.
“I’m so glad you made it!” she told me. “I didn’t want to start the new school year without you!”
“Same here,” I said, waving Mom off in the car. I meant it, too. I’d always been determined to get well by the end of summer vacation. I knew that I wasn’t okay, though. I was achy, weak, and in pain. I’m sure Mom knew it, too, but we both wanted to believe that once I was in school, I’d feel better and everything would somehow, magically, go back to normal.
“Come on, let’s go in,” said Ellie. “Don’t want to be late on the first day!”
We walked to the main entrance. I felt so weird and wobbly, as if the ground underneath me was moving. I tried to ignore the dull ache in my legs and the swollen glands making my neck stiff and uncomfortable.
Inside, everything seemed different. The corridor looked so much longer. Erin and Tilly rushed up to say hi, and Tilly tried to hug me. It hurt, but I didn’t want to say so. They were clearly happy to see me back, chattering and asking me questions.
“I thought it was just tonsillitis,” said Erin. “How come it took you so long to get better?”
“The doctor said I had post-viral fatigue,” I explained. “I still felt sick even though the infection was gone. No idea why. It just happens sometimes. Did you have a good summer?”
“We went camping in France,” she told me. “The first week was amazing, but then it rained the rest of the time! I never want to go camping again.”
She kept talking, telling me about all the other things she’d been doing. I zoned out. People were talking all around me, too. I couldn’t take the noise. School never used to be this loud, did it? As we reached the stairs to our homeroom, I looked up and was overcome by panic. It was a flight of stairs—a flight I’d climbed every day for years, but now it looked like a mountain. How would I ever get up there? And the crowds—I couldn’t stand all the people swarming around me. I suddenly felt so fragile, as if I was a delicate flower about to be trodden into the ground.
“You are okay, aren’t you?” Ellie asked.
“Not really,” I told her.
“You can use the elevator if you need to.”
I did, but I felt weird, embarrassed, standing waiting for it. The elevator is for disabled students. I’m not disabled. When I got out on the first floor, I was sure everyone was staring at me.
I sat down with relief in my homeroom, listening to more vacation stories, with people coming up to say they were so happy I was better and how I looked fine. I didn’t feel fine, even sitting down. When I looked at my class schedule, I had a sinking feeling. I even asked Ellie, “Have they added more classes this year?” and she looked at me like I wasn’t making sense.
“French first!” she said cheerfully. “Look, we’ve got Madame Dupont! She’s the best.”
I like Madame Dupont, and I like French, but I didn’t smile back, because the room was on the other side of the school. The thought of having to stand up and walk down more corridors, packed with students, already felt like too much.
I made it to French, but within minutes I felt so sick I couldn’t sit any more—I had to lie down. Ellie took me to the medical room. The nurse called my Mom right away.
I’d lasted thirty-seven minutes in class.
* * *
Now, I stand at the top of the stairs, looking down. I imagine I’m an Olympic skier at the peak of a challenging slope. The previous contender has been taken off in an ambulance. I don’t know the extent of her injuries but, after checks, the organizers have declared the course safe. I am not so sure.
I cling to the banister, aware that I am holding my breath as I put one foot tentatively forward. Then the other. I’m getting into a rhythm, but halfway down I feel light-headed, and my legs feel like they’re going to give way. I haven’t been downstairs since that day—the first day of the semester, September 2, when I tried to go back to school. But I am starting to improve.
When I didn’t get better after tonsillitis, Mom and Dad were constantly trying to get me to do more, and I had to make them understand that I couldn’t. Dad actually thought I’d gotten lazy from being sick in bed. Mom thought it must be depression or anxiety, especially when she took me to the doctor, who did blood tests that all came back clear. The doctor said it was possible I had post-viral fatigue, and mentioned chronic fatigue syndrome or CFS, though it’s more often known as ME. It stands for myalgic encephalomyelitis. That was probably the reason I was taking so long to recover. But I don’t think Mom and Dad realized exactly what that meant, or how long it might take. I didn’t, either. I know now, though.
I. Know. Now.
People can be sick for years with this. Some people never get better. I’m not going to be one of them. I can’t.
I’ve been thinking about trying to come downstairs for a couple of weeks—but I’ve been so scared of getting stuck halfway, or not feeling well enough to go back up again, that I’ve been too frightened to even try. I know I have to get over this fear, but it’s based on real experience. I only have to do the smallest thing, and it wipes me out completely. Already I need to sit down, but that’s okay. Now it is as far to go back up as it is to keep going, and down is definitely easier.