My eyes pop open as the scream shudders out of our bathroom. Sunlight smacks against the shadows in the collage on the ceiling above my bed. I flop off my mattress, tripping over sheets to get to Mandy.
“What’s wrong?”
She clasps both sides of the sink and leans close to the mirror. Her nose kisses the glass.
“You okay?” I ask again. I step forward and put my hand on her shoulder. Her head droops and she stares at the drain in our sink. She turns to me.
“My eyes,” she says. “What happened to my eyes?”
Purple. Her eyes are purple. It’s not a trick of the light like I thought last night. Full-fledged brilliant violet irises are surrounded by crinkled, worried skin.
“Are you wearing contacts?” It’s a dumb question. If she had purchased and put purple cosmetic contacts in, she’d probably remember.
“No.” She clutches her hair. She doesn’t call out my stupid question, which is not like her. Maybe she had even asked herself the same thing. When you have no idea what’s happening, even inane questions deserve their place.
I cup Mandy’s chin so that I can get a better look at those irises while trying to tame my own wild heartbeat.
I take care of Mandy because she takes care of me. Like the time someone snuck tequila in the sangria and I ended up with my knees on our puffy pink bathmat, praying to the porcelain god as Mandy rubbed my back and ordered me to drink water.
When that jerk Jason broke up with me over a blush brush (I left it in his dorm, accidentally, so obviously I was purposefully encroaching on his space), she was also there for me. She blared one of my favorite country songs, stood on my bed and played an air banjo.
I took care of her when she lost the sophomore class presidency. She curled up in a ball at the foot of my bed, raw, bare teeth skidding against the ground as tears slid over her lips. I lay on the bed, my chin over the edge, just listening and tossing down the occasional tissue. When she was ready, I blasted some old-school Snoop Dogg and, in my baggiest clothes, did a beep-bop hip-hop thing that I can assure you was actually pretty slammin’, considering I’m a rich white girl.
But I don’t think my rapping talents will save her now. “Well, how do you feel? Do your eyes hurt?”
“They felt weird last night,” she says. “But they’re fine now. I feel completely fine!” Her exasperated tone doesn’t match the sentence.
Finally, after staring into the violet streaks surrounding her pupil, I render my verdict. “You should go to the doctor.” I say it like a pin prick. Zip. Bang. Done.
Mandy pinches her nose and sighs. “Thanks, that’s a big help.”
I cross my arms. “We could look it up , but that’s weird. I’d go to the clinic.”
“They aren’t going to be able to fix this,” Mandy snaps. The air between us crackles. I sigh and reach my arms out. Mandy’s head lolls around. “Will you come with me?” Her voice slips and slides with a fear I didn’t realize she could possess.
“Of course,” I say.
We pull on some clothes and head to the little college clinic. First we have to get by Jared. He’s this creepy religious guy with sandy white hair who thinks it’s his job to tell everyone how awful they are. This morning, he stands in front of the clinic holding up a poster of what I think is a bloody fetus (I don’t look long enough to confirm) as he blesses us and tells us to make the right decision. I don’t even think they perform abortions at the clinic. He’s just assuming since we’re college girls with a health problem we must be preggers.
He clasps his hand over his chest as we get closer. “Your eyes,” he says, his shoulders rising in fear like he’s some kind of wild animal. “It’s happening.”
Mandy’s aforementioned eyes narrow and her mouth opens. I grab her elbow. “Just ignore him,” I whisper.
Of course, the clinic staff also thinks we’re pregnant. After seeing Mandy’s purple eyes, a woman escorts her back to an examination room. Then the woman asks me how I am and if I would like to pee in a cup.
“I haven’t had sex in months and, don’t worry, my bathroom trashcan has gotten properly filled with tampon wrappers right on time,” I say with a sparkling smile. This is not a lie. Rashid and I had kept it pretty tame.
The nurse tilts her head and raises an eyebrow, because of course twenty-two-year-olds never know what they’re talking about. “Okay,” she says. “You can wait over there.”
I take a seat, but I’m slightly bristled from the implication that I must be sexually irresponsible. My body is also fidgety with worry. So I get up. I lean over the bowl of condoms in the waiting area and sheepishly put one in my pocket. I sit down and then get up, hesitantly, and get another one. I do this ’til the nurse eyes me.
I sigh. “I just don’t know. I mean, do you think six is enough for one night out? Especially as there’s a limit to how many times you can use one, I think. I read that somewhere...something about how you can turn it inside out and use it again, but only once...” I trail off, finger and thumb against my chin as I look to the ceiling in deep, perplexed thought.
“Very funny,” the nurse says before she goes back to her paperwork. Her lips tense, as though she’s fighting to keep a laugh in. She’s not so bad.
I walk over and lean my elbows on the panel and scrunch my eyebrows together. “It’s nothing, right?”
“What’s nothing?”
“The purple eyes. I mean, she feels fine, so she is fine, right?”
To her credit, the nurse doesn’t hold my previous sass against me. Her shoulders relax and she smiles softly. “I’ve never heard of a condition with purple eyes. But our bodies are funny. Some people’s eyes change color a little over the course of their life. Some products, like eyelash enhancers, can also affect eye color.”
“Like allergic reactions?” I ask.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Thanks.” I return her graciousness by leaving her alone until Mandy comes out from the backstage of the clinic a half an hour later.
Their verdict is similar to mine: We don’t know shit. Go to the emergency room. Okay, they might not have used that exact phrasing.
Fortunately, Allan is pretty tiny, and the hospital is only eight blocks from the clinic. And it’s not like Mandy’s actually injured, or even feeling crappy. In fact, she says, aside from being wracked with worry, she feels pretty good. So we walk. We pass adorable shops that sell knickknacks that are cute enough to buy even if they serve no function. We pass townhouses and people reading the Saturday morning paper in wicker chairs on their porches, steaming mugs of coffee cupped in their hands. We smell autumn the way you can only smell autumn when you’re in an ancient mountain town surrounded by flourishing forests. Mold and wet brick and burning wood.
“I met a cute townie last night,” I say.
“A townie?” she says, face forward. Mouth straight. “What’s his name?”
“Well, I guess I didn’t actually meet him.” I fold my arms in on myself and rub the outside of my elbows. “I was just trying to distract you.”
She huffs a small laugh. “Thanks.”
We’re quiet the rest of the way.
Allan’s population tends to be more inclined toward antiquing than risky behaviors, so the wait at the ER is not long. Unfortunately, Mandy’s worry has rattled to new levels. I venture into the depths of the ER with her so she won’t be alone.
The nurse who processes Mandy and the doctor who eventually comes into the examining room seem only mildly curious about her condition.
“Well,” Dr. Brown says, “there are several reasons why eye colors might change.” She paces, as though we are a conundrum. “I have heard of melanoma changing iris color, but not to purple.” She shakes her head. “No, not to purple...And then, of course, there is Fuchs Heterochromic Iridocyclitis.”
“Ah yes, Fuchs,” I say. Her face brightens and I can tell she is about to pounce on me with even more medical jargon, until I sway my head and squish my lips to the left side of my mouth.
“Well, yes, of course, you probably haven’t heard of that.” She continues droning on about another disease, Horner’s something, until I can’t even decipher her self-directed mumbles. Finally, she talks to us. “Well, it could be connected to an autoimmune disease or a viral infection.” She walks to one end of the room and back. “Here’s what we’ll do,” she says as though she has had a eureka moment—but her big grand decision is just to run a battery of tests.
When she takes one final look at Mandy’s eyes, seeing past the purple into the worry, the human submerged in Dr. Brown comes out.
“We’ll figure out what’s going on,” she says, confident. “It’s possible it’s just a startling, but natural, change in eye color. Nothing to worry about. But please do contact me if you begin to experience anything else unusual. We’ll need to know about any additional symptoms.”
“Yes, of course.” Mandy nods, and I can tell from her voice that she’s already feeling a little better. Maybe this is all nothing. Maybe everything is peachy keen.