Under Water

What’s wrong with your eyes? my brother asks. We’re sitting on a beach, and I’m watching the waves in between blinks.

It’s not a rude question—not meant to be; he is a kind man. But I would give anything, anything, to be able to make it stop. If only there were an easy way to communicate this without embarrassing myself.

Tourette’s has followed me here to this island paradise.

But it’s no paradise for me.

I’m hopped up on fertility drugs, enough to make me so anxious I can barely sit still. And the nature of things with my large family means we drink every night. Soon, we’ve gulped down all the pineapple juice from the tiny grocery store at the bottom of the hill, and it’s not much longer before we’ve cleared out the rum as well.

But nothing helps. I’ve learned to hide the tics over the years, but not with this baby-making juice coursing through my veins. This shit is out of control.

Of course, the drugs won’t work this month. Why would they when they haven’t for all those months before? Why can’t we just fucking do it already? How much sex can one girl have, only to find herself childless and alone, tweaking the fuck out?

But no, no baby. And no relief from any of it.

Blink, blink, blink, blink, blink. FUCK.

I look up at my brother, not quite knowing what to say. Sorry? Sorry I can’t hide the tics? Sorry I’m such a goddam freak?

It’s just a tic, I say. As if that makes it okay. As if that makes it normal. But I saw the way he looked at me, concerned and a little confused. I’m too young yet to own it, to be able to explain and even be a little bit proud of myself for doing the things I do, even though I’m… afflicted.

Not normal. Not like him. Not like any of them.

I look down at my glass full of the last of the pina colada. I tip it back and drink. But I know the truth: there will be no relief tonight.