Memory Lane

Chapter Thirty

"I always entertain great hopes." - Robert Frost

Memory Lane: Chapter Thirty

By the time I get home, the itching in my legs has increased and it feels like a million tiny fire ants have burrowed underneath my skin. I've nearly bitten a hole through my lip from having it captured between my teeth to stop myself from pulling over and ravenging my legs with my nails to make the itching go away. The only other thing stopping me is knowing that the second I scratch, that itchy sensation turns on a dime and the ants instead become liquid lava pouring down my legs.

So, when I pull into the driveway, I throw the car into park with the speed of someone being told she only has ten minutes left to live and sprint inside. I find Aunt June in the kitchen doing dishes, but she spins around the second she hears my frantic footsteps on the old floorboards.

The possibilities of what could be wrong with my legs have not stopped flashing like a rapid horror movie through my mind. What if all of the treatment I've been doing was for nothing and my legs are actually beyond repair and they're only now deciding to reject my donor site skin? Or, what if all of the walking I've been doing to and from school has finally caught up to me and now my skin is going to burn right off?

I barely catch my breath as I run into the kitchen. What if there actually are millions of tiny red fire ants burrowing their way into my skin? Okay. That one is a stretch, I'll admit it. But that goes to show the level of spiraling my mind has resorted to. And this damn itching won't stop.

"Laura? It's okay," Aunt June soothes, tossing the kitchen towel over her shoulder. She rushes to me, placing gentle hands on my shoulders. "I'll get Dr. Collins on the phone now. Can you explain what's going on to her?"

I swallow down the rest of my tears as Aunt June calls Dr. Collins, who picks up on just the third ring (if she had waited for the fourth, I may have passed out from holding my breath in anticipation. I've never been good at holding my breath for long periods of time; meant I was never a really good swimmer).

Aunt June puts the phone on speaker and I explain my situation to Dr. Collins, who gives small noises of acknowledgement on the other end. Her 'mhm's and 'hmm's do absolutely nothing to calm the insistent anxiety crawling up my spine like a spider I would have cried for my dad to kill.

"Laura, I need you to take a deep breath," Dr. Collins says once I've finished rambling about the insistent pain on my legs. "It's going to be okay. Can you tell me what your legs look like? What color they are, if they're swollen, dry, anything."

With a quivering bottom lip, I sit down at the kitchen counter and lift my pant leg. Aunt June walks closer to me to gently inspect it, laying a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

"The skin is red. Dry. Inflamed," I say between nervous breaths.

"Have you been using your medicated lotion?"

"Every morning and night."

"Not taking showers in scalding hot water, are you?"

"No. Feels like an ice bath almost every time. Sometimes, I get the water lukewarm. Is that bad?"

"No, that's perfectly okay. Are you exerting too much physical energy?"

"Hardly."

"Wearing breathable clothes?"

"Yes."

Dr. Collins goes quiet on the other end, but in the background I hear the faint sound of keys clacking on a keyboard. Is...is she looking this up?