Collide. Megan Hart

won’t be the only thing coming. Call me when you get it.

      I said I would and slipped my phone into my purse so I could head out for my appointment. It took me only ten minutes to get from my office to the alternative medicine center, a trip that had taken me forty-five when I lived with my parents. In another five I was in the quiet room on my back, a soft pillow beneath my head.

      I have eclectic musical tastes, but “spa” music usually didn’t do it for me. Yet I couldn’t deny it was relaxing, the soft chimes and woodwind instruments. That was the point, after all. To relax the patients. And I tried, I really did, but the harder I tried to put everything out of my mind, the more I thought.

      I knew the treatment would help even if I couldn’t stop the hamster wheel of my brain from spinning. I just didn’t want to be there, stiff and aching, anxious. I wanted to melt into the table and let the needles do their work the way they’d done for the past couple of years … and then I was thinking again, worrying again, that this time the treatment would fail. That I’d be back to suffering through the insult of a brain that made me see, hear, smell and touch things that weren’t there. Or worse, that gave me blank spots in my memory, moments in which anything could’ve happened. I wasn’t sure which was worse, experiencing things that hadn’t happened, or not remembering things that had.

      The music changed from the soft tinkle of water and a flute to something low, almost moaning. I’d never noticed vocals in any of the music the office played. Now I couldn’t ignore them.

      A cello. A woman’s breathy voice. The plucking of strings.

      And then, though I’d always specifically requested no aromatherapy treatments during my acupuncture … the inevitable scent of oranges.

      “No,” I muttered, and clung to consciousness with every single brain cell I had.

      When the fugues had first started, I hadn’t known how to determine one was on the verge. As the years had passed, I could predict the onset with enough time—sometimes only barely, but usually enough—to prepare for it. I had never yet mastered fending one off. In fact, I’d learned it was better not to try, because they seemed to last longer and be more intense, with a longer recovery time, if I fought them. I couldn’t help it now, though. It was the worst betrayal to go dark here, with the needles in my shin and collarbone, supposedly aligning my qi and keeping me centered in this world. My muscles strained, defeating the purpose of everything I’d come here to do.

      There was nothing I could do. The scent of oranges swirled around me. I closed my eyes, tense, and waited for my world to shift and change or simply go black around me. I gripped the table and felt the needles in my side shift and pinch.

      Nothing happened.

      I pressed my eyes closed tighter, my senses heightened. I heard the squeak-squeak of wheels, the soft click of the door opening. I opened my eyes, turned my head toward the sound. It was Dr. Gupta, who greeted me with a smile and a pat to my shoulder.

      “I apologize for being a little late to remove the needles, Emm,” she said. “We had a little accident out in the hallway. Someone came to clean it up, but there’s quite a mess. Be careful when you go out there.”

      She plucked needles from my skin as she spoke, slipping them into the red sharps container marked with the biohazard symbol. Then she took hold of my arm and helped me sit. She handed me a paper cup of water.

      “How do you feel?”

      I didn’t want to tell her about the fugue I may or may not have fended off. I breathed in. The scent of oranges had faded, though not disappeared. My mouth squirted saliva, lips puckering at the memory of the citrus taste. I hadn’t eaten oranges in years, unable to stomach them, but this gustatory illusion was unusual. Mostly I just smelled the oranges, I didn’t taste them.

      “Tired,” I said.

      “That’s to be expected. Are you dizzy? Drink some water.”

      I did, not because I was dizzy but to wash away the lingering taste of citrus. She took the cup from me and tossed it in the trash, then gripped my elbow to help me off the table. I waited half a minute, used to the way the floor sometimes tilted at first when I’d just finished a treatment. It didn’t today, but I rested a moment longer than normal, anyway.

      “Emm. You sure you’re all right?” Dr. Gupta is a tiny, dark-haired woman with big dark eyes. She reminds me of that old newspaper cartoon Dondi.

      “Sure. Fine.” I gave her my brightest smile to convince her.

      Dr. Gupta didn’t look convinced. She drew another cup of water from the cooler and handed it to me. “Drink that. You’re a little pale. I think next time we’ll concentrate on a super Ming Men instead of the Shen Men. We’ll do some energizing in addition to the tranquilizing.”

      I’d been having acupuncture treatments for three years now, but that didn’t make me anything like an expert. In fact, I was more of the “I don’t need to know how it works” school of thought. I’d never studied the mechanics of it, or the philosophy.

      “Sure,” I told her.

      She laughed. “You have no idea what I’m talking about. That’s okay, so long as it works, yes?”

      “Yes.” I drank the water, though by this point my back teeth were swimming.

      She patted my shoulder again. “I’ll see you in a month, unless you have something you need taken care of before then.”

      She left me to rearrange my clothes. Standing in the quiet room with the soft music playing, I should’ve been way more relaxed after a treatment. Instead, I felt electric. Buzzing. Not bad, exactly. And not the way I often felt after having a fugue, sort of fuzzy and disoriented for a few moments.

      This feeling was more like an ache in my chest. An anticipation, not quite anxiety. No pain. There was never pain associated with any of this.

      When I left the office, the smell of oranges once again assaulted me. I braced myself in the doorway, jaw clenched … until I saw the cleaning cart and the jug of citrus-scented cleaner, cap open, and the floor still gleaming from it. The woman at the cart saw me look and smiled apologetically.

      “We spilled almost the whole jug,” she explained, holding up a mop. “But it’s okay, you can go past now.”

      She couldn’t have had any idea about why I was laughing, but she laughed, too. I wanted to give her a high five as I passed her, but restrained myself. I couldn’t keep the grin off my face, though, as I stopped at the front desk to make my co-pay and book my next appointment.

      “This is what I love about my job,” said Peta, the receptionist.

      “Taking my money?”

      “No.” She shook her head. “Seeing how people come in here full of pain and leave full of peace.”

      I paused with my checkbook still in my hand. “That’s a great way of saying it.”

      She dimpled. “Maybe I should put that on an inspirational poster, huh?”

      “Maybe. But … it’s true, isn’t it?” I felt more at peace, certainly, once I’d learned the smell hadn’t been the harbinger of a fugue, after all.

      “It really is. Take care, Emm, see you next month.”

      I waved at her as I went out, my steps more springy and my heart lighter. Behind the wheel of my car I took a few more deep breaths to center myself out of habit. When you’ve had your license taken away because the authorities fear you might spaz out and cause an accident while you’re driving, you tend to better appreciate your ability to drive yourself when you are allowed. But as I pulled out of the parking lot, I realized the buzzing, churning tumble in my chest hadn’t really gone away, just faded.

      Bad tacos for last night’s dinner, maybe. Too much coffee on an empty stomach. I gripped the wheel and checked my eyes in the rearview mirror. A little wide, but the pupils