I open the door and immediately recognize Helen by her clean, pleasant perfume. She shakes my hand, firm and businesslike. “We’ll start with the route to the corner,” she says without preamble. “Then the grocery store if you’re up for it.”
I’m not up for anything. But I nod anyway and grip Excalibur like he’s the only thing keeping me tethered to earth.
Outside, the world is all sound and texture. Helen’s voice coaches me through the chaos—curb here, pole there, listen for the traffic pattern. I trip twice. She doesn’t catch me.
“Good,” she says when I right myself. “You’re learning to trust your body.”
I almost laugh.Trust my body?My body that’s gone blind, that’s maybe growing something I can’t see or plan for or control? That’ll be the day. My body hasn’t helped me out once in my whole dang life.
But I keep walking. One foot, then the other. The pavement is rough beneath my shoes, the sun warm on my shoulders.
It’s not hope I’m feeling, exactly. But it’s motion.
Sometimes, that’s all you can ask for.
5
ELIANA
consommé /?käns?'ma/: noun
1: crystal-clear broth made by clarifying stock until no trace of cloudiness remains.
2: what’s left when the world boils away every lie you’ve been telling yourself.
After Helen leaves—satisfied with my progress, or at least satisfied enough to schedule our next session—I stand outside the apartment building with Excalibur in one hand and my phone in the other.
I should go upstairs, make myself tea, and practice the techniques Helen drilled into me until muscle memory takes over and I stop having to think so damn hard about every single step. But my thumb hovers over the phone’s voice assistant, and before I can talk myself out of it, I’m asking Siri for directions to the nearest free clinic.
The automated voice tells me there’s one four blocks west. I can do four blocks. I’ve done harder things than that in the past seven weeks.
I make the trek. The clinic isn’t much to speak of—or so I imagine, based on the sounds filtering through the propped-open door when I finally locate it. Wailing babies, the flapping of magazines, a television playing Jerry Springer at an inhumane volume. When I approach the reception desk, a woman with a kind voice asks how she can help me.
“I need to, uh, see someone,” I say awkwardly. “About… I think I might be pregnant.”
The woman doesn’t gasp or tsk or do any of the judgy things I’m bracing for. She just says, “Okay, honey. Let me get you some paperwork.”
A clipboard appears in my hands, smooth and cool.
“I can’t—” I swallow and try again. “I can’t see to fill this out.”
“Oh! No problem.” The clipboard disappears. “I’ll just ask you the questions and write down your answers. That work?”
“Yeah. Thanks. That works.”
We go through the basics. I give her my real name, because what’s the point of lying to a doctor? For address, I hem and haw and make up something in the general vicinity of our apartment. Insurance status: none. The woman doesn’t comment on any of it, just writes it all down.
“Alright, Ms. Hunter. Have a seat and we’ll call you back in just a bit.”
I find an empty chair. The plastic seat is cracked and lukewarm beneath my jeans. I fold my hands in my lap and wait.
Fifteen or twenty minutes go by before an impatient voice calls my name. “Hunter? Hunter? Anyone in here named Hunter? Goddammit, if I have to?—”
“Here!” I squeak nervously. I stand, Excalibur extended, and set off in the direction of a woman who’s clearly having a very bad day.
The nurse’s shoes make a nasty sound against the linoleum floors. She shows no signs of slowing down, offering an arm, or asking if I need help navigating. In fact, all she says is, “Hurry up. In here.” I resist the urge to rap Excalibur across her shinbones as I pass.
I slip through the door she’s holding open, then turn around to face roughly in her direction. Her breath comes in short, angry puffs, like a dragon fueled by Monster Energy drinks and spite.
