“Is that new, too?” Hannah asks, her voice barely a whisper.
“Yeah,” I say, staring at it. I’m completely bewildered. I have no memory of hitting my arm on anything. “I… I didn’t even know that was there.”
That’s it for Devin. Her expression hardens with resolve. “Okay, that’s it. We’re going to the hospital.”
“No,” I protest immediately, the thought sending a fresh wave of panic through me. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll call the twenty-four-hour nurse line. I’ll call Dr. Sharma first thing in themorning. I don’t need to go to the emergency room.” The last thing I want is to spend hours under fluorescent lights, being poked and prodded, only to be told it’s a side effect and to follow up with my specialist. The thought alone makes my eyes burn with tears.
“Maya, these are serious side effects,” Devin says, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Dizziness, fainting, unexplained bruising? You are not waiting until morning.”
“She’s right,” Flick chimes in, her earlier humor gone, replaced by a quiet intensity. “We’re not taking any chances.”
I look at their faces, a united front of loving, stubborn concern, and I know I’ve lost. The fight goes out of me, replaced by a profound weariness. Tears well up in my eyes and spill over, tracking hot paths down my cheeks.
In an instant, they’re all in motion. Alexis starts gathering my things—my tote, my yarn, the half-finished pumpkin. Flick disappears and returns with my coat. Hannah helps me to my feet, her arm a steadying presence around my waist.
“We’ll take my car,” Hannah says. “It’s the most comfortable. Devin, you drive. Flick and Alexis, can you stay behind and lock up the shop and then go to Maya’s apartment to feed and check on Frida?”
They all agree to the plan and get me bundled into the backseat of Hannah’s car. Devin gets behind the wheel, and Hannah slides in next to me instead of taking the passenger seat. She pulls me close, and I let my head rest on her shoulder, the familiar, clean scent of her perfume filling my senses. The overwhelming panic begins to subside, replaced by a quiet sense of surrender. For tonight, I don’t have to be the one in charge of my broken body. My best friends have it covered.
Hannah’s fingers begin to gently stroke my hair, a soothing, rhythmic motion. The car pulls out onto the dark street, the streetlights painting fleeting stripes of orange across the car’sinterior. Under the steady comfort of my friend’s hand, my eyes drift closed. For the first time in what feels like weeks, I feel safe. I feel calm. And I let myself fall asleep.
That sense of calm evaporates the moment we push through the double doors of the emergency room. The waiting area is a chaotic sea of misery. Apparently, half a local kids’ soccer team came down with food poisoning, and the air is thick with the sounds of crying children and stressed-out parents. The peace of Hannah’s car is a distant memory.
They put me in a wheelchair and roll me into a curtained-off cubicle, then help me onto an uncomfortable gurney. Hannah pulls up a chair and takes out her knitting, the soft click of her needles a tiny island of normalcy in the chaos. A nurse has already come and gone, taking what feels like a gallon of my blood. Now Devin is on a mission for coffee and food I’m able to eat, since the doctor wants to see if eating helps with the dizziness.
I lean my head back against the pillow and close my eyes, trying to block out the noise. But my mind, unhelpful as ever, immediately supplies a memory. My ex, Sam, sitting in a chair just like Hannah’s during one of my major flares. I can still hear his voice, tight with frustration.“Can’t you just take the steroids, Maya? It’s what the doctor recommends.”I remember telling him how depressed they made me, how I didn’t feel like myself. He’d sighed, running a hand through his hair.“But it’s the safest option if we want to start thinking about a family. Stop being so selfish and think about our future children.”He’d called me selfish for prioritizing my own mental health. I push the memoryaway. This is different. I’m here with women who champion my choices, who listen to what I need.
A man’s voice, raised in pain, cuts through my thoughts. It’s familiar.
“…I know, I know, just try to hold still,” a nurse says.
“Easier said than done,” the man grunts.
It’s Zachary. My eyes fly open. What is he doing here? Before I can process it, the curtain around my cubicle is ripped open. A tired-looking ER doctor holds a tablet.
“Maya?” she says. “We have your blood test results. Good news is the bruising isn’t from a low platelet count. The bad news is your kidney function is quite low. Your GFR is down to thirty-eight. Given what your rheumatologist noted in your file, we’d like to do that biopsy tomorrow morning rather than wait two weeks. We’re admitting you overnight for observation, just to make sure that number doesn’t drop any lower.”
The world spins, and this time it has nothing to do with my blood pressure. The nurse and Hannah help me back into the wheelchair to take me to an actual room. As I’m wheeled out of the cubicle, my eyes lock with Zachary’s.
He’s sitting on a nearby gurney, a nurse leaning over him, wielding a needle and thread. A nasty, bloody gash cuts across his forehead, yet his expression isn’t one of pain. His eyes, wide and full of worry, are fixed on me, on the IV pole, on the wheelchair. He mouths the words,“Are you okay?”
I manage to lift a shaky hand and give a wobbly so-so gesture. He gives a small, concerned nod as the nurse puts the first stitch in his forehead. I wave as they wheel me away, my mind racing. How did he get that gash? A part of me aches to stay, to talk to him. Things have been so much easier between us recently.
We talked for hours while we started putting together our Halloween gourds decor in the trailer. I shared stories from my first year of teaching and reassured him that I don’t think he’sa “trier-outer.” He has a real talent and passion for teaching. We even planned a new joint lesson—making a quick bread to demonstrate the reaction between baking soda and acid, then decorating it with symbols of our ancestors. It felt normal. It felt good.
Upstairs, the room is quiet and private. Hannah helps me get settled, then goes to find Devin to update her and show her where my room is. I’m alone, my crochet hook back in my hand, when a soft knock sounds at the door.
It’s Zachary. He has a neat row of black stitches and a small clear bandage on his forehead.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “I ran into your friend Hannah in the hall. She told me which room. I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“I should be asking you that,” I say, gesturing to his head. “What happened?”
“TV mount versus forehead. The TV mount won,” he says with a wry smile. He steps inside, his gaze taking in the IV stand and the hospital bed. “What about you?”
This is it. The moment. I can deflect, or I can trust him. I choose trust.
I take a deep breath. “I have lupus.”
