I don't bother texting back. I hit the call button. He answers on the first ring, his voice low and instantly familiar, a constancy I desperately need right now.
“Hey,” I manage. My voice sounds rougher than I expect, worn down by the anxiety.
“Hey, yourself. You sound wrecked. Did you just get home?” Tim asks.
“Kinda. Stopped by Maya’s first to take care of Frida. Now I’m parked on my couch.” I pause, the silence stretching. “I don't know what I'm doing, Tim. I don't know how to do this part.”
Tim’s breathing is steady on the line. “You did great, Zach. Maya is where she needs to be to get help. That’s the most important thing. Now, what do you mean, ‘this part?’”
“This part where I'm not doing anything,” I say, the words spilling out, urgent and desperate. “Where I'm here, and she's there, and I just keep picturing her face when she realized her secret was out. The painting, the reporters. It was like watching someone drown right in front of you, and all you can do is stand on the shore. I saw the relief of her being unconscious, the temporary peace, and then the utter devastation when she realized her privacy was gone. It was too much for her sick body to handle.” I rub my forehead, the tension blooming behind my eyes. “I know how to supporther. I know what she needs when she's sick: quiet, rest, patience, me being the wall she can lean on. I can do the physical labor of caregiving. But I don't know how to supportmyselfwhen she’s like this. I’m scared, man. I’m utterly terrified of what the lupus can do, and what this level of stress will do to her recovery. All I want is to be back in the hospital with her, because at least then I can do things for her. At least then I feel useful.”
The truth feels raw, but necessary. Tim is my best friend. His sister, Eva, has multiple sclerosis, so he truly understands the tightrope walk of loving someone with a chronic illness, the constant, low-grade fear of the unknown future.
“You're allowed to be scared, Zach. You're human,” Tim says, his voice soft but firm, cutting through my self-pity. “Look, she’s in the best place right now. She’s being rehydrated, she’s being watched. The hospital is doing the heavy lifting. Your job right now is damage control and self-preservation. You can't fill her cup if yours is empty.”
“Damage control,” I repeat the phrase, the practical next step pulling me back from the emotional brink. “Yeah. The damn reporters. The social media garbage fire. That's the one thing Ican'tdo from the hospital, so that's what I need to focus on.”
“Exactly,” Tim agrees, sounding like a field commander. “Think about it. She’s going to be there for at least a day, maybe two. When she gets out, she’s going to be more overwhelmed. She’s already devastated that her privacy is gone. You need to turn off the water cannon before she walks out of the hospital and has to deal with the public fallout, including her work. That’s going to be the next wave of stress.”
Tim’s always been good at strategy, approaching crises like they’re solvable puzzles. “What do you suggest?” I ask, already trying to make a mental list, a sudden rush of adrenaline replacing the immense fatigue.
“Her mother,” he says instantly. “This whole media blow up was her doing, and you told me Maya tries to avoid confrontations with her as much as possible. Do you have her number? Maybe now is the time to intercept. Explain to her mother exactly what the cost of this ‘advocacy’ is right now. What it’s costing Maya. Get her to call off the media or at least issue a stern ‘no comment’ statement until Maya’s back on her feet and can decide how to handle it.”
The idea clicks into place, a sudden, bright goal in the dark landscape of my anxiety.Something I can do.
“God, yes. That’s brilliant,” I say, the first genuine rush of focused energy I’ve felt since Tim called me in a panic while I was driving to meet them all at the pizza place. “I need to find her contact. I think Maya’s friend Flick has her mother’s number in case of emergency. I’ll text her now. Hang on a sec.”
I quickly draft a text to Flick, who is likely long asleep, but I know she’ll answer. Maya’s told me about their Chronic Pain Crafters meetings and the message group they have. They’realways there for each other, ready to help in any way they can. That support has gotten Maya through a lot of hard times. Not matter what time of the day or night.
“Hey, before you go,” I say, pulling the phone back to my ear. “It was really nice meeting Patty. Even with all the chaos. She handled that whole scene like a champ. She seems to make you really happy.”
Tim chuckles, a genuinely happy sound, tinged with relief. “Yeah, she does. She’s the best, Zach. I feel like an idiot saying that, but I mean it. She stepped right up and was helpful and calm, even when I was freaking out. I’m really cautiously optimistic about this one. She knows about everything—my messy history, the fact that I’m still occasionally a wreck. She just... handles it. She’s a gift.”
I smile, a true, easy smile. Tim deserves this, deserves happiness after his own tough breakup a year ago. “I'm glad, man. Honestly. You look happier than I've seen you in ages. It's so good that you chose to open your heart again. I’m rooting for you two.”
“Thanks, man. That means a lot. Now go get the mother on the phone. And text me when you know more. Seriously, try to rest.”
“Will do. You, too.”
I hang up the phone, the warmth from the call fading almost instantly. The quiet victory is replaced by the sheer, cold terror of the task ahead: calling Maya's mother.
I get a text back from Flick within minutes, as if she was waiting for a text from someone. She sends me the number I asked for, and I give her quick explanation about what’s going on withMaya. She promises to let her rest tonight and check with her in the morning.
I stare at the number Flick sent me. Maya’s mother. The artist. The legend. The woman who painted that horrifying, beautiful, invasive portrait of her own daughter’s suffering and then sold it for enough money to change lives.
Maya’s relationship with her mom is a minefield. They love each other fiercely, but her mother’s constant drive to “fix” or “advocate” for Maya often clashes with Maya’s desperate need for autonomy and normalcy. She means well, but her presence can feel overwhelming, like a powerful current sucking Maya under, making her feel less like a person and more like a cause.
My heart is doing a frantic, jittery dance against my ribs. I take a deep breath, and then another. I need to be calm. I need to be respectful. But most importantly, I need to befirm.
I open the phone app and dial. It rings three times before a crisp, professional voice answers, the kind of voice that manages galleries and signs major contracts.
“Hello?”
“Hi. This is Zachary. I’m Maya’s… friend. I’m sorry to call so late, but I need to talk to you about Maya.”
Her voice is immediately sharp. “Zachary. Yes, the one who finally picked up when I was calling earlier. Is she all right? Why isn’t she answering my calls? I told her she needs to be checking in. Is shelisteningto the doctor this time? She needs to be taking better care of herself; I always tell her that. I just saw the sales numbers onThe Quiet War—it’s phenomenal, a huge win for advocacy, but she needs to capitalize on this, not sabotage her health with?—”
“Stop,” I interrupt, the word coming out louder than I intended, cutting through her momentum. The silence is instant and complete. I take a breath, moderating my tone, infusing it with cold, factual control. “Maya is not well. She’s in the hospitalright now. We took her to the ER tonight after she collapsed on the street due to extreme fatigue and severe gastrointestinal distress.”
