2. Lucy
two
Lucy
“I’m sorry. What?”
I blink and shake my head, feeling dizzy as I try to comprehend. “What do you mean?”
“Well, the rapid onset of your symptoms, your unexplained weight loss, your blood glucose levels, and your A1C all point toward type 1 diabetes. I’m sorry. I know this is a lot to take in. Do you want me to call someone for you? Your mom, maybe?”
I shake my head again. My mind is reeling, but I’m clear-headed enough to know that I need more time to process this before I tell my parents.
“No, thank you. I’m just… I don’t understand how this happened.
I’m an active person. I’m not running marathons, but I walk every day, and I go to the gym…
occasionally. I don’t eat an excessive number of desserts or—”
“Hold on. Let me stop you. This is not your fault. No one really knows what causes type 1 diabetes, especially in otherwise healthy individuals with no family history. Type 1 is an autoimmune disease, meaning your body is fighting itself. You haven’t done anything wrong, Lucy.”
I draw a deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping the influx of oxygen will make the room stop spinning. “Okay. So, how do we fix it?”
She purses her lips and tilts her head in that way doctors and teachers do when they’re trying to explain something gently. “Honey, there’s no cure. I’m afraid it’s a chronic condition.”
As her words sink in, the spinning room comes to a screeching halt, and my stomach drops.
No cure.
Chronic condition.
I’ll have this for the rest of my life.
She pats my knee again. “But don’t stress it. We’ll get you set up with a continuous glucose monitor and an insulin pump and show you how to use everything.”
My eyes slide closed, and I release a long breath. “Wait. I can’t. That’s not going to work.”
She frowns and tilts her head. “Why not?”
My cheeks heat, and I twine my fingers together, trying to distract myself from the way my vision is tunneling.
This is the only downside of taking a job at a tiny private school.
“I can’t afford all those things. I only have a major medical insurance policy, and I don’t exactly make an expendable income working at the preschool. Can’t I tweak my diet a little?”
She sighs and crosses her arms as she leans back against the counter.
“Not with type 1. For some reason, your pancreas doesn’t produce insulin, or at least not enough.
Your body needs insulin to properly digest your food and keep all your organs functioning as they should.
If you don’t have the insulin your body needs…
well, it could cause serious, life-threatening problems. You have to have these things, Lucy. ”
My eyes itch with the threat of tears, but I swallow them down and nod, praying that my tiny savings account will keep me from having to choose between insulin and rent…
for a few months at least. I don’t want to think about what happens after that.
“I’m going to need the cheapest option and maybe even a payment plan. ”
She straightens up from the counter and sets a comforting hand on my arm. “Okay. We’ll figure it out.”
Several minutes later, I’m walking dazedly down the clinic hallway, clutching printed instructions on how to use a glucometer and administer insulin shots, and a list of things to pick up from the pharmacy.
Dr. Pennington emphasized the importance of each item on the list. I was tempted to cut corners and save some money until she explained the potentially emergent consequences of not having everything she listed.
The thought that I could end up in the hospital—or worse—settles heavily in my chest.
This isn’t optional. It’s survival.
As I set my hand on the door to the waiting area, I hear keys jingle behind me and turn to find Reese, her long red hair secured in a hair clip, a belt bag over her scrubs, and keys dangling from her hand. Her eyes soften as they roam my face. “You okay?”
I give a half-hearted shrug and nod.
She sighs, half her mouth lifting in a comforting smile, the kind that makes you believe everything is going to be okay. “Is Sloane going to be home tonight?”
I blink and shake my head, trying to remember my sister’s plans for the evening. “She’s having dinner with Aiden and his parents.”
She nods, grabs my arm above my elbow, and steers me down the hall to a side door I’ve never noticed before.
“Emerson is going to meet us at your place when she gets off work. She’s picking up supper.
Skye was able to leave the hospital a little early, but she still has to fight through Nashville traffic.
” She checks her watch and frowns. “Dr. Pennington sent your prescriptions to the pharmacy already. Depending on how long it takes us there, they might beat us to your apartment.”
I pull her to a stop before she opens the door, and I turn to face her with wide eyes. “Us?”
She gives me a warm smile, and I instantly feel at ease. Reese is a naturally comforting person with her soft green eyes and quiet but steady voice. But more than that, she’s the most supportive and loyal person I know.
She runs her hand up and down my arm, smiling reassuringly. “You didn’t think we’d leave you to figure this out on your own, did you?”
I release a long breath, closing my eyes as I offer a quick prayer of thankfulness. I nod as Reese pushes the door open. “Thank you.”
She links her arm through mine and leads the way into the parking lot.
My palms are slick with sweat against the steering wheel, and I draw a deep breath to steady my nerves.
I don’t know why I’m so anxious about this.
I’m sure that telling my parents will bring me comfort, peace, and reassurance that people are in my corner to support me through this.
But it will also bring Dad’s quiet, calculating expression as he tries to solve all my problems, and Mom’s chaotic insistence that she can fix everything.
My dad, Henry Burke, is the strong, silent type.
He’s the kind of man who communicates his feelings non-verbally but states his thoughts bluntly.
Mom, on the other hand, over-communicates everything.
Most people leave a conversation with Joanne Burke with too much information and an uncomfortable smile.
My parents are an interesting combination, but they work so well together.
As I turn into the long, paved driveway leading to my childhood home, I let the familiar sights calm my racing heart and fill me with nostalgia so sweet I feel like a child again.
This two-story, red-brick home with black shutters, a front door that changes color every other year—right now, it’s olive green—and chimneys on either side is the backdrop to my storybook childhood.
We had everything we needed, a lot of things we wanted, and more love than we knew what to do with.
As I round the corner to the back of the house, I draw a deep breath, pulling all those warm and fuzzy feelings deep into my gut, until I see a familiar dark green SUV, and my breath leaves in a disappointed sigh.
Nate’s here.
Turning my car around and coming back in an hour or two is a tempting option, but Mom is already waving at me from the kitchen window. Forcing a smile, I wave back. When she disappears behind the white lace curtain, I blow out a long breath and brace myself to deal with Nate.
I slip out of my Camry as I pull my crossbody bag over my head, bypass the entrance to Dad’s office, and push the sliding glass door that leads to the eat-in kitchen, hiding a grimace from the twinge of pain shooting through my sore fingertips.
I’ve used my glucometer for less than a day, but I can already see the benefit of having a continuous glucose monitor instead of poking my fingers repeatedly.
Too bad my useless insurance policy won’t cover it.
“Lucy,” my mom calls as she wraps me up in a hug. “This is a nice surprise. What brought you by this morning?”
I pat my mom’s arm as she leans back to meet my gaze. “Nothing in particular.” I swallow the bad taste the fib leaves in my mouth, but I refuse to discuss my diagnosis in front of Nate. “I just wanted to see you and Dad for a bit.”
Mom smiles as if nothing could make her happier than unexpectedly seeing one of her daughters. She tosses a dish towel over her shoulder. “Oh, that’s nice, honey. Can I get you some coffee? Or a homemade cinnamon roll?”
My mouth waters at the thought of Mom’s delicious cinnamon rolls, but I don’t want to begin the conversation by giving myself an insulin shot before I have a snack. “No, I’m okay. Thanks.”
Mom frowns, clearly not expecting me to turn down coffee and cinnamon rolls.
I avert my gaze, hoping she’ll drop the subject as my eyes roam the familiar kitchen. My parents’ house hasn’t been updated since they remodeled it in the early nineties, but they’ve taken such good care of it that it looks brand new.
The amber oak cabinets, warm beige walls, and green plaid wallpaper border with bright red apples take me back to some of my favorite memories.
My gaze snags on a broad form sitting on the middle stool at the island. I suppose I’ve ignored him for as long as I can get away with. I clear my throat and nod. “Nathaniel.”
One corner of his mouth lifts in a crooked smirk. “Lucinda.”
I clench my jaw, my eye twitches with the effort of avoiding an eye roll.
But I don’t feel like listening to Mom’s reprimand at my poor treatment of such a ‘nice young man’ right now, even though his habit of finding every possible variant of my name is infuriating.
At least he only uses the nicer ones in front of my family and saves the snarky ones for times when they aren’t around.
His hazel eyes drop to his plate as he cuts a bite of cinnamon roll with his fork. His gaze finds mine again as he lifts the fork to his mouth and raises a brow. “Are you sure you don’t want a cinnamon roll, Luce? They’re incredible, as always.”