Pretty Little Birds

Chapter 1

He was still here, lying next to me with his arm draped across my waist, sleeping like a baby.

“Shawn.” I called his name, doing my best to nudge my body into his, hoping it was enough to wake him up.

Shawn, my on-again, off-again ex-boyfriend, knew he was supposed to be gone before the sun came up.

That was our unspoken rule, the dance we did whenever either of us just needed to release.

We didn’t do morning-after conversations.

After a year of messing around, I’d finally gotten to the point where I wasn’t pretending this was anything more than what it was.

“Shawn,” I called again. “You gotta go.” I stared at the ceiling as he stirred beside me.

“A few more minutes,” he mumbled, and I didn’t respond, just used my last bit of strength to nudge his body again. It was time for him to go. My sister would be here soon, and I didn’t feel like hearing her mouth about how I needed to stop giving my undeserving ex my body.

“Huh?” He shifted behind me with a yawn as he sat up and stretched like he’d gotten the best sleep of his life.

“You good?” He stumbled out of bed and began getting dressed.

I wanted to say, ‘Do I look good?’ but I didn’t have the energy to explain the side effects of my diagnosis to him for the thousandth time.

“Yeah.” I finally sighed.

“Cool. I’ll call you.” He shoved his phone in his pocket, leaned down, and kissed me on the forehead. I tried to turn my face, but he caught my temple.

“Let me know if you need anything,” he said as he walked out of my bedroom door. I exhaled a deep breath and rolled my eyes as I waited to hear my front door click shut.

“Let him know if I need anything,” I repeated out loud.

The nerve. I needed him to care about my physical well-being for a long time.

I needed him to be my support system when things got rough, but he’d left me.

He told me dating a sick girl was too much for him to handle.

He knew, like I knew, that there was nothing he could do for me but scratch my itch and bring me food.

His car started up outside my bedroom window, and I exhaled the breath I’d been holding, and the pain, like usual, consumed me.

The sharp daggers shot through my body all at once, like someone was sticking me with a million knives.

My fingers were curled. My knees locked, my back ached, and my elbows wouldn’t bend.

Even my face was riddled with pain. It had taken a lot for me just to ask Shawn to leave.

“Breathe, Noa!” I coached myself like I did every morning. “Just breathe.”

My lupus was clearly in a bitchy mood today.

I lay still for a while, staring at the ceiling, taking slow, deep breaths in and out, tracing the shadows on the wall with my eyes, and cursing my old rheumatologist for allowing my condition to go undiagnosed for so long.

Had I gotten an earlier diagnosis, things probably wouldn’t have gotten this bad.

I took a deep breath and reminded myself to be patient.

Trying to rush out of bed would only make things worse.

No, I just had to let my body come back to me one limb at a time.

“I am a warrior. I am strong. I am resilient.” I began reciting the affirmations my lupus support app encouraged me to tell myself each morning. “My body can heal.”

With each word, my body became less stiff, allowing me to push myself up slowly, my body shaking.

The wheelchair I used was right next to my bed.

The days when I could shuffle around on a cane or lean up against furniture were long gone.

Nah, my chair had become a permanent fixture in my life.

Grabbing the armrest of my wheelchair, I slid in with a victory grunt.

Four years of being diagnosed with lupus, two years of being confined to this chair, and I’d come to terms with it, but I still hated that I was no longer in control of my life.

Lupus controlled and dictated every aspect of everything I did, and it was tiresome.

“Alexa,” I called through my dry throat. “Play ‘Good Days’ by SZA.”

The music kicked in, and I let it wash over my body and soothe the aching in my joints as I rolled over to the window to start my daily routine.

The first thing I had to do was let the sunlight in.

I pulled the string, allowing the curtains to swing open.

Azalea County, Illinois, was just waking up, loud and chaotic, like always.

Everyone seemed to live their lives, blasting their music, watering their lawns, and moving around freely without pain.

Must be nice. I rolled away from the window and headed toward my ensuite bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face.

I angled my chair slightly left and nudged forward, slowly entering the bathroom.

Maneuvering in and out of this bathroom had to be one of the trickiest things about being in a wheelchair.

Most of the doorframes in my grandmother’s house that I inherited after my father passed away were too narrow for my chair to fit through.

Every day, I was playing a live game of Tetris, trying to get around.

“Just a little more…” I bit my bottom lip and pushed forward. My front wheels cleared the door frame, but my right armrest scraped the door and got stuck, wedging me in the middle of the doorway.

“Ugh,… fuck!” I blew out a frustrated breath as I stared at the sink. My toothbrush was only two feet away, but it might as well have been on Mars because I couldn’t reach it. The more I tried to rock myself free, the more stuck I became. “Dammit!”

“Really, Noa Lee Green?” A familiar voice called out, making me turn my head to look over my shoulder.

My sister, Teagan, stood there, her hands on her hips and a judgmental look on her face.

The music must have drowned out the sounds of her coming in for her shift.

“Why didn’t you just go to the one in the hallway? ”

“I can usually get in this one just fine. Plus, I didn’t feel like traveling to the other side of the house.”

“And what were you going to do if I hadn’t popped up over here?” She came up behind me, shaking her head.

“I guess we’ll never know.”

Teagan rolled her eyes, then gently backed my chair out the doorway like she’d done multiple times before when I got myself stuck.

Outside of her, there wasn’t really anyone left who could help me out.

My dad was an only child. I had no cousins to call, no aunts popping in. It was just my little sister and me.

“Uh huh. And did you fill out that form I sent you? For the Northside Rebuild Program?”

“Here we go.” I rolled my eyes.

“You damn right, here we go. You said last week you were gonna do it. The deadline is today. You want to keep getting stuck in doorways? Or maybe bust your lip open again next time you try to transfer to the toilet? You won’t let me move in here; you won’t come move with me.

You need this house renovated to fit your needs. ”

“I don’t want anybody tearing up Granny’s house, and I may not even need this chair in the future.”

“There are certified contractors, most of them with records, yeah, but they’re trained. They will not tear up Granny’s house. They’re going to make it better.”

“But I may get better… be able to ditch the chair soon.”

“I know,” she snapped. “But you need support until you do, and a few modifications around here won’t ruin the house.”

I was quiet, too tired to fight, too sore to pretend she was wrong.

I’d slipped in the bathroom maybe once a week.

The ramp in the back that my father had built for my grandmother creaked as if it was two inches from collapsing.

The front steps were too steep, the doorways were too narrow, and the counters too high.

There was a long list of things that made this place unsafe for me to live alone.

But the idea of letting some stranger come into my house and start changing things was scary.

My grandparents’ home was my fortress, my sanctuary.

It was the one place where I didn’t have to explain why I moved slowly or why I needed everything in reach, the one place where I could feel love radiating from the walls.

My grandfather had worked hard to buy this home at a time when black people weren’t allowed to live in this neighborhood.

Everything about this home had sentimental value.

It almost felt like a crime to change anything in here.

“The modifications are only going to make this place better and give it longevity. Grandma and Papa wouldn’t want you wheeling around here, getting stuck in doorways,” Teagan reasoned. I stared at her for a minute, coming to terms with everything in my head.

“You already filled it out, didn’t you?”

“And did. All you gotta do is E-Sign it. Check your email.”

I rubbed my temples. “You really don’t believe in boundaries, huh?”

“Nope, this place is half mine, and I believe in keeping my big sister safe and alive.”

I shook my head, half annoyed and half grateful. This was Teagan, bossy and protective. Sometimes I forgot who the big sister was.

“Fine, pull it up. I’ll sign it.”

“Thank you.” She pulled me away from my bathroom and pushed me toward the main hallway.

“But if they mess up my paint closet and disturb my peace while I paint, we’re gonna fight.”

“I’ll warn them, Noa.” She laughed as she backed me out and gave the chair a little spin before pushing me out into the hallway.

“There,” she said with a dramatic flair. “Crisis averted. Thanks to your little sis. Now, go brush your teeth and take them meds. I’ll pull up the documents for you to sign.”

I rolled my eyes but managed a smile as I turned down the hall toward the bathroom, the one I should have been in, in the first place.

This one had my setup—a door I could actually fit through and a sink I could actually use.

I made my way to the counter, grabbed my toothbrush from the holder, squeezed out the paste, and started brushing in slow, circular motions.

My arms felt a little tight, the typical morning stiffness from the lupus, but I pushed through it.

I rinsed, spat, then reached for my pill case to take the daily dose of meds that I guess were keeping me alive.

I popped the lid open before grabbing my Wednesday pills with shaky fingers and swallowing them with a handful of water.

I hated the taste of my pill cocktail, but skipping it wasn’t an option.

Chronic illness didn’t care if the pills tasted bad.

As I wiped my mouth, I heard Teagan clanking around in the living room. I already knew she was pulling cushions off the couch and rearranging furniture. Her type A personality didn’t mesh well with my Type C personality.

“You deep cleaning again?” I called out.

“Just freshenin’ up,” she replied. “I don’t want these contractors coming in here, thinking my sister lives like a pig.”

“I don’t live like a pig.” I shook my head as if she could see me. “It’s organized chaos.”

“Whatever. Just know they won’t see this place looking a mess on my watch.”

I rolled back into the front room and veered off into the dining area, where my easel waited in the corner, displaying a half-finished canvas I’d started a few days ago.

I stared at the beautiful black woman bent over in the fetal position.

She was bruised but not broken. Her mouth was open in a scream no one could hear, like most of my paintings these days.

My body hurt, and my bones ached, but I dipped my brush into the brown paint anyway, not because my artwork kept the lights on, or I had a gallery to show, but because painting was all I had left.

It was the only thing I could control. I pressed the brush to the canvas, painting her eyes shut.

She was tired. It was reminiscent of how I felt.

Tired but not broken. Weakened but not weak.

“Oh, Sis. This is beautiful. Your skills with that brush never cease to amaze me.” Teagan came walking up behind me. “This one should be in a gallery,” she said.

“I don’t do those anymore,” I reminded her. Art shows and galleries were something I’d given up a long time ago.

“Well, you should.” She disappeared back into the hallway, mop in hand, and I returned my attention to my canvas, dragging my brush across the surface, letting the music that was still playing in my bedroom take over.

“Your signature?” Teagan returned, pushing her tablet in front of my face. I looked down at the application. Sure, I’d just agreed, but that didn’t make this any easier.

“And you’re sure about this program? Sure I’ll get in?”

“I’m hopeful! They’ve helped other women like you.”

“People just like me?” I raised a brow. “Wheelchair bound black women with autoimmune disorders and funky attitudes?”

“Yep.” She grinned. “They pick a few houses every quarter for free labor. You can’t beat this. The materials are donated, and they partner with contractors on parole who need work. All licensed. All supervised.”

“And you think they’ll pick me?” I repeated, looking for some way to back out. Signing these papers meant I was admitting to needing help, and that was painful for someone who’d spent her entire life trying to prove she didn’t need anyone.

“We’ll never know if you don’t sign, Sis.” Teagan tapped the stylus on the tablet, making the screen light up. Slowly, I grabbed it and signed my name.

“Perfect! It’s done!” she said. “Now we wait. I’ll get started on breakfast.” She walked toward the kitchen, and I went back to painting. Pressing my brush on the canvas, I smiled at the woman I was working on.

“You’re not done yet. You’re a warrior,” I whispered to her and to myself.