Chapter Eight One of the Worst Massages in Human History
Chapter Eight
One of the Worst Massages in Human History
Kevin drags out this long, heavy snore, and Owen decides that it’s time to get out of bed. Not wake up, no—he’s been awake for a few hours now, staring up
at the blinking red light of the smoke detector on the ceiling.
With the sun beginning to rise, Owen finally climbs out of bed, giving Kevin room to sprawl out on his stomach when he goes
to brush his teeth and wash his face. Out in the main area of the suite, he scoops instant coffee into a mug and turns on
the electric kettle, letting the water heat up as he steps out onto the chilly balcony.
It’s a small space, with barely enough room for the two chairs and a table that Owen moves out of the way so that he can stretch
his body out, bracing himself against the railing as he counts the squats that he does. He’d been a lot more active as a preteen,
but only because his parents demanded it of him, forced him into softball and soccer, right up through middle school. At least
he had enjoyed playing.
Then the pain had started, a heat that settled into Owen’s wrists and ankles, growing worse and worse until it hurt to even get out of bed, the pain settling over his body like a constant weight being pressed against him.
The older he got, the more the pain radiated through his body, making it impossible to even pay attention in class.
Of course his parents hadn’t believed him, despite the very physical evidence of the flare-ups, the way his joints would swell, the skin broken and rashy.
He was “too young” to be in so much pain and must have been making up excuses to get out of things that he didn’t want to
do. Owen just needed to grow up. At one point, they were almost convinced he was somehow doing it to himself, like maybe Owen
was purposefully taking too hot showers.
“Life is hard for everyone,” his father had said once. “You think my back doesn’t hurt every day?”
“Here, try some lotion,” was his mother’s advice until, eventually, she’d relented. But only when Owen couldn’t physically
get out of bed without her help, leaving behind the tear-stained pillowcase from lying awake in bed all night in such severe
pain that Owen almost felt like each breath was being pushed forcibly out of his lungs.
He’d never told anyone before how he thought he might die that night, no one except for Jacob—years into their relationship—when
the memories felt more like some half-forgotten nightmare he was recalling.
The doctors at urgent care had given him something for the pain but could only recommend Owen go to a specialist to figure out what was wrong after his X-rays came back showing signs of juvenile arthritis.
Owen remembers staring at the way his bones almost looked wrong on the radiograph, listening to the conversation between the doctor and his mother, talking about him like he wasn’t in the
room, dread settling in his stomach as he prayed that his mother would take the referral to a specialist seriously.
“Are we going to go to the doctor?” Owen asked from the back seat of their car, feeling droopy from the medication they’d
given him.
His mother eyed him in the rearview mirror. “If we get there and they tell me you’re faking . . .” She didn’t finish the thought,
just shook her head.
“It really hurts, Mom.” Owen felt an ache in his jaw as he said the words. He didn’t want to keep back the tears anymore;
it was taking too much out of him.
She’d ignored her son, and they’d driven in silence to a pediatrician who specialized in diagnosing and treating juvenile
arthritis. All the signs were there: the pain, the inflammation, the breaks of his skin.
“Is this something we can fix with surgery?” his mother had asked. “Or diet?”
“Well, diet can certainly help.” The doctor didn’t look at Owen’s mother, though. Instead, she looked directly at Owen, as
if knowing somehow that Owen’s mother wouldn’t take her advice seriously. “There are certain things you’ll want to try and
avoid. Gluten can cause flare-ups, dairy, lots of sugar. Sometimes they’re random. Everyone is different.”
“Will it go away?” Owen asked.
The look on the doctor’s face answered his question before she even opened her mouth. “I’m afraid not. We’ll explore treatment
options, things that’ll help you deal with the pain, keep the swelling down. But this isn’t the kind of thing that goes away.”
Testing had taken months. Months of being poked and prodded, needles stuck into Owen’s skin, blood drawn, but he told himself
that none of that mattered to him. His parents had finally believed his pain.
Then the doctors had started treatment, starting with prescription NSAIDs that would work for a few months before Owen’s body
eventually grew to tolerate them. After that, they moved on to Trexall and Arava, DMARDs that Owen’s doctors hoped would slow
the progression of his arthritis. But just like the NSAIDs, they’d stopped working after a while. His doctors had told him
this was a possibility, that part of finding the right treatment involved a lot of trial and error.
Then, at seventeen, Owen’s doctor finally approved him for a trial of biologics, injections done every few weeks that would
target Owen’s immune system and hopefully help him manage the pain.
It didn’t eliminate the discomfort, not entirely, but he could finally get a full night of comfortable sleep and pay attention
in class. Not that he had time to improve his GPA.
But what really mattered was that he finally got the chance to live. He could participate in PE, could go out after school and not be left
exhausted after just half an hour. It meant that he finally got to feel like an actual teenager for the first time in his
life.
Keeping his grip on the railing tight, Owen twists his body in just the right way until he hears an audible pop.
“There we go.” Owen tosses his head back in relief, letting out a guttural groan before doing the same thing to the other
side. There’s still a dull ache in the small of his back that he’s hoping isn’t anything serious. His arthritis mostly affects
his joints, but occasionally the inflammation can spread to his spine as well.
Owen hears the kettle click, the water bubbling loudly. With his coffee ready, he sneaks back into his room just long enough to grab his shoulder bag and the heating pad from his suitcase, shaking his head and stifling his laughter at
the noises that Kevin is letting out.
Making himself comfortable back on the balcony, coffee in hand as he gets his iPad out, Owen opens Procreate to the last sheet
of flash pieces that he’s been working on for the past month now. He decided to go a little more produce-heavy than he usually
does with his botanical pieces.
He’d been struck by inspiration at Safeway of all places, while out grocery shopping with Abigail. She’d asked him to go grab
cherry tomatoes for a salad. There wasn’t anything particularly special about the fruits—there’d just been something about
the colors of a few of them, the blend of yellow into orange into red in the skin, and it made him wonder if he could get
the color mixture of his inks just right. Abigail found him nearly ten minutes later, just staring at the tomatoes.
Afterward, Owen built a whole flash sheet of fruits and vegetables. Onions, peaches, peppers, strawberries, and mushrooms.
He hadn’t expected the first sheet to be as popular with his clients as it had been.
The fruits were all claimed first, of course. The vegetables had been a tougher sell—not that many people want a clove of garlic permanently inked on their body. But slowly, over the course of about two or three months,
each piece was swiped up.
For a while, Owen’s able to lose himself in his drawing. Despite having to bounce back and forth between the reference photos
he’d taken at the last farmers market he’d gone to, he maintains his focus as he tries to get the shading of an artichoke
just right. The green will already be tough to mix, and he’ll have to be careful with the blooms of red closer to the stem. If he’s not, the ink will blend into an ugly mucky brown on some poor soul’s skin.
Still, with the rhythmic and familiar scratching of his Apple Pencil against the screen protector of his iPad, the gulls cawing
as they fly overhead, the sound of the ship cutting through the waves so far down below, Owen finds himself basking in the
solitude of the moment, what feels like the first real time he’s had to himself for days now.
If only that peace could last.
“Morning, twink!” Kaitlyn’s voice is still tired from sleep. She pads out onto the balcony, her oversized pajama pants pooling
around her feet, covering them entirely. “Oh holy shit! It’s cold!” she yelps, wrapping her arms around herself as she jumps
back into the suite.
“Yeah, I think we’re getting closer to Canada,” Owen says, eyeing the skies like he can discern anything about where the ship
is. “How’d you sleep?”
“Well enough. Abby got drunker than I thought, so she kept showing me baby videos she found online.”
Owen shakes his head, laughing softly. “Sounds like her.”
“She started sobbing at one point, asked me if our baby would be as beautiful as me.” Kaitlyn smiles fondly. “Then she passed
out on my boobs.” She rubs at her collarbone, stretching her neck a few different ways, grimacing. “God, I love her.”
“Your back okay?”
“Just sore,” she tells him. “These mattresses are hard.”
“Just the way I like it.”
“Is the heating pad for personal use?” Kaitlyn asks, eyeing where the cord trails back inside to an outlet. “Or are you hurting
too?”
“It’s nothing,” he tells her. “Probably just the change in temperature.”
At least there’s no thunderstorms in the forecast this week.
Then she lets out a loud gasp, eyes going wide. “We should do a spa day! They’ve got mud baths and saunas and all kinds of stuff. They can do a deep tissue?”
“That’d be fun. Not the massage part, but I’d do anything for a deep soak,” Owen tells her, watching as she pulls out her