Chapter Eighteen Vanya
By the time I drop Ashley at the airport for her flight, I’m ready to collapse from exhaustion. We stayed up every night to catch up. I’m reminded that I’m no longer in my twenties. Going to work early and then hanging out with Ashley has taken its toll. But I loved every minute.
The boudoir session turned out to be a fun highlight of the long weekend. We were photographed privately but knowing she was in another room of the studio, doing her own photoshoot, lessened my nervous self-consciousness.
There was something uniquely sensual about dressing up for myself, moving my body freely, and having pictures taken that I know are only for my eyes. Well, apart from Linda, my photographer. She guided my poses gently at first but after a few minutes, she simply offered encouragement. I moved on that studio’s bed more smoothly than I’ve ever moved in front of a lover.
Speaking of bed, I can’t wait to plop into mine for a quick afternoon nap. Unfortunately, before I can give in to fatigue, my phone alerts me to the third voicemail from my mother.
I can guess it’s similar to the other two messages. The holidays are approaching. She and my stepfather expect me to join them in Mexico for Christmas. It’s their annual trip from mid-December till the New Year. I’ve managed to skip half the time.
This year is definitely a skipping year.
“Hello, Vanya. I’m ordering some bathing suits and there’s a very flattering high cut you should consider,” my mother says instead of answering with a hello. “It has a special construction control top to smooth out your side and stomach. I’ll send you a link.”
I despise control top stomach suckers. They feel like a vise restricting lung capacity. Full-figured women deserve the right to oxygen too, for fuck’s sake. But I’ve been my mother’s ugly duckling project for as long as I can remember, so being told I need to get the right kind of swimsuit—one that will pull, hide, and flatten—is no surprise.
It has taken a lot of self-reflection and work to appreciate my body for its strength instead of criticizing it for not being pageant-perfect. This body gets me through long days and tough workouts. I care for people in a very physically demanding job. And after that boudoir photoshoot, I can attest to my ability to rock a lace bustier.
Unfortunately, adolescent insecurities can creep up on a woman, even after she’s turned thirty.
“Sorry, Mom, I can’t go. I’m swamped at work.”
She makes a dramatic sigh of epic parental exasperation. “You don’t have to stay the full two weeks, Vanya. Surely you can fly in for a few days. If Andrew can take the time off, you can, too.”
The unspoken subtext is that my stepfather is an important surgeon in a prestigious hospital. How could I possibly be more essential to the medical industry? I’m not, but I don’t think she wants to hear the real reasons. She never celebrated the holiday when I was a kid. But now that she’s worked the season into her @ZaraGlow brand, I’m expected to be a prop. A control-topped, salad-eating, forced-smile prop.
Besides, my days off will be an opportunity to hunker down and rest—an indulgence I usually cannot afford with my typical schedule. I could also catch up on research and writing.
“It isn’t possible with my new job.”
As if on cue, my phone beeps to indicate a call coming through.
“That’s work calling right now,” I say hurriedly, although I haven’t yet checked who is calling. “Have a great trip! Can’t wait to see the pictures!”
“You need to be on Instagram for—”
I hang up, pretending not to hear her final reprimand.
“Hello?”
“Vanya, hi.” I check my phone to confirm that it’s Kyle because the voice sounds like he’s partly underwater. “I need a favor.”
“You sound terrible.”
“I feel worse than terrible.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Kyle. Do you need me to take on your appointments for a few days?”
“I don’t have anything booked tomorrow.”
“OK, that’s good. So…” The word lingers as I wait for him to clarify.
“I don’t have anything booked because I’m supposed to be in Chicago with Jeremy! It’s just for one day because there’s no other time that lines up with a break in their game schedule and Dr. Leroi’s availability to do the tests.”
Chicago. The tests. The tests that I pushed for him to book.
“Can’t someone from the Mavericks take him?”
“Dr. Leroi is not going to consult with a trainer . It’s already a favor to do the new dynamic ultrasound on the same day as the MRI contrast. And his 3D gait analysis is unprecedented. Jeremy needs one of his doctors by his side and, I’m sorry to say, that means you. I haven’t been hit with a flu this bad in years.”
“I have patients tomorrow,” I say weakly, knowing we have physical therapists at the center equipped to take on my run-of-the-mill appointments.
“Sabrina is working on moving them and booking you a flight. I’m sorry for the short notice, Vanya, but we both know Jeremy needs some answers. And you do, too. He’s the first EDS patient with access to the best imaging technology in the country.”
He’s right. I can’t pass this up. Targeting Jeremy as a patient was a way for me to enhance my understanding of diagnosis and treatment. If it wasn’t for my unprecedented attraction to him, Chicago would be an ideal opportunity for research.
“Fine. I’ll do it. What are the travel details?”
“They’ll be in your mailbox in the next hour.”
Sure enough, when I check my email later, the early morning itinerary taunts me with the promise of a whole day with Jeremy. Or maybe this is a warning that I shouldn’t spend a whole day with Jeremy? I am a pathetic bundle of contradictions.
I spend the rest of the night trying to catch up on sleep, but it eludes me. The thought of going to Chicago with him sends electricity through my veins, turning every cell in my body into a live wire. But are these musings meant to excite or repel me? Who the hell knows anymore?
The next day, as I slide into the back seat of the shared airport ride that Kyle arranged, it is apparent that Jeremy did not get much sleep either. His hair is on end and his eyes droopy. If burying himself in his hoodie is any indication, he looks ready to dive into a pile of blankets.
“It’s six in the morning, Vanya. How are you looking so good?” he asks grumpily.
“This isn’t good. This is awake. Did you get home late last night?”
“Nah. I just can’t sleep before two in the morning most nights.”
“Really?”
“Kyle says it’s part of my condition.”
“That’s likely. Your body doesn’t wind down like most people.”
He looks at me sideways but says nothing in response. We continue in silence throughout the drive. The check-in process and plane boarding happen with minimal interaction. Jeremy attempts anonymity as he navigates the airport, deflecting attention from curious eyes. Subdued Jeremy is a good thing. I don’t miss his playful familiarity at all.
Keep telling yourself that, Vanya.
It’s only when we’re sitting side by side at the front of the plane that I notice Jeremy isn’t subdued. He’s downright tense.
“Are you OK? Does your hip hurt?”
“Not more than usual,” he mutters while looking out the window.
“It will be good to get answers,” I say gently.
“Will it, though?” he asks sharply, turning to me. I’m struck by his features which look more drained than when he’s in the midst of physical exertion.
“You’re worried about the tests results.” His lowered gaze confirms that me stating the obvious helps no one. “Jeremy, knowledge is power. There isn’t a lot of research on this condition. Certainly nothing that relates to a prime athlete.”
“Great. I’ll be a guinea pig.”
“No. Even if you’re the first athlete with EDS to undergo these tests, there’s nothing experimental about it. Dr. Leroi’s protocols and methods are proven in the medical community. As your doctor, I would never expose you to anything dangerous.”
He nods and exhales, both motions lessening the tension in his shoulders.
“You’ll be there with me the whole time?”
“Absolutely.”
“And when the results are in.” His words are thick and troubled. Like the word results is achingly difficult to say.
“There won’t be a full report today, but yes, of course. Both Kyle and I will work through the findings with you. It’s going to be OK, Jeremy.”
To emphasize my point, I wrap a hand around his forearm. He looks down where we’re joined, which makes me self-conscious about physically comforting him. I pull away. He places a hand over mine, stalling our separation. Eyes locked to mine, Jeremy speaks with unexpected sincerity.
“Thank you for stepping in today. You didn’t have to, but I’m grateful. I’m sorry I’ve been a pushy jerk, forcing you to talk about that night.” He pauses and swallows with difficulty. “You want to forget what happened, and I should respect your choice.”
“Tha-thank you,” I stutter.
He releases me and sinks back into his chair with his eyes closed. I’m mesmerized by thick lashes sitting on smooth skin, by lips pressed in a hard line, by the pristine profile of a man I’m finding harder and harder to dismiss as simply a patient.
Still, I welcome his words of gratitude and respect. I’m his doctor. Anything else that happened between us should be erased from memory.
Good luck with that.