26. Zara
ZARA
Ten days after the kiss Garrett couldn’t escape fast enough from, I’m sitting fully clothed on the exam table and waiting for the rheumatologist to return.
Ten days of Garrett and me pretending he didn’t drive to my apartment and kiss me. Pretending the three times we saw each other—which was never just the two of us alone—I wasn’t disappointed the kiss hadn’t been more than the brushing of lips. That our tongues hadn’t become intimately acquainted.
My brain is still spinning from Dr. Holmes’s barrage of questions about the pain and other symptoms, like if I have abdominal pain or psoriasis or tenderness over my joints. So many questions. Questions I hope result in an answer as to what is causing my body to be bitchy.
The door opens, and the rheumatologist walks into the room. He looks to be in his early sixties, with the remanence of a faded tan. He parks himself on the rolling stool, his face giving nothing away. I could be dying of a terminal disease and wouldn’t know it based on his expression.
I don’t say anything. I just wait for the ax to fall. Or not fall.
“Zara, the results are nonconclusive. You are negative for HLA-B27, so you don’t have Ankylosis Spondylitis.
I didn’t think that would be the case. You said you first felt the pain in your shoulders.
AS focuses on the spine, and there was no sign of it in your X-rays.
There are several other disorders that could be causing the pain, but at this point, we don’t have any definitive answers.
Your symptoms could be the result of rheumatoid arthritis, as Dr. Edwards suggested. It’s too early to know with certainty.”
Wonderful. I drove all the way to Eugene and still don’t have any answers. The only thing I have accomplished from this trip is getting farther behind on my to-do list.
“I recommend increasing the daily dose of the NSAID you’re taking or alternating between NSAIDs, so the pain doesn’t interfere too much with your quality of life.
” He goes on to explain how best to go about this.
“Make a follow-up appointment for six months on your way out, and we’ll check where things are progressing at that point.
We’ll redo the X-rays and blood work to see if anything has changed in the meantime. How does that sound to you?”
“Okay,” I reply, biting back my growing frustration at the grumbling pain and the increasing discomfort from sitting on the exam table. I just want to get off the damn thing.
“Most importantly,” he continues, “listen to your body. If it tells you to rest, then do. If things progress in a way that interferes with your daily activities, you can talk to an occupational therapist for ways to better cope.”
Interferes with my daily activities? An occupational therapist?
Just how much of my life and business is this whatever I’ve got going to disrupt? I shift, desperate to relieve the pain in my back and hips and shoulders. Desperate to return to Picnic & Treats.
I make an appointment with the receptionist and head out to my car. The drive to Eugene and sitting in the medical office increased the stiffness in my body. It’s the same as it was when I got up this morning.
I groan at the idea of driving home to Maple Ridge, but I don’t have a choice.
An hour. That’s how long the drive is. I can survive that. I have to survive it. I’ve got a café and renovations to return to. I can’t take the entire day off. I’ve wasted enough time here as it is.
Rest? That was what Dr. Edwards and Dr. Holmes told me I need to do during those times my body is having a fit. How the hell am I supposed to rest? I have too much to do.
On the drive to Maple Ridge, I focus on the mountains ahead, using them as the marker for my progress instead of the mileage on my odometer. Green fields stretch out in all directions on either side of the highway.
Twenty minutes into the drive, I approach the tail end of what appears to be barely-moving traffic. Fuck. Fuck. Fudgedy-cake. Fuck. There wasn’t construction on the highway during the drive to Eugene, which means there’s been an accident.
If I’m lucky, it isn’t too far ahead, and it won’t take long to pass it.
If I’m lucky—but that doesn’t seem to be the case. The traffic inches along, which is better than us not moving at all. But the longer we inch at a sloth’s pace, the more my previous hope that this won’t take long sinks, and the more I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable.
I haven’t had issues with the car seat until now. The discomfort must be due to the rheumatoid arthritis or whatever is causing my body to fail me.
Megan Thee Stallion comes up next on my playlist. I crank up the volume. If I’m going to be squirming to get comfortable, might as well do it to the beat of “HISS.”
I dance to the song, rapping the lyrics along with her, not caring what the people in the car behind me or beside me think.
I might be seated, but that doesn’t stop me from using my whole body as I dance, swaying, wiggling, sashaying. The traffic is barely moving, so I won’t cause an accident.
I don’t know what it is about Megan Thee Stallion, but the rhythm of her voice is pure magic. The pain in my back and hips eases a few notches, and I don’t feel so inclined to scream in frustration due to the discomfort and delay.
That quickly changes ten minutes later, when I realize the traffic is being rerouted, and the detour will add an additional hour to my drive to Maple Ridge.
By the time I finally arrive at P&T, my body, especially my neck, shoulders, and hips are screaming in pain.
Megan Thee Stallion can only do so much if you’re rerouted and your body hates the idea of that.
Megan Thee Stallion can only do so much if you have to pay attention to the road without moving your body to her beat.
My back throbs. Pain slices through my shoulders. Fire blazes along my arms. I park in my employee spot near the building and rest my forehead on the steering wheel. I close my eyes against the pain, tears welling up.
Get moving. Things always feel a little better once you’re moving, once the stiffness lessens.
I inhale slowly through my nose, attempting to chase away the pain. It doesn’t work, but it does help strengthen my resolve to get my ass in gear.
I tentatively climb out of the driver’s seat and slowly zombie-walk to the building’s back entrance. The fewer people who see me in this state, the fewer questions I’ll have to deflect.
It takes a lifetime and a half before I arrive at my destination. I lift my keys, my shoulders screaming, unlock the door, and step inside. The busy sounds—the chatter and the laughter—from the main part of the café greet me.
That sound is the reason I love what I do. This place, my life’s work, helps bring joy to people. Even if it’s just the simple joy that comes from eating one of our desserts or a tasty meal.
I walk to the staff room and remove the bottle of ibuprofen from my desk drawer. I take two tablets with the remaining water in the glass on my desk. I’d left it there when I rushed out to drive to my appointment.
I lock my purse in the bottom drawer, grab the pair of jeans and a T-shirt I have stashed in my locker, and walk across the hallway to the washroom. I click the lock on the door in place and change out of my clothes.
The stiffness in my joints makes it more challenging to get in and out of my pants. I have to lean against the door to maintain my balance. I mutter a few colorful curses in my head.
Once the jeans are on, I pause for an elongated moment, catching my breath, my head resting on the door. I’ve got this.
I plaster on a smile that hopefully isn’t as fragile as it feels. Joesph’s words from the night we broke up slither into my head, coil around my resolve .
“The woman claims she has chronic pain…the rest of us have to pick up her slack.”
No one knows—other than Garrett—I’m dealing with this. No one suspects I might have rheumatoid arthritis, and I want to keep it that way. For as long as possible.
I don’t want people to think I’m not capable of doing my job, to feel like they need to pick up my “slack.” And I don’t want anyone to know how much I’m struggling.
This, whatever it is, won’t define me.
What I’m doing with P&T, what I’m doing for the community, what I’m doing to help support the women-owned small businesses in the area, those are what define me.
I zombie-walk down the hallway toward the counter at the front of the café. Too bad it isn’t Halloween. Then I could pretend my awkward gait is part of my costume.
I might be able to plaster a smile on my face and fool everyone, but how can I make it look like I’m walking normally?
And how the hell am I supposed to work on the expansion today when my body doesn’t want to cooperate? But if I don’t work on it, Troy’s crew will have to do it, and that will put everyone behind schedule and add to my expenses. That’s why I had opted to do some of it myself.
Anastasia and Clara are busy serving customers at the counter. I wave and smile at the three regulars crowding the countertop to place their orders. They return the smile and wave, like members of the family they’ve become. The P&T family.
My smile widens at how important every member of this family is to me. They are what gets me out of bed in the morning when my body is temporarily uncooperative. Their smiles brighten my days, even when I’m not feeling anywhere close to a hundred percent.
Dr. Edwards and Dr. Holmes told me I need to rest whenever my body demands it. I was technically resting on the drive to Maple Ridge, and that didn’t seem to help my hips or back or knees in the slightest. They’re still grouchy. Still pissed at being forced to endure the ride.
Anastasia turns and meets my gaze. “Hey, you’re back. ”
“I just got here. And now I’m going next door to work on the expansion. Do you two need anything?”
“No, we should be good for now. Have fun.”
I chuckle. She makes it sound like I’m spending my afternoon at Disneyland. “Will do.”
I head for the kitchen and check how things are going with Jess and Keshia.
“We’re good, other than we’re getting low on the pumpkin curry,” Keshia tells me. “It’s been extremely popular today.”
“Wow, that’s great. Guess word got out I added it to the rotating menu last week. I’ll make more before I go next door.” I grab the ingredients and start chopping the vegetables and preparing the food. My body quickly gets into the flow, my motor memory kicking in.
My hips sway to Keshia’s show-tune playlist. My movements become less jerky, less robotic as one song merges into the next.
The pain and stiffness don’t entirely diminish, but they do eventually become less crippling. It doesn’t hurt that I’m doing something I love. Cooking is my source of comfort, the thing that relaxes me—whether I’m at home or at Picnic & Treats.
With the curry simmering on the stove, I go next door.
I pick up the sledgehammer—my earbuds secure in my ears, my helmet and goggles on—and I swing at what remains of the counter. The sisters who bought the business took the glass shelves, so I just need to remove what’s left.
My body falls into the satisfying rhythm of swinging the sledgehammer in time to Aalia singing “Do It to Me.”
As she sings of golden kisses, my thoughts drift to Garrett and the kiss from ten days ago.
The way his lips moved against mine…and mine shamelessly, soundlessly begged for more.
The way my body was left humming for the rest of the night, so close to getting what it wanted. So far from getting what it needed.
No, no, no. Stop thinking about the kiss.
Thinking about it won’t get me anywhere. It won’t conjure Garrett out of the blue. It won’t make him finally see what’s in front of him .
It won’t help me move on from my stupid, stupid, stupid unrequited feelings for my best friend.