32. Zara
ZARA
I wake up Monday morning to not only the usual aches that hijack my body, but to a pain in my left eye, like something is jabbing at it. Tears flow down my face and my vision is slightly blurry.
I groan, wishing I didn’t have to get up yet, but I have a meeting with Troy and Mr. Cartwright in an hour, to discuss the damage to Picnic & Treats. A burst pipe in the ceiling caused Saturday’s unexpected rainstorm.
I stumble out of bed, exhaustion a rusty iron armor covering me from head to toe.
I repeat in my head several times what has become my daily morning mantra: Just get moving. The stiffness will be gone in no time.
I zombie-walk to my closet and flick on the light. A sudden pain stabs my eye with a red-hot needle, and I groan again, louder this time, my hand flying to my face.
Shit.
I loosely cover my eye with my hand. The pain decreases a little but still holds on tight.
I grab my clothes and slowly walk to the bedroom door, where I pick up a pair of stylish sunglasses from my dresser. Garrett once joked they make me look like a sexy librarian spy. I’ll happily take boring old nerdy professor if they stop the pain.
I slip them on and head for the bathroom.
Bracing for the intense pain, I flick on the light and slide the sunglasses down my nose. Contrary to how it feels, I don’t have a knife sticking out of my eye, but it is red and watery. Great. Conjunctivitis.
Keshia had pink eye last year while on vacation, and it went away on its own. I’ll just have to wear the sunglasses in the meantime.
I take my painkiller, have a shower—careful not to further irritate my eye—and head out to Picnic & Treats.
Because I don’t know what kind of damage we’re dealing with and if it’s okay to have the café open until it’s fixed, Picnic & Treats is temporarily closed.
That means I’m the only person here when I enter through the alley door.
Usually, Keshia and someone else would be in the kitchen, chopping onions, carrots, and whatever else I need for the day.
Lord , please tell me P&T won’t be closed for long.
My business insurance covers any losses the unexpected damage might incur, but it won’t make up for lost profits. And I need to pay my employees who were scheduled to work the missed shifts. It’s not their fault we might have to be closed for several days.
I turn on the coffee maker and brew myself a latte. Then, with my travel mug in hand, I shuffle through the café, assessing the damage once more. The ceiling is stained from the water, but I still have a ceiling. It didn’t collapse.
I could really go for one of Garrett’s stress-reducing kisses right now. But between him catching up with his writing, because he was away this past weekend, and my current pink-eye status, kissing him is out of the question. For now.
The bell above the door jingles, alerting me Troy is here. He walks through the doorway with Mr. Cartwright following behind.
“Thanks for coming,” I tell them and brace for the wise-ass joke about why I’m wearing my sunglasses inside. To my relief, neither man comments on them. I don’t feel like discussing my pink eye with anyone, much less Garrett’s brother.
We spend the next hour with Troy inspecting the café and discussing what needs to be done, since the water damage could lead to mold. He’s then on his phone, contacting the company that will perform its magic to dry out the ceiling.
Troy tells me it’s going to take a week to clean this up, which means the café will be closed for way too long.
By the time we’re finished, my head is spinning with details, the early-morning fog crowding my brain again.
I see the men out, refill my travel mug, and visit the only person I want to talk to right now.
Mama.
I’m not the only person who has descended on her. Samuel’s Lexus is in the driveway. I park next to it and walk up the path to the house.
I open the door, without bothering to knock first. “Hey, Mama. Samuel?” I call out in case I’m interrupting a private conversation.
“We’re in the kitchen,” Mama replies.
I kick off my sneakers but keep my sunglasses on and walk down the hallway to join them.
Mama and Samuel are sitting at the kitchen table, coffee mugs in front of them.
Sunlight reflects off the white walls and granite counters.
These are the same white counters where I spent many hours during my teens, cooking with Mama by my side.
“Didn’t expect to see you today, honey. Thought you’d be at work.” Mama’s warm smile is the one that always made things seem better when I was a kid. Even now, it helps a little.
“Picnic & Treats is closed for the next few days while the mess from the leak is dealt with.” I’d told them about it yesterday during our weekly family dinner.
“So I’m just spending the day working on plans for the grand reopening.
And I’m contacting some women-owned small businesses in the area about possible partnerships with P&T. ”
“What’s with the sunglasses?” Samuel pushes imaginary glasses up his nose.
I shrug and head for my chair at the table. “It’s nothing. Just a case of pink eye.”
“Have you seen Alyssa ’bout it?” The corners of his mouth twitch. “I mean, Dr. Cole?”
I shake my head and pull out my chair next to his. “Figured it would go away on its own.” I lower my ass onto the chair, my body groaning at the effort.
“If it’s viral, sure. But not if it’s bacterial. Then you’ll need antibiotic drops.” He turns toward me and makes a come-here gesture with his finger. “Lemme have a look.”
A smug smile tugs on my lips. “Thought you weren’t supposed to diagnose and treat family.”
“I’m just gonna take a look. And then you’re gonna call Dr. Cole to have her diagnose and possibly treat it.” He gives me the big-brother look that warns me he won’t drop this until I do as he tells me.
I snort out a short laugh. “And if I don’t? Are you gonna hold me upside down by my feet like when we were kids?”
He raises his eyebrow, a rumble of a chuckle rolling from him. “If that’s what it takes.”
Mama laughs, amusement dancing in her eyes. “You two never change. You’re just lucky, Zara, Jerome isn’t home to gang up on you with Samuel.”
“Nah. You’d save me like you always did when I was a kid. Because I’m your favorite.” I flash Samuel another smug look, and he chuckles again, a little louder this time.
“I have no favorites,” Mom diplomatically points out.
“You’re just saying that so you don’t hurt my poor brother’s feelings.” I would wink at him, but that would involve taking off these sunglasses, and I’m not willing to risk the pain from the bright sunlight just yet.
“Nice attempt at deflecting,” Samuel says, unfolding from his chair. “But I would feel better if you’d just let me see your eye.” The humor has vacated his expression. I won’t get my way on this.
I lower the sunglasses and wince at the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. Tears well in my left eye and stream down my face, which only seems to make the other eye well up too, not wanting to miss out on the fun.
Samuel lifts my chin and inspects the eye. “That’s not pink eye.” The declaration is followed by a series of questions. How have I been feeling lately? Then he questions me about my stress levels. And if any other part of me hurts ?
He doesn’t tell me what he’s fishing for, but I can tell from his concerned frown whatever he suspects is going on isn’t good.
He removes his phone from his jeans and taps away at the screen.
“Hey, Michelle. It’s Samuel Thompson.” He chuckles at whatever the other person said, not having bothered with speakerphone. “I do remember that…”
His expression becomes serious once more. “Is there a chance you can slip my sister in to see you later today?” He lists the symptoms related to my eye, followed by my answers to his questions. “That’s what I’m thinking too. Let me check with her…”
He lowers the phone. “Has Dr. Cole done any blood work, X-rays, or anything else to figure out what’s causing the pain?”
“I haven’t seen her recently about it. But her locum, Dr. William Edwards, set up a referral for me to talk to a rheumatologist in Eugene. The results were inconclusive. Dr. Holmes said it might be early stages of rheumatoid arthritis, and he would revisit things in six months.”
Mama sends me a look that says, Why am I only hearing about this now?
I hope my answering glance is something along the lines of, Whoops. Sorry. Didn’t want to worry you.
Samuel relays the info to the person on the other end of the line. They talk for another moment or two and then end the call.
“Dr. Michelle Isaacs can see you at two thirty. She’s an ophthalmologist in Portland.” He turns to Mama. “Can you drive Zar? I’m on shift this afternoon.”
“I can. What’s going on?” She splits her worried gaze between us.
“It’s possible she has uveitis.”
Mama’s frown deepens, echoing my sentiments. “What is that?”
“It’s the inflammation of the eye that is usually linked to several other medical conditions.
If it’s what I think it is, it can’t be ignored.
It will need to be treated with corticosteroid eye drops and eye-dilating drops for about a week.
” He ignores my groan. I hate anything that involves putting things in my eyes.
“And because uveitis is a warning symptom for more serious issues in the body, Dr. Cole will want to investigate what else is going on with your chronic pain. ”
“What else is going on?” I parrot, my mind spinning with everything he’s telling me. “So it might not be rheumatoid arthritis?”
“It could be. Both are immunological disorders. Uveitis is also a symptom of other conditions, like psoriatic arthritis, ankylosing spondylitis, as well as systemic lupus, herpes, syphilis, Crohn’s disease, tuberculosis.”
Lord Almighty , I’m sorry I asked. “Well, I definitely don’t have herpes or syphilis. And the rheumatologist said I don’t have the ankylosis one.”
“That narrows things down a little bit. Book an appointment with Dr. Cole. Let her know you possibly have uveitis and you’re seeing…never mind, lemme do it.” He taps on his phone again.
“Hey, you can’t book an appointment for me.” I grab for his mobile, only for him to turn away from me. “I haven’t given the clinic permission for you to do that.”
He ignores me. I would roll my eyes if I could, but that would hurt.
“Hey, Alyssa.” His voice goes soft, like he’s seducing her, and I barely keep from rolling my eyes.
I would give him a hard time about it when he gets off the phone, but I’m suddenly not in the mood to tease him.
He tells her everything that’s going on and asks if she can fit me into her schedule in the next day or two. He then ends the call. “You have an appointment Wednesday morning at eleven a.m.”
By the time Mama drops me off at home with my prescription for two different eye drops, my mind is churning over everything that has happened since I woke up this morning. The news that P&T will be closed for the week while the water leak is dealt with. The diagnosis of uveitis.
The possibility the eye inflammation is linked to the chronic pain.
The possibility it has nothing to do with that, and something else is attacking my body.
And on top of all that, the eye drops have to be applied hourly .
Lord , I really hate life right now.
I grab a glass of water and swallow down two ibuprofen tablets. My body is screaming from the drive home from Portland, and I don’t have the energy to do much. And that includes applying the eyedrops. But I don’t have a choice in that department if I want my eye to get better.
So, I suck it up and head for the bathroom. A stream of colorful cusses spill from my mouth as I attempt to apply the hateful medications—drop-by-missed-drop—to my eyes. I try to remind myself they’ll make things better, but my inner cheerleader has called it a day.
After the torturous session is thankfully finished, I heat up the leftover jambalaya in the fridge and curl up in front of the TV. I keep on my sunglasses and search for something I’m in the mood to watch.
What I want is to get back to the romance I was reading, but that isn’t an option right now. Not until my eye feels better.
I pull up Game of Thrones , which I’m currently rewatching, and try to eat my dinner even though I’m not all that hungry.
I’ve been half paying attention to the show for the past hour, squirming to get comfy, my food half-finished, when my phone pings on the coffee table with a text.
Garrett: I’m downstairs. Is now a good time?