Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Ella
“Let’s try your left hand,” Doctor Weaver says gently.
He’s a man in his thirties, with dark circles beneath his eyes that seem too heavy for his age.
Round glasses. A thin gray wool sweater over a checkered brown shirt.
Velvet trousers, a leather bowling bag resting near his feet, and his stethoscope hanging around his neck.
If I didn’t know him, I’d say he was English.
Dad’s digits move in a staccato rhythm, trying to play a silent piano melody and failing to reach the invisible notes.
“I…I had it last week,” Dad says, his voice faltering.
“It was… Ella, tell him. I had it last week.” I offer him a weak smile and write in my notebook.
He did, but his thumb seems unresponsive since last week.
I’m worried about the rest of his hand. Is there a way to stop it?
Autoimmune diseases are cruel, leaving you inside a cloud of confusion, each year offering gifts you did not want, each month stealing skills you thought you would hold on to.
“I… There is no easy way to say this, sir, and…” Doctor Weaver pauses, removes his stethoscope, and pushes his glasses higher on his nose.
“I spoke to other colleagues, and they could not establish a clear diagnosis or identify another person with this exact condition. We have been through this already, but it was never certain that the paralysis would spread to your forearms and hands, especially since it had temporarily stopped progressing these past months.”
“What are you saying?” Dad’s voice shakes. My hand finds his beneath the sheet, and I squeeze twice.
One for I’m here.
Two for I love you.
“I…am I going to be trapped inside a cage?” he asks.
“That’s what you’re telling me? I… At least I could still hold my daughter’s hand, and now…
” His eyes turn glossy, and I look away, wincing, wishing I could carry his pain and his struggle.
I know all too well that my dad never cries in front of anyone.
It is not like him to do so, but life's circumstances stole his armor and gave him a cage instead.
“Sir, the only thing I can think of is to give the trial treatment a chance. I have discussed it with other professionals, and if you are willing to try, we could perhaps attempt electrostimulation and various medications, but it is risky.”
How risky?
I write.
“A lot,” he answers honestly. “I’m talking about interfering with your nervous system and risking total paralysis, blindness, and internal hemorrhaging.”
“I’ll do it,” Dad declares with the last bits of courage he can find. “I’ll do anything. There is nothing worse than what I have now.”
“Are you sure?” Doctor Weaver asks. I press on his hand, asking him too.
“What would you do, Doctor, if you were in my shoes?” Doctor Weaver’s mouth tightens.
“I would try anything.”
“See?” Dad nods, his gaze finding mine. “I’ll do this. We’ll give it a go, honey pie. We have to try. I have to try.” With my heart in my throat, I incline my head, knowing he is right. We are being asked to choose between plague and cholera. Perhaps, against all odds, it will work.
“Dad, who will pay for it? If it is a trial, it must be crazy expensive,” I sign.
“I’ll talk to Mara. Don’t,” he coughs, “don’t worry about it.
” He assures me so easily that I wonder how much he really knows about the way she handles his money.
Will she pay for it, though? I will make sure of it.
And if she does not, I will find a way to pay for it myself. Even if I have to sell a kidney.
We end the appointment by reviewing the treatment details and scheduling the next one. Doctor Weaver leaves us, and silence stretches as I look at my father, chained to his bed, so far from his normal, dynamic self.
“Honey, don’t make that face. It will be all right.”
“How can you be so, so unfazed?” I sign, then cross my arms.
“Because when we’ve got nothing to lose, then everything is just…
bonus.” He exhales, a small smile trembling on his lips.
“Imagine, I could get to roll my own wheelchair. Maybe someday walk you down the aisle. Can you imagine, Ella?” Hope takes his vocal cords hostage and squeezes my heart.
“I won’t end my days in this bed,” he says. “I…I can’t.”
“I know, Dad. I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry, love. It’s not your fault.”
“Still. I wish things were different.”
He sighs. “But they are the way they are. Sometimes…” He pauses.
“Sometimes things are just the way they are supposed to be. It doesn’t mean we don’t have to try and fight it, but everything happens for a reason, honey.
” I sit beside him, holding his hand, praying for his recovery.
And if not, praying for him not to suffer more than he already has.
“Do you want to go on a walk?”
“No, honey. I appreciate you asking, but…” He suppresses a yawn. “I’m beat. I’m going to nap for a little while.”
“Okay, you let me know if you need anything, all right?”
“Go, honey. Go do the things young women do on their weekend.” He says it while adding a bit of warmth to his face, and I try my best to give him a bright smile in return, to warm him up even though everything in me is made of ash right now. I blow a kiss and leave his bedroom.
My shoulders shake as I find my jacket and purse like a ghost set on an automatic path, then get out of the house, hoping the few hours I have to myself will somehow add a little joy to my life. Or something to remind me that I am not about to lose the only person who has ever truly loved me.
What if he—
I shut my eyes hard, sitting on the bus, watching the road unfold, trees alternating with the light piercing between them, catching my skin.
A change of scenery will do me good. To forget, even for an hour, that I could soon lose it all.
Everything happens for a reason, Dad said.
But why do I feel that it is not true? That an unfair prophecy is ruling my life and forcing me to drive with no brakes at full speed toward a cliff?
What is waiting for me behind this mountain of misery I cannot seem to climb without losing pieces of myself?
My commute ends in the city center, and I walk for five minutes before finding a coffee shop I saw once when Mara sent me to buy her coffee while she was shopping.
I enter the cozy shop, dried flowers hanging from the ceiling, wood tables and metal chairs spread through the small space with around eight tables at most. There is a counter with a glass display case showing dozens of pretty treats, from chocolate cake to strawberry cheesecake, and I salivate at the sight of them.
I wish I could afford it. And those fancy lattes.
Hmm. I can almost imagine their taste. In the meantime, green tea will have to do.
I am about to order when a voice echoes from behind me.
Familiar. Low. Commanding. A voice I could recognize anywhere, imprinted in my mind like an iron brand.
This day could not be any more unsettling.
I freeze on the spot, my senses on alert, warning me like a deer caught in the eyes of a lion.
“Miss Brooks, I did not expect to find you here.”
This cannot be real. Tristan Ashford is behind me.
Tristan
Silky onyx hair, falling just below her shoulders, unaware of my presence.
I try to resist it, but her scent, the exact same as yesterday, invades my senses, and I remain behind her, towering over her small height, observing.
There is still someone ordering in front of her while her head angles toward the cake display.
I could have gone into any other coffee shop, but this one was the closest. A whimsical little nonsense of a place that smells like fresh coffee beans from the outside.
What were the odds of finding her here? I flex my hand, the impossible urge to touch her nearly overcoming me.
She fidgets with her fingers as if she can sense my presence unsettling her.
Her body and mind are aware of me. The air in the room sucked through an invisible straw.
And I cannot resist it. It has been a tiring day, and I want–no, I need a place where I can act like myself.
“Miss Brooks, I did not expect to find you here,” I say, lowering my voice just enough to speak above her ear while keeping enough distance not to touch her. Her shoulders tense, and the clock freezes as I wait for her response, the voices and noise around us playing like a film in the background.
Ever so slightly, she glances behind her, as if she did not truly believe in it.
Her brown doe eyes, wide and worried. My world falls off its axis as she claims my name silently, “Tristan.” Her gaze lands on my mouth for a fraction of a second, then flicks away, pink kissing the apples of her cheeks.
“What can I get you?” I ask.
She shakes her head several times, signing, “I’m good. I don’t need…”
“I am sorry if that came out like a question. I meant, what can I order for you, Miss Brooks?”
“E-L-L-A,” she signs, spelling each letter of her name as if I could ever forget it.
Trust me, sweetheart, I’ll remember in every lifetime.
“Please, call me Ella.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I’ll go after you. You must be busy. I wouldn’t want to waste your time.
” How strange. I frown, wondering who on earth made her think her time is worth less than anyone else’s.
“Welcome to Mimosa Coffee Shop. What can I get you?” the woman behind the counter asks.
Twenties, two braids, red hair, freckles, denim overalls, with a hint of antsy energy and candor of someone you would give your keys away to water your plants.
Innocuous, my brain labels, unable to stop categorizing people.
“Ella?” I say out loud, watching her meet my eyes before lowering hers to the floor, nibbling at her lip.
Her fingers tremble as she signs, “A green tea, please. You really don’t have to.”