Chapter 6 - Lucy
The train smells like metal, old air, and too many people who’ve had longer days than they planned for.
I slip into an empty seat as soon as one opens up and let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. My feet ache, the familiar, dull throb that comes from pretending heels are a reasonable life choice.
I reach into my bag, slide them off, and swap them for the flats I always carry with me. They’re worn and comfortable and a little ugly, but the relief is instant. I tuck the heels away carefully. They were expensive. I’ll need them to last me a long time.
The train jerks forward, screeching as it pulls into the tunnel.
Forty-seven minutes.
That’s how long it takes to get home on a good night.
Tonight feels like it’s going to be longer.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Em: She’s asleep right now.
Em: I gave her the evening meds with food like you said.
Relief loosens something within me.
Me: Thank you.
Me: I’m on my way.
I lean my head back against the plastic seat and close my eyes for a moment.
The version of me from the restaurant, the one with the good lipstick and steady smile, always feels like someone I leave behind when I come down here. Like she belongs to the surface, to warm lighting and linen tablecloths.
She feels polished. Temporary.
I don’t know how long I can afford to keep pretending to be her.
Down here, it’s just me.
The real-life me, with my real-life problems.
Emily, 'Em', is studying medicine.
She decided that when she was sixteen, sitting on a hospital chair with her knees tucked up, while Mom slept under fluorescent lights. She’d looked at me afterward and said, very calmly, I’m going to be a doctor. I won’t let them talk over her anymore.
She wants to specialize in autoimmune diseases.
She doesn’t say it out loud often, but I know why.
Lupus didn’t just take our mom’s energy. It took her independence.
It started quietly, joint pain, fatigue, rashes no one could quite explain. Then the flares came harder. Kidneys. Lungs. Inflammation that moved through her body like it couldn’t decide where to hit next.
Some days, she looks almost like herself.
Other days, her hands swell so badly she can’t hold a mug. Her hips ache until walking becomes a negotiation. The medications help, sometimes, but the side effects are brutal, and the relief never lasts as long as you want it to.
The doctors started using words like complications and overlap last year. Then they stopped calling it just lupus at all.
Now it’s rarer. Harder to treat. Harder to explain.
Harder to promise won’t kill her.
Chicago was supposed to help. It felt like such a blessing, something good finally happening. Emily was accepted to UIC for pre-med with a direct track to Northwestern Feinberg, and Mom was added to the waiting list for the specialist.
Not only could we be in the same city, under the same roof, but things were going to get better.
There’s a specialist here, one of the best. Someone who actually listens.
Someone who talks about options instead of inevitabilities.
There’s a clinical trial she might qualify for if we can get everything lined up in time.
If.
If the timing works.
If her body holds out.
If we can afford the costs, insurance won’t touch. It had taken months to get Mom added to my insurance after she lost her job. Forms. Appeals. Phone calls.
I’d had to check a box that said she couldn’t take care of herself anymore.
I still hated that I’d been the one to do it.
The train lurches to a stop, and I open my eyes as people spill in and out. I pull my coat tighter around myself, clutching my bag and counting the stations silently, grounding myself in something predictable.
When I finally step off, my legs feel heavy. The walk home is familiar: cracked sidewalk, flickering streetlight, the same corner store that always smells faintly like fried food and detergent.
Our building isn’t impressive.
Three stories. Brick. A little crooked if you stare at it too long. But it’s solid. And it’s ours.
Inside, the hallway smells like laundry soap and someone’s dinner. I unlock the door on our first-floor unit quietly.
“Lu?” Em calls out quietly.
“I'm home,” I whisper back.
The apartment is compact but warm. A lamp glows in the living room, casting diffused light over the mismatched furniture we’ve collected over time. A second-hand couch. A coffee table Mom refuses to replace because it still works. Photos taped to the fridge instead of framed.
Em is curled up on the couch in leggings and one of my old sweaters, her immunology textbook open on her lap. She looks exhausted and determined in equal measure.
“She’s still asleep,” she says.
“Good,” I reply, slipping my flats off by the door.
I move toward the bedroom quietly.
Mom is lying on her side, knees drawn in slightly, breathing shallow and carefully. Her face is pale, lines deeper tonight. One hand is clenched in the blanket like she’s holding on to something invisible.
I take a deep breath and go to leave, but then hear her, "Lucy?"
I sit on the edge of the bed and smooth her hair back gently.
“Hey, Mom,” I whisper. “I’m home.”
Relief eases the tension in her face immediately. Then guilt follows, like it always does.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I tried to wait up.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” I say automatically. “I am late tonight.”
She smiles weakly. “You've been working late often.”
The guilt surges that I haven't been here enough. But I know that I cannot be here and make enough money to pay for everything. So I push forward.
“I had a really good meeting,” I tell her. “For a fundraiser. One that matters.”
“That’s good,” she says, eyes closing again. “You deserve good things.”
The words mean more than she knows.
Her breathing steadies and deepens.
I check her pill organizer, make sure tomorrow’s morning meds are ready, then adjust the heating pad at her lower back just enough to ease the tension without waking her.
Years of practice.
I step back out and close the door partway.
Em watches me from the couch.
“She was pretty bad earlier,” she says quietly. “But the meds helped.”
I nod. “Thank you for staying with her.”
“She’s our mom, where else would I be?” Em replies, like that should explain everything.
I sink down beside her, exhaustion finally settling into my bones.
“I swear,” Em says suddenly, her voice fierce, “when I’m done with school, I am going to be the one taking care of you.”
I smile tiredly. “That’s not your job.”
“Yes, it is,” she insists. “You’ve been doing everything forever. When this is all over, it’s my turn.”
I look at her, really look at her. At the resolve in her eyes. The way she’s already stronger than she realizes.
“Finish school,” I say, voice low. “Become the doctor you want to be. That’s all I need.”
“I will,” she says. “I’m doing this for us.”
That almost breaks me.
We sit there together, quiet and close, the apartment humming around us. The comfort we’ve built out of very little. The safety we fight for every day.
This is my real life.
Not the restaurant.
Not the expensive heels.
Not the smiles.
This.
And I would do anything to protect it.
Even if it meant becoming someone else entirely.
I glance at my phone, already thinking about tomorrow, the next payment, the next appointment, the next thing that might go wrong.
The stakes are clear.
They always have been.