Chapter 20 #2
He’s sitting on a nearby gurney, a nurse leaning over him, wielding a needle and thread. A nasty, bloody gash cuts across his forehead, yet his expression isn’t one of pain. His eyes, wide and full of worry, are fixed on me, on the IV pole, on the wheelchair. He mouths the words, “Are you okay?”
I manage to lift a shaky hand and give a wobbly so-so gesture.
He gives a small, concerned nod as the nurse puts the first stitch in his forehead.
I wave as they wheel me away, my mind racing.
How did he get that gash? A part of me aches to stay, to talk to him.
Things have been so much easier between us recently.
We talked for hours while we started putting together our Halloween gourds decor in the trailer.
I shared stories from my first year of teaching and reassured him that I don’t think he’s a “trier-outer.” He has a real talent and passion for teaching.
We even planned a new joint lesson—making a quick bread to demonstrate the reaction between baking soda and acid, then decorating it with symbols of our ancestors. It felt normal. It felt good.
Upstairs, the room is quiet and private. Hannah helps me get settled, then goes to find Devin to update her and show her where my room is. I’m alone, my crochet hook back in my hand, when a soft knock sounds at the door.
It’s Zachary. He has a neat row of black stitches and a small clear bandage on his forehead.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “I ran into your friend Hannah in the hall. She told me which room. I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“I should be asking you that,” I say, gesturing to his head. “What happened?”
“TV mount versus forehead. The TV mount won,” he says with a wry smile. He steps inside, his gaze taking in the IV stand and the hospital bed. “What about you?”
This is it. The moment. I can deflect, or I can trust him. I choose trust.
I take a deep breath. “I have lupus.”
The words hang in the air. I watch him, waiting for the shock, the pity, the awkward questions. Instead, he just nods slowly. “Thank you for telling me.”
I blink, thrown. “Why are you thanking me?”
“Because that sentence clearly took a lot of effort to say,” he says gently. “I’m sure it’s hard to share with strangers, but why did you keep it a secret from me?”
“I keep it a secret from everyone at school,” I confess. “A couple of people know I’m in the Chronic Crafters group, but they think it’s for migraines, which isn’t a total lie, the lupus does cause migraines. But I’ve just kept the lupus a secret from all of my coworkers.”
“From Trevor, too?” he asks.
“Especially from Trevor,” I say. It feels like a dam breaking, the relief of finally saying it all aloud. The room is still spinning gently, but for the first time since I stepped into the ER, I feel a sense of calm settle over me.
“Why?” Zachary asks, pulling the visitor’s chair closer to the bed. “Why hide it from him?”
“Because I’m afraid he’ll treat me differently,” I explain.
“Worse than he already does. He’ll start making decisions that he thinks are in my best interest but will just turn my job into a series of accommodations and limitations.
He’ll take away the challenging projects, stop asking for my input.
My job is the one place where I’m just Maya the art teacher, not Maya the lupus patient. I need that.”
He’s quiet for a moment, processing. Then he sits down and reaches for my hand, his fingers warm and steady around mine.
“Okay,” he says. “I get it. And I promise, I will help you in any way you need. I’ll run interference with the kids.
I’ll cover for you if you need a quick break.
I’ll help however I can. But can we agree to one thing? ”
I nod, relief flooding through me.
“No more keeping big things from each other. We’ll work so much better as colleagues, as friends, if everything is out in the open.
” He gives my hand a light squeeze. “I know I’ve offered before, but I could talk to Trevor for you.
Not about this. Just… about being a human being and taking it a bit easier on you. ”
“No,” I say, shaking my head, but with a smile this time. “Thank you, but no. I don’t want you fighting my battles, and I definitely don’t want him paying any more attention to me than he already does.”
“Okay,” he says, accepting it. “Then what do you need right now? In this room, at this moment.”
I look down at my lap, at the tangled mess of orange yarn from my bag. “Honestly? I could really use a hand untangling my yarn.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. He pulls his chair even closer. We sit in a comfortable, companionable silence, our heads bent together, our fingers carefully working through the knots.
When the door opens a while later, it’s Hannah and Devin, their arms laden with vending machine treasures. They both stop in the doorway with grins on their faces, looking from me to Zachary and then down to our hands tangled in yarn.
I clear my throat, fighting my own smile. “Devin, Hannah, this is Zachary. Zachary, these are two of my best friends, Devin and Hannah.”
“We sort of met in the hall,” Hannah gives a polite nod.
“Hey, there. The nurse said visiting hours are almost over,” Devin announces, setting bags of snacks and candy bars on my bedside table. She looks at Zachary. “But she also said you could stay a little longer if you want.”
At my perplexed look, Devin adds, nodding toward Hannah, “She told me he was here.”
I look at him, my heart giving a hopeful little flutter. I don’t want him to leave.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, picking up a tiny bag of pretzels. He joins our makeshift picnic, and as we eat, his hands find the yarn again, helping me smooth out the last of the tangles.