Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Zachary
The drive home is a dark, cold blur. I can still smell the sterile scent of the hospital clinging to my clothes.
I pull into the parking lot of our apartment building and sit for a full minute, the engine running, unable to turn the key.
The lights in the lot illuminate the passenger seat, which seems impossibly empty now, a gaping hole where Maya should be.
I finally cut the engine and the sudden, heavy silence rushes in.
I walk into the building going straight to Maya’s apartment to take care of Frida like I had promised.
The apartment is quiet, a cruel contrast to the chaos I just left.
Frida, Maya’s long, sleek ferret, slithers out from beneath the blanket fort on the rug, making a soft, insistent sound.
She doesn't understand. She weaves around my ankles, sniffing my shoes, looking for Maya’s familiar scent, then tugging playfully at the cuff of my pants, demanding attention and explanation for her missing human.
“She’s okay, Frida. Just... resting,” I whisper, scooping her up so her long body drapes over my forearm.
I rub her spine, feeling the smooth, musky velvet of her fur, but the lie feels hollow even to the animal.
She looks at me with those dark, bead-like eyes, sensing the anxiety I tried to scrub off in the emergency room.
I close my eyes and take a deep, centering breath before moving to action. Don’t just stand here, stuff to do.
First, the ferret. I gently place her back on the floor and move to the kitchen.
I unlatch her food container and place her specialized, high-protein kibble in the ceramic dish, the sound of the hard pellets hitting the bowl startlingly loud in the silence.
Ferrets are obligate carnivores, and their diet is serious business, one of the few things Maya is absolutely meticulous about. Frida sniffs the bowl, then dives in.
While she’s munching, I pick up her water bowl, clean it out and refill it, then place it next to her food. Then I lean against the wall and watch her eat, the quick, focused motions of her head and body a temporary grounding sight. It’s a simple, achievable task, a win.
If I was at the hospital, I could hold Maya’s hand, try to distract her, or even fetch a cup of hot water to make her the Earl Grey tea she loves.
Here, I’m just watching a ferret eat, completely useless.
The self-reproach starts to bloom in my mind, a toxic flower.
I should have pressed her harder to see her rheumatologist days ago.
I saw the fatigue in her eyes, the way she winced when she reached for a coffee mug in the teacher’s lounge at school.
I let her make thirty little pots and one big one in one night because she was so excited about it and insisted she could.
She’s stubborn, Zachary, you know this, but you still should have tried harder.
Next, the shower. When Frida’s done, I grab one of her blankets, scoop her up and walk across the hall to my own apartment.
After placing the ferret and her blanket on the couch, I head to the bathroom, strip off the clothes I put on for a fun, promised double date that never happened.
They feel soiled, tainted by the panic and the antiseptic smell.
The hot water hits my back, scalding at first, then settling into a constant, heavy rain.
I stand under it for a long time, scrubbing my skin, trying to wash off the fear that still tastes metallic in the back of my throat.
I scrub my hair, my face, my arms, trying to strip away the helplessness.
I failed. I wasn’t even there when she collapsed.
Thank God Tim happened to be there, but I’m her partner, her advocate, and I wasn’t even there to keep her safe.
Maybe driving is too much stress for her.
If I had been driving instead of her, would she have stilled passed out?
The internal monologue and berating are relentless; the warm spray of the shower does nothing to ease the tension in my body.
I emerge from the bathroom, towel wrapped around my waist, feeling marginally cleaner but infinitely more exhausted.
I put on an old pair of sweatpants and a soft, worn, gray T-shirt—clothes that feel like comfort and safety.
My apartment is unbearably quiet, even though I brought Frida over with me.
She’s settled onto the couch, snuggled in her blanket, her chin resting on the cushion, waiting.
I follow her lead, collapsing onto the opposite end, pulling a heavy, knitted throw over my legs.
The fatigue is immense, a physical weight pinning me to the cushions.
My phone vibrates almost immediately. It’s Tim.
I pick up the phone, my fingers fumbling with the screen. It’s a simple, concerned text: You good, man?
I don't bother texting back. I hit the call button. He answers on the first ring, his voice low and instantly familiar, a constancy I desperately need right now.
“Hey,” I manage. My voice sounds rougher than I expect, worn down by the anxiety.
“Hey, yourself. You sound wrecked. Did you just get home?” Tim asks.
“Kinda. Stopped by Maya’s first to take care of Frida. Now I’m parked on my couch.” I pause, the silence stretching. “I don't know what I'm doing, Tim. I don't know how to do this part.”
Tim’s breathing is steady on the line. “You did great, Zach. Maya is where she needs to be to get help. That’s the most important thing. Now, what do you mean, ‘this part?’”
“This part where I'm not doing anything,” I say, the words spilling out, urgent and desperate.
“Where I'm here, and she's there, and I just keep picturing her face when she realized her secret was out. The painting, the reporters. It was like watching someone drown right in front of you, and all you can do is stand on the shore. I saw the relief of her being unconscious, the temporary peace, and then the utter devastation when she realized her privacy was gone. It was too much for her sick body to handle.” I rub my forehead, the tension blooming behind my eyes. “I know how to support her. I know what she needs when she's sick: quiet, rest, patience, me being the wall she can lean on. I can do the physical labor of caregiving. But I don't know how to support myself when she’s like this. I’m scared, man. I’m utterly terrified of what the lupus can do, and what this level of stress will do to her recovery. All I want is to be back in the hospital with her, because at least then I can do things for her. At least then I feel useful.”
The truth feels raw, but necessary. Tim is my best friend. His sister, Eva, has multiple sclerosis, so he truly understands the tightrope walk of loving someone with a chronic illness, the constant, low-grade fear of the unknown future.
“You're allowed to be scared, Zach. You're human,” Tim says, his voice soft but firm, cutting through my self-pity. “Look, she’s in the best place right now. She’s being rehydrated, she’s being watched.
The hospital is doing the heavy lifting.
Your job right now is damage control and self-preservation.
You can't fill her cup if yours is empty.”
“Damage control,” I repeat the phrase, the practical next step pulling me back from the emotional brink. “Yeah. The damn reporters. The social media garbage fire. That's the one thing I can't do from the hospital, so that's what I need to focus on.”
“Exactly,” Tim agrees, sounding like a field commander.
“Think about it. She’s going to be there for at least a day, maybe two.
When she gets out, she’s going to be more overwhelmed.
She’s already devastated that her privacy is gone.
You need to turn off the water cannon before she walks out of the hospital and has to deal with the public fallout, including her work.
That’s going to be the next wave of stress. ”
Tim’s always been good at strategy, approaching crises like they’re solvable puzzles. “What do you suggest?” I ask, already trying to make a mental list, a sudden rush of adrenaline replacing the immense fatigue.
“Her mother,” he says instantly. “This whole media blow up was her doing, and you told me Maya tries to avoid confrontations with her as much as possible. Do you have her number? Maybe now is the time to intercept. Explain to her mother exactly what the cost of this ‘advocacy’ is right now. What it’s costing Maya.
Get her to call off the media or at least issue a stern ‘no comment’ statement until Maya’s back on her feet and can decide how to handle it. ”
The idea clicks into place, a sudden, bright goal in the dark landscape of my anxiety. Something I can do.
“God, yes. That’s brilliant,” I say, the first genuine rush of focused energy I’ve felt since Tim called me in a panic while I was driving to meet them all at the pizza place.
“I need to find her contact. I think Maya’s friend Flick has her mother’s number in case of emergency. I’ll text her now. Hang on a sec.”
I quickly draft a text to Flick, who is likely long asleep, but I know she’ll answer.
Maya’s told me about their Chronic Pain Crafters meetings and the message group they have.
They’re always there for each other, ready to help in any way they can.
That support has gotten Maya through a lot of hard times.
Not matter what time of the day or night.
“Hey, before you go,” I say, pulling the phone back to my ear. “It was really nice meeting Patty. Even with all the chaos. She handled that whole scene like a champ. She seems to make you really happy.”