Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Zachary
I set my feet up on the coffee table in front of my couch, my computer on my lap.
Frida lies next to me in a nest of blankets, snoozing like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
I’ve been keeping her over at my apartment so Maya only has to focus on taking care of herself and spending time with her mom.
Even though Maya loves Frida, she tends to get into things she shouldn’t, like the tie dye kit on the day Maya and I realized we’re neighbors.
I smile at the memory and run a gentle hand down Frida’s furry back.
I’m supposed to be lesson planning for next week, but I’m finding it hard to focus knowing Maya’s visit with her mom is coming to an end.
I haven’t seen much of Maya in the last two days, and that’s a good thing.
A magnificent thing, really. She and her mother—Dahlia, as I’m now encouraged to call her—have been deep in the trenches of quality time, creativity, and intense, necessary conversation.
I’ve caught glimpses of them as I’ve popped into Maya’s apartment to check on her and make sure her kitchen is stocked: once, sitting on the balcony, Maya sketching furiously in a large book while her mother discussed color theory with the kind of focused intensity she usually reserves for museum acquisition deals; another time, huddled over the kitchen table, surrounded by tubes of paint and glittering jars of mica powder.
I know Maya needs this. She needs to feel validated, to feel seen, and to finally untangle that knot of anger and love that has bound them together for years.
They’ve been communicating in a way they never have before, talking through art and illness and mutual processing.
My role has been to provide logistical support—bringing tea, discreetly refilling the water carafe, bringing Frida over for play and snuggles—and then, mostly, to disappear and let them have uninterrupted time together.
We‘ve exchanged a few texts: ‘She actually complimented my palette choice. I think I need to sit down.’ (Maya) ‘It’s a beautiful concept, Zachary. Thank you for the push. And for the food.’ (Dahlia) ‘Holding space for you both. LMK if you need me to bring back-up tea.’ (Me)
Knowing she’s engrossed, distracted, and healing in ways that transcend the physical has allowed me to breathe, too. The intense, hyper-vigilant anxiety I carried through the hospital stay is finally starting to loosen its grip. I’ve needed distraction, and thankfully Tim delivered.
He came back to town, and we capitalized on the beautiful New Hampshire weather.
We spent yesterday morning hiking the coast at Odiorne State Park, the smell of salt and spruce a welcome, clean counterpoint to the hospital air.
He crashed on my sofa for the night and this morning, we punished ourselves with a hard climbing session at the gym.
My forearms and hands are still stinging with the kind of delightful ache that comes from a good workout.
It was more than just physical relief, though.
Tim opened up. As we sat cooling down in the car, he started talking, almost shyly, about Patty—the woman he’s been seeing.
He’s usually so reserved about his relationships, quick to deflect with a joke.
But this time, he talked about her job, her quick wit, and the way she makes him feel ‘less like an anxious, apple farmer and more like a human being.’ He got that goofy, slightly bashful look on his face, the kind that betrays genuine affection. I can tell he really, truly likes her.
I haven’t just been hiking and climbing, either.
I’ve actually been productive. The intense focus the anxiety provided, when properly channeled, helped me complete the final draft of the combo lesson guide for the elementary science curriculum.
It’s been weeks in the making, but I finished it this morning, tweaking the last few illustrations and writing the explanatory captions for the teachers.
And while doing it, while diving into the logic and flow of the lessons, I realized something important: how much I genuinely love teaching.
Not just the idea of it, or the theory, but the actual crafting of the material, anticipating the ‘a-ha!’ moment for the kids, making complex concepts accessible.
It’s creative and structured, ticking all my best personality boxes.
That realization helps. It settles some of the deep-seated worries I’ve had lately—the worries about whether I’m actually cut out for this profession.
I now know that I am. I love it. The worry is quieted.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me out of the quiet satisfaction of the moment. I pull it out. It’s Maya.
Maya: She’s gone. Airport drop-off achieved. Mission successful. Can you please come over and bring Frida? I need to see her furry face and yours.
My heart gives a sudden, joyful lurch. Of course.
Me: On my way. Frida is ecstatic.
I pick up the sleepy ferret and we head over.
When I knock, the door opens instantly. Maya is standing there, leaning against the frame, wearing the soft cotton pajamas she loves.
She looks pale, and her exhaustion is evident in the shadows under her eyes, but she is smiling—a real, genuine, bone-deep smile.
She looks happy, lighter than she has in months.
“Zachary,” she breathes, and the sound of my name on her lips is its own kind of homecoming.
Frida wiggles in my arms when she sees Maya and practically jumps into her arms, making the unique “dooking” sound ferrets make when they’re excited. Maya laughs and snuggles Frida into her chest.
“Hey,” I say, stepping in and pulling the door shut behind me. I don’t rush to hug her; I know she's still tender and prone to fatigue. I just let my gaze settle on her, taking in the reality of her being right here, healthy, and alert. “How are you? Really?”
“Exhausted. But free,” she says, pushing herself off the frame. “And thankful. Come sit down.”
She leads me into the living room. It still smells vaguely of paint and turpentine, the remnants of Maya and her mom’s creativity. As I move toward the sofa, I notice a small, rectangular package wrapped in brown paper tied with a simple twine bow resting in the center of the cushions.
“What’s this?” I ask, looking at her, then back at the package.
“It’s for you,” she says, and gestures toward the couch. “Sit.”
I sit down and pick up the package, its weight surprisingly substantial. “Maya, you were just in the hospital. You don’t need to be giving me gifts,” I say, turning the package over in my hands.
She takes the space right next to me, her hip pressing gently into mine—a small, intimate contact I crave. She sets Frida down on the couch and the ferret, energized by her earlier nap, scampers away to her basket of toys.
“Open it,” she prompts, ignoring my protest. “It’s important.”
I peel back the paper carefully, revealing a stack of folded cotton T-shirts.
The fabric is soft, almost worn-in. I lift the top one.
It’s a dark forest green. Across the chest, printed in crisp white ink, is a detailed illustration of an avocado pit, cracked open to show the seed.
Underneath, in a clean, sans-serif font, it reads: ‘Avocontrol.’
I stare at it for a moment, and then a startled laugh escapes me. “Avocontrol? As in, lack of control?”
“As in, the only control we have is in our immediate surroundings, and not in the unpredictable, fatty fruit that may or may not be ripe when you need it,” she explains, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “It’s a science pun, but also… a life motto.”
I unfold the next one. It’s a navy-blue shirt, featuring a line drawing of a beaker filled with a bubbling solution, below which is printed: ‘Keep your ion the prize.’ The third, a deep cranberry color, depicts a human skeleton and the words: ‘I have a gut feeling about this.’
I lay them out on the couch, laughing again. They are so perfectly me. The nerdy, slightly self-deprecating humor; the clean, graphic design.
“These are incredible, Maya. I love them. But when did you have time to make these?” I ask, genuinely confused. She’s been struggling with fatigue, confrontation with her mother, and a bad flare for days.
She sighs, leaning her head briefly against my shoulder, a weight of honesty in the gesture. “The designs were easy. I did them digitally when I had a brief energy surge in the hospital. The actual screen-printing? Not so much. I still haven't felt up to lifting a screen, let alone curing the ink.”
She pulls back and looks at me sheepishly. “I made the print designs and then I called Flick. She has a friend who does rush jobs. I may have promised her friend a custom print job of his own in exchange for the fast turnaround.”
“You shouldn’t have spent your energy, let alone your money, on me,” I murmur, running my finger over the smooth surface of the avocado design. “And why all the gifts? You were the one in the hospital, Maya. You’re the one who deserves the comfort and the attention.”
She gently takes my hand, lacing her fingers through mine. Her touch is soft, but her grip is surprisingly strong. She looks me straight in the eye and the playful facade drops away, replaced by the profound, earnest emotion that defines her.
“The shirts are a thank you, Zachary. And they’re definitely not even close to the gift you gave me this week.”
I raise my eyebrows in question and she squeezes my hand.
“The best gift was having my mother here, having the most honest conversation we’ve ever had, and leaving with a shared vision instead of a broken heart.
You gave me that. You called her and said the thing I couldn’t.
You created the opportunity I was too scared, too tired, too resentful to take for myself. ”