My Life After Now Page 11

  Silence. Three pairs of curious eyes pointed my way. No one could explain it but me.

  I did the only thing I could think to do. I held my breath and shoveled a heaping spoonful of steak and kidney pie into my mouth. It was the slimiest, most unappetizing thing I had ever tasted, but I forced a smile. “Delicious,” I said through a full mouth.

  Lisa smiled widely with satisfaction and my dads relaxed.

  Papa went into the kitchen to carve his turkey, Dad started spooning out the sides, and the four of us continued our English-inspired Thanksgiving.

  • • •

  Papa made me go back to the support group on Friday, even though I’d insisted it was pointless.

  “Hi, Lucy,” June said when I walked in.

  “Oh, um, hi,” I said. I was surprised she remembered my name; I hadn’t even spoken to her on Tuesday.

  She smiled at me like she was waiting for me to start a conversation, so I said the first thing that came to mind. “Um, how’s your granddaughter?” And then I wanted to kick myself, because I realized that was probably the absolute wrong question to ask. But it was the only thing I knew about her, besides the fact that she had HIV or AIDS, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to mention that.

  Luckily, though, June didn’t seem to mind the question. “She’s great, thank you for asking.”

  I wondered if she had been allowed to hold her yet, but I didn’t dare ask.

  “Lucy! You came back!” Roxie’s voice sing-songed from the other side of the room. She came over to where June and I were standing and handed me a mini bottle of water. I noticed that her nails were painted aqua blue today.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  Roxie checked the time on her cell phone. It was a flip phone, like the one Dad had had when I was a little kid. I hadn’t seen a phone like that in a long time—everyone I knew had smart phones now.

  “All right everyone, let’s get started,” she called out to the room, and we found our seats. “Who would like to begin today?”

  Unlike last time, no one spoke up.

  “I’ll go first then,” she said. I found myself sitting up a little straighter in my chair, eager to hear what she was going to say.

  “There was a blood drive at work on Wednesday.” She gave a you-all-know-where-this-is-going smile. “The head of my department, of all people, was the one who organized it, and actually closed our office for an hour so we could all go down and donate. I felt so…so stuck, you know? I didn’t want to look like this horrible person who was refusing to give blood for no good reason, but I didn’t want to tell anyone the truth, either. I haven’t been working there that long, but I know that if everyone found out, things would get real awkward real fast. And I really need this job.”

  “So what did you do?” someone asked.

  “I ended up going down there with everyone, like everything was all good, and then pretending to get super queasy and lightheaded at the sight of the blood bags. The technician was totally apologetic, but told my boss he couldn’t take blood from someone in my condition. Problem solved.” She grinned.

  Roxie was being pretty good-natured about the whole thing, but I imagined myself in the same situation and knew it couldn’t have been easy for her. I felt a stab of sympathy and then realized that someday, maybe even sometime soon, I would be faced with a predicament like that too. Maybe it would be a blood drive, or maybe it would be something else. When you had HIV, everything was complicated. Even a simple day at work could turn into an ordeal.

  A few more people shared and then there was another stretch of silence. I could feel it coming; I didn’t even have to look her way. Sure enough…

  “Lucy, we’d love to get to know you a little better,” Roxie said. “Do you feel comfortable sharing tonight?”

  I really didn’t want to talk. But all eyes were on me, and since I knew that Papa was going to keep making me come to these things, I figured I may as well spit out something now and get it over with rather than having Roxie single me out every time.

  “I don’t really know what to say,” I admitted. “I’m new at this.”

  “Why don’t you start with why you’re here,” Roxie suggested.

  “I’m here because my parents are making me.” That got a few laughs.

  “Points for honesty,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Right now?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Right now, at this point in time, how are you feeling?”

  “I’m feeling…a little cold, maybe, and sort of nervous. But other than that, totally fine.” I paused briefly, thinking. “You know, that’s what I’m having the hardest time with, I think. That the only reason I even know I have this disease at all is because someone told me I did. But I don’t feel it. I feel perfectly normal. If it’s really as bad as everyone says it is, shouldn’t I feel something?”

  “Why question it, though? Why not just be grateful that you don’t feel any pain or illness?” she countered.

  I shrugged. “I am grateful for that, I guess. But still, it feels wrong. I can’t explain it.”

  “No, I get what you mean,” another lady said. I thought I remembered her introducing herself as Shelly. Or was it Sally? “It’s like, if you have cancer or heart disease or something, you know it. You probably got diagnosed in the first place because of your symptoms. But HIV is like this silent, deadly thing inside you.”

  “No, that’s only how it is in the beginning. Just wait. It gets worse,” a thin man with dry lips said.

  “I know. It gets a lot worse,” I said, remembering the photographs. “That’s the point. This healthy-feeling time now just feels like a tease. Like I’m in this holding pattern, flying in smooth circles within sight of the airport, in super-comfortable first class. But I can’t enjoy the in-flight movie or free chocolate chip cookies because I know that before the airport is able to make room for us, the plane is going to run out of fuel, and we’re going to crash-land into a fiery, agonizing death.”

  The basement was completely silent.

  “What?” I said.

  “Wow,” Shelly/Sally breathed. “That’s exactly it. Are you a writer or something?”

  I shook my head. “I’m an actor.”

  • • •

  After the meeting, I met my dads outside the church.

  “How’d it go?” Papa asked.

  “It was okay, I guess. I ‘shared’ this time.” I emphasized “shared” so he would know it wasn’t my word.

  “That’s great, honey!” he said, giving me a one-armed hug as we began to walk down the street.

  “We’re so proud of you,” Dad said, putting his arm around me too.

  “Lucy!”

  We all turned. Roxie was hurrying in our direction.

  “Um, Dad, Papa, this is Roxie,” I said awkwardly when she reached us. “Roxie runs the meeting.”

  I could tell they were surprised by her age, but they all shook hands and made their hellos. Roxie didn’t even blink when I introduced the two men in front of her as my parents.

  “You said you’re an actor, right?” she asked, turning her attention back to me.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Well, I work for NYU. I’m just an admin, but if I work there for over a year I’ll get free tuition. I mean, I’ll have to get accepted first, and who knows if they’d even look twice at my GED, but my SAT scores are pretty good—”

  “Um, Roxie?” I cut her off.

  “Sorry. So they’re holding auditions tomorrow for their new ad campaign. It’s going to be huge—print ads, TV commercials, all kinds of fancy stuff. Mucho dinero. You’re totally the look they’re looking for—I know because I’m the one who’s been setting up all the audition appointments. I can probably get you in if you wanna come tomorrow.”

  “Wow, really?” That sounded like exactly the distraction I needed. Just the prospect of getting to act in front of people who weren’t members of my own drama club had me instantly feeling more whole. “Yes, I definitely
want to come.”

  “Hold on a second, Lu. Aren’t you forgetting something?” Papa said.

  Oh right. My first doctor’s appointment. “Can’t we reschedule?” I begged.

  “Not a chance. You know what it took to get this appointment.” The office had been completely booked up for the next two months, but Papa, hot-shot lawyer that he was, called in a few favors and managed to get me in for Saturday morning.

  The wind left my sails. “Thanks anyway, Roxie, but I have to go to the doctor tomorrow.”

  “What time is your appointment?” she asked.

  “Ten-thirty a.m.”

  “Oh, that’s perfect. You can come to the audition after. I’ll be there till four.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, totally. Give me your number, and I’ll text you all the details.”

  We swapped phones and put our numbers into each other’s contact lists.

  “So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then,” I said.

  “Awesome! See you tomorrow!”

  22

  Tear Me Down

  “Fill these out,” the lady behind the desk said, handing me a clipboard with about twenty double-sided pages attached to it.

  My dads and I divided the forms up—they took the insurance and past medical history ones and I was left with the ones that only I could answer, like the social behaviors checklist and the description of present condition. I took the clipboard over to a far corner of the waiting room so I could write my answers down without worrying about anyone reading over my shoulder.

  When all the forms were completed, the copay had been paid, and the formalities were over, the wait began. There sure were a lot of people here for a Saturday morning on a holiday weekend. I didn’t know whether to take that as a good sign or not—on one hand, it seemed this doctor was in high demand. On the other, a lot of the patients were in really bad shape. They were run-down and tired-looking, some were coughing, some were incredibly thin. Many looked utterly miserable. If this doctor was so great, why did his patients look so sick?

  This was all getting way too real.

  And still the wait continued. As patients were called into exam rooms, more patients came to sign in. The flow was endless. I focused on breathing and tried to ignore the queasiness in my stomach. I’m not sick like these people, I tried to comfort myself. It’s just nerves.

  My dads and I didn’t talk much. Like magnets, our gazes kept drifting over to the muted television hanging from the ceiling, but it was nothing more than an automatic reaction to the presence of the flickering screen. I don’t think any of us were really in the mood to learn about all the terrible things that were going on in the world from the CNN ticker.

  Over an hour after we checked in, my name was called. My dads got up to follow me in the room, but the nurse stopped them.

  “Patients only beyond this point, please.”

  I gave them the most reassuring smile I could, letting them know I’d be fine, even though I wasn’t sure if I really would, and followed the nurse into the room. She took my blood pressure, pulse, and temperature, and then handed me a faded cotton gown. “Put this on, open to the back. You can leave your underwear on, but take off everything else, including your bra.” She dropped my chart in the little plastic holder stuck to the outside of the door, and closed the door behind her.

  I was all alone.

  I surveyed the tiny exam room. It looked like any other doctor’s office I’d ever been in. But though it was familiar, I was anything but comfortable. Shivering, I stripped down and hurriedly put the gown on, fumbling with the ties. I left my socks on. I was freezing.

  I sat up on the bed, the thin paper rumpling beneath me, and covered my legs with my hoodie.

  Fifteen minutes later, there was a brief knock at the door and before I could even say, “Come in,” the knob turned and the doctor entered the room.

  “And you are…Lucy Moore,” he said, not looking up from the chart.

  “Yes,” I said.

  He went over to the sink and washed his hands with lots of soap. “I’m Dr. Jackson.” He sat down and took his time reading through all my forms. I felt entirely invisible and uncomfortably obvious all at the same time, sitting there in practically nothing in front of this stranger who was ignoring me.

  Finally, he looked up. As soon as he laid eyes on my face, he frowned and flipped back through his notes, looking for something. “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen,” I replied.

  He sighed and shook his head in clear disapproval. I’d thought doctors were supposed to be nonjudgmental.

  “And how do you know you’re HIV-positive, Lucy?” Dr. Jackson asked. Suddenly, his voice had taken on an entirely different tone, doing a complete one-eighty from the all-business, detached manner from when he’d first entered the room to sugary-sweet condescension.

  “I was tested,” I said, goose bumps erupting all over my skin, and not because of the cold.

  “By whom?”

  “Harlem Free Health Services.”

  “Where is your copy of your test results?”

  “I don’t have it. I got my results over the phone.”

  A corner of his mouth turned up in amusement. “Of course you did,” he said.

  What the hell was this guy’s problem? He was treating me like I was a five-year-old playing dress-up.

  “What grade are you in at school, Lucy?”

  “Eleventh. Why?”

  “Have you had sex education classes at your school?”

  “Um, yeah…”

  “So they’ve taught you all about the importance of safe sex?”

  “I guess…”

  “I see here that you believe you contracted HIV from engaging in unprotected sexual intercourse,” he said, gesturing to the file. “That was very irresponsible behavior, Lucy.”

  Was he for real? He was actually reprimanding me?

  Listen, I wanted to say. I don’t need your judgment, okay? I have enough to deal with without you contributing. So can we just get on with this so I can get out of here?

  But I couldn’t form the words. Dr. Jackson viewed me as a child, and somehow, under his contemptuous gaze, I had regressed to one. I was frightened and shy, and it was all I could do to answer his questions and count the seconds until the end of the visit.

  Dr. Jackson waited for me to respond, but when I didn’t he just shrugged, as if he decided I wasn’t worth his little lecture. He had a whole office full of people to treat; I was just another number to him.

  He stuck his head out the door and called for the nurse to join us. I felt incrementally better that I didn’t have to be alone in the room with him while he was doing the physical, but I hated every second of that exam nonetheless.

  He poked and prodded me all over, not even bothering to apologize for his cold hands or icy stethoscope. He had no grace whatsoever as he jammed the little light into my ears, felt for swollen glands in my neck, and pressed under my ribs to check the size of my liver and spleen.

  And it got even worse, when he did the breast exam and felt for lymph nodes in my pelvic area. I did not want this man touching me in those places. It wasn’t that he was being inappropriate; it was more that he obviously didn’t view me as a person—let alone a scared person with actual feelings. He saw me as just another scientific specimen, there for his own experimenting. I squeezed my eyes shut, cringing the entire time.

  “You can get dressed now,” I heard him say. I opened my eyes to find the nurse exiting the room and Dr. Jackson back at his stool, scribbling away.

  I hesitated. Wasn’t he going to leave so I could dress in privacy?

  Apparently not.

  So I put my clothes on as quickly and discreetly as I could, facing away from him and keeping the gown on until my clothes were safely back on my body.

  “All right, I’m going to send you down to the lab,” Dr. Jackson said. “They will draw blood and run the CBC, T-cell subset, and RNA viral load tests. I’ll n
eed to see you back here in one week. You can make the appointment on your way out.” He crossed to the door. “Any questions?”

  Um, yes. What’s a CBC, T-cell subset, and RNA viral load test? What did you find when you examined me? Why are you such a dick?

  “No, no questions,” I said.

  • • •

  My dads were right where I had left them. They jumped out of their seats as soon as they saw me. But I didn’t go over to them.

  As my physical proximity to Dr. Jackson distanced, the more my courage and anger returned. I marched straight over to the front desk, jaw clenched. My dads followed wordlessly, sensing something was up.

  The lady looked up. “The doctor would like to see you back here in one week. How does next Saturday at eleven a.m. sound?”

  “Horrible,” I said.

  Papa put a hand on my shoulder. “Lucy, I know this is hard for you—”

  I spun around and glared at him. “You don’t know what it was like in there. I’m never going back to that doctor again.” I didn’t bother to whisper; the whole waiting room was watching and listening. This must have been far more interesting than whatever was on CNN right now. I turned back to the lady behind the desk. “Do you have any other doctors here?”

  She swallowed. “Yes, we have one other physician specializing in…your particular department.” She whispered that last part, though I didn’t really see the point. It was clear from Dr. Jackson’s air of absolute boredom that people came here for one reason only.

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “Dr. Vandoren.”

  “Yes, I’d like an appointment with him, please,” I stated firmly.

  “Her,” the lady corrected.

  “Even better,” I said.

  Before I could leave that god-awful medical building, I had to get my blood drawn. I watched in a trance as it was siphoned from the tiny vein in my arm, through the clear tube, into the vials. The technician repeated the process again and again, collecting eight vials in all.

  When he was finally done, I moved to stand up. But the whole room went dark and spun around me like a tornado, and the next thing I knew, I was on the floor, vaguely aware of cold hands on my forehead, my eyes working to focus on the face hovering over me.