Page 82 of Where Happiness Begins
His gaze doesn’t stray, so full of emotions as he continues watching me, that the three words I’ve been thinking for days every time he moved inside me or brushed my hair out of my face or kissed me good night threaten to slip out.
But before I can decide whether I’m ready to make that move, a wave of fatigue swarms me, and as I reach for Carter, the worldstarts to spin. I have to brace myself against the wall to regain my balance, eyes closed tight against the jackhammer in my head.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his gift forgotten on the floor, arms around me.
“Nothing.” I force a smile. I’m not ruining his day. “Just a little lightheaded.” I hate the worried look he’s sporting, so I push myself off the wall to reach the box, but this time, the tide of dizziness hits me so hard, I can’t even stay upright.
“Lili.” Carter falls to his knees beside me, then presses a clammy hand against my forehead. “Jesus, you’re burning up. Why didn’t you say anything?”
I shake my head. Already, my mind is veering down a dangerous path, one that wonders whether this could be anything serious. It’s not, though. I have bouts of low BP all the time. I try to lift myself but can barely do so. Nausea suddenly hits my gut, and I have to breathe in slowly to make sure I don’t throw up all over the floor.
“We’re going to the hospital.”
“God, no,” I grit out. “I’m fine. Just give me a second.” I try to straighten once again, but I gag and fall back.
My heart rate picks up, maybe because of whatever’s happening or maybe because I’m starting to freak out. This feels different than the other times I felt like I was going to pass out. My thoughts are a sudden hurricane, hurtling nightmarish scenarios my way.
This can’t be a rejection. It can’t. We’re two years post-transplant. The risks have drastically decreased.
If it is… I can’t even allow my thoughts to go there. Getting through my transplant was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.I couldn’t do it again. Couldn’t go back on dialysis either. Not after tasting freedom for two years.
I need to gasp for my next breath as the possibility anchors itself. This might be the time I wake up from my dream.
“Not up for discussion,” Carter says, picking me up from the ground. I want to protest some more, but I don’t think it’ll be worth it, and even if it was, the safety of his arms feels too good for me to push him away.
“How are you feeling?”
“Exactly like I did five minutes ago,” I tease Carter with a grin. He doesn’t return it. “Better.” The medication I was given to get my temperature down while the doctors ran some tests did wonders.
Carter still doesn’t let go of the hand he’s been holding for the past hour, his thumb rubbing the spot that usually holds the ring I had to take off to do some imaging.
“What a birthday, huh?” I feel terrible for ruining it.
He ignores me, only grumbles, “You scared the shit out of me.”
Not going to lie, I scared the shit out of me too. I won’t say that aloud, though. Not when he’s already strung up this tight.
I’m not in the clear just yet, but the fact that I’m feeling better makes me hopeful.
“Lilianne? What are you doing here?”
We both turn toward the petite woman who just walked into the room. Carter’s grip tightens around my hand, but I let him go as I sit up in bed, arms extended. “Zineb!”
She immediately comes to hug me. It might have been against the rules for us to be this close when I was still her patient, but with how close we are in age, I always saw her as some sort of friend.
“Just feeling a little under the weather,” I say in her dark hair. “Nothing bad.”
“Good. I’m glad I never heard from you again after your surgery,” she says, smiling.
My social worker was a pillar during my time on the transplant waitlist and then when I was recovering post-op. There are so many confusing and sometimes contradicting feelings that come with going through dialysis and receiving a transplant, and she helped me as I went through them all.
“Me too,” I say.
She holds me by the shoulders and takes me in like a proud mother would, then looks to my left. “And who is—” Her expression falters, words hanging from her lips as she squints at Carter.
“This is my husband. Carter.” It feels almost natural to say this now, like every day we spend together, our marriage becomes less of a sham and more of a true engagement.
She tries to hide it, but I don’t miss the rounding of her eyes. “Oh.”
