Page 117 of Overtime
“What?” The question is more rhetorical, because she leans back and shifts her attention to me as if seeing me for my first time. Blinking hard, as if she can’t quite believe the picture she’s seeing.
I wipe a tear from my cheek. “I told you it wasn’t my fault. I told you it’s not like I want to be this way. It’s just how I am.”
“But…”
Dr. Pranad checks his watch. “Sorry to cut this short, but I have another patient waiting. Madeline, set up an appointment after your bloodwork results are in, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” I say in a mumble. “Um, thank you for everything.”
Mom also expresses her gratitude, and we tumble out of the office into the hallway. Well, I do. Mom grabs me by the arm and steadies me. I don’t know if it’s because the painkillers haven’t fully kicked in yet or if it’s because I’m just shaken by the whole thing.
“So the good news is that I’m not dying, even though I do feel like crap,” I say too lightly.
The crease between Mom’s eyebrows deepens. “Yes, that is definitely good.”
“The bad news is that I’m probably going to keep being fat for the rest of my life.”
As we walk down the hall, Mom sighs several times. Finally, she says, “Sweetie, I don’t hate that you’re fat?—”
“Sure could’ve fooled me.”
“I’ve just always worried that you weren’t healthy.”
“Funny, I always thought I was. Do you know how many salads vegetarians eat?” I snort. We exit the building at my snail’s pace, and people look at the bandage around my head, probably imagining I had some terrible accident.
“Well, but you’re not fully healthy, right? Otherwise, your ovaries would be normal.” She stops us in the middle of the parking lot and muses aloud. “Come to think, Dr. Pranad didn’t saywhyyour ovaries aren’t normal.”
In her car, we Google PCOS and find an answer. A bull crap one: no one knows why ovaries act up and cause PCOS.
“Great.” I grunt. “I basically have an unknown thing that has no specific treatment. Just peachy.”
We’re quiet as she drives away from the hospital. I’m so tired, even though it’s barely noon and I haven’t done much today—aside from making an absolute fool of myself and collecting new medical debt. What a great day.
It takes me a moment to recognize the streets, and I say, “Oh, I no longer live here. I moved.”
“You what? Why the hickory am I just finding that out now?”
“Because we don’t talk, Mom. Or rather, every time we do, you just want to complain about how imperfect I am and you don’t care how much it hurts.”
“I don’t—” She splutters for a bit. “I’m your mother, Madeline. It’s my job to worry about you.”
“Well, just—stop worrying and accept me as I am!”
Aaand we’re officially back to screaming.
“Of course I accept you! I love you more than anything else, and if I could make everything perfect for you, I would, no matter what it takes!”
“How is complaining about how my arms look or what I want to do for a living loving me? I just don’t get it!”
“Because I worry!” She’s breathing hard and has to stop herself. After a moment, she adds, more softly, “I worry that others are treating you badly because you look a bit different from them, and maybe if you try to look a bit more like them, they’ll leave you alone.”
“I’m not in middle school anymore, Mom. People in college could not care less about how I look. And actually, someone even told me I am damn hot. His words, not mine.”
“Aaron?”
I clear my throat. “Aran. And maybe. What makes you think it’s him?”
“That boy is absolutely smitten with you.” She smiles a little. “Didn’t I mention he carried you?”
