Page 56 of We Can Do
“I... I don’t know.” The admission comes out small, lost.
“Everything will be fine. I’ll be there soon.”
I end the call and yank on the jeans, then grab the first shirt my fingers touch in the closet. No time for my usual hour-long routine of hair and makeup. A quick swish of mouthwash will have to suffice. My reflection in the bathroom mirror shows dark circles under my eyes from last night’s writing marathon, hair sticking up at odd angles. It doesn’t matter.
Keys. Purse. Out the door.
The morning air hits my face, crisp and startling. I slide into my car, the leather seat cold through my jeans. The engine turns over on the first try—small mercies—and I reverse out of the driveway faster than I should.
The coffee shop appears like a beacon. I swing into a spot right out front, leaving the engine running. Flick sounded so lost, so unlike herself. She needs fuel, something to ground her.
The bell above the door chimes as I burst in. The barista looks up, startled.
“Four coffees, whatever’s fastest. And those.” I point at the croissants in the display case. “All of them.”
“All six?”
“Yes. Hurry, please.”
She must see something in my face because she doesn’t ask questions, just starts moving with purpose. I shift my weight from foot to foot, checking my phone. No new messages. That’s either very good or very bad.
The three-minute drive to Pine Island’s small hospital stretches like taffy. When I finally pull into the parking lot, Hannah’s car is just sliding into a space two rows over. I grab the coffee carrier and pastry bag, meeting her and Maya at the entrance.
“Hey.” I thrust coffees into their hands as we walk, our feet moving in synchronized urgency. “Did you hear anything yet? About the tests?”
“No.” Hannah’s voice carries its usual clarity, but her face tells a different story—pale as paper, worry etched in every line. “Did you?”
“No.”
The word sits heavy between us as we push through the hospital doors. The antiseptic smell hits immediately, that particular blend of cleaning products and anxiety that every hospital in the world seems to share.
Flick paces the waiting room like a caged animal, her usual graceful movements replaced by sharp, jerky steps. The space is otherwise empty—one of the few benefits of living on anisland where nothing much happens outside of Fourth of July fireworks accidents.
“Hey.” I wrap my arms around her, feeling the tension vibrating through her body. “Croissant?”
“I’m not...” Her eyes land on the bag, and something in her expression shifts. “Actually, yeah. I could eat. Thank you.”
We arrange ourselves in the uncomfortable plastic chairs, the kind designed to discourage long stays. The silence that settles over us is thick enough to cut. We all know this dance too well—the waiting, the not knowing, the fear that coils in your stomach like a living thing.
“Why would she faint?” Maya’s teeth work her bottom lip, a nervous habit she’s had since I’ve known her. “That’s never happened before, has it?”
“I don’t know.” Flick stares at the coffee cup cradled in her hands as if it holds answers.
“It’s a symptom of chronic fatigue syndrome,” I offer, though we all know what this might mean.
The silence returns, heavier now. We’re all thinking the same thing: chronic diseases are shape-shifters. What’s manageable one year becomes unbearable the next. New symptoms appear like unwelcome guests, settling in without warning or invitation.
The squeak of rubber soles on polished linoleum makes us all rise like marionettes on the same string. A doctor approaches, his scrubs wrinkled from what’s probably been a long shift. His smile is gentle, practiced.
“Are you here waiting for Devin?”
“Yes.” I step forward, designated spokesperson by some unspoken agreement. “Did you find out anything yet?”
“Overall, she’s fine. No head injury, other than a small goose egg from the fall.”
The collective exhale from our group could probably be measured on the Richter scale.
“Did she faint because of her chronic fatigue syndrome?” Maya asks, voicing what we’re all wondering.
