Page 127 of Fire
I turn to Hendrix for an answer. This is his body. His career. His decision.
He nods. “Yes. Thank you so much for this, Eric.”
“No problem. And let me just say…” He lets out an audible breath. “I hope we’re both wrong.”
“Me too, Eric,” I say as I slide into Hendrix’s embrace. “Me too.”
Hendrix is one big ball of nervous energy by the time the doctor’s appointment rolls around the next day.
It’s been mounting since we left Boston, and now he can hardly sit still without his knee bouncing or that right hand of his plucking out a tune on his thigh. He’ll start and suddenly stop, either because his brain forces him to or because he remembers he might not be able to down the road.
It’s heartbreaking to witness.
Luckily, we don’t have to wait long to see the doctor. After checking in at the front desk, we sit in a small waiting area. The neurologist Eric recommended is located at New York Presbyterian. This place is a maze. I wouldn’t ever want to get lost in it.
We asked at check-in if they could avoid calling out Hendrix’s name. He already stands out with the guitar case strapped on hisback. He doesn’t need someone pulling out a phone to sneak a pic when they recognize his name.
So when the nurse comes out, she simply signals for us. Hendrix takes a deep breath and grabs my hand, and we follow her through the double doors to an exam room.
Shaunda, that’s the nurse, follows us in and waits for Hendrix to set down his bass before asking him to take a seat on the exam table.
He glances at it and hesitates. He’s visibly nervous.
“Is it okay if he sits next to me for vitals?” I ask. I don’t usually like to interfere or pull rank, but for him, I will.
She nods and gives a friendly smile. “Not a problem.”
The look of thanks he gives me could melt a damn iceberg. He takes my hand as he sits down in the open seat, and I stay quiet while he answers all the nurse’s questions.
Finally, after she types a few notes into the laptop, she says, “Dr. Lin sent over all your records yesterday, so we have all your test results and his notes from your visit, but don’t be surprised if Dr. Deshmukh asks questions you’ve already answered. She’s very thorough.”
“Thank you.”
She leaves, and we’re left alone. Suddenly, the room feels five times smaller. I want to crawl into his lap, wrap my arms around him, and…
I let out a snort. “You were so right.”
His head turns. An amused smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’m right about a lot of things. Care to elaborate?”
I roll my eyes but take a moment to memorize that tiny smile. I think it’s the first genuine one I’ve seen all day. “I was just mentally scolding myself for causing so much turmoil in your life. And all I wanted to do was turn to you and apologize. For all of it.”
“Even though it’s a disorder you have no control over?”
“Yeah.”
“Crazy how that works, huh?”
“It really is.” I lean back in the uncomfortable metal chair, wondering how many times in my life I’ve apologized for things that weren’t my fault. Things I felt responsible for simply because I existed. “I’m trying to remind myself that I can be sorry that you are experiencing anxiety or pain but not feel responsible for it.”
He takes our joined hands and kisses mine, saying, “That’s my girl.”
Just then, there’s a knock on the door, and a few seconds later, a middle-aged Indian woman I recognize from my research walks in. Her dark hair is peppered with gray, and she’s wearing plain scrubs and glasses.
“Hi.” She offers her hand to Hendrix, then to me. “I’m Dr. Priya Deshmukh.”
“I’m Hendrix, and this is my girlfriend, Zara.”
“It’s nice to meet you. Eric spoke highly of both of you.” She sets her laptop down on the laminate counter and sits on the small stool in front of it. “Now, I’m sure you’re both anxious. So how about we get to it?”
