Page 136 of Lighting the Lamp
“What?” Kyle stares at her like she’s lost her mind.
“You heard me,” she says, already on her feet. “Out. All of you.”
“But—” Ramona starts.
“No.” Alise doesn’t raise her voice, but the steel in it leaves no room for argument. “He doesn’t need an audience right now.”
Momma hesitates, her gaze flicking to me. I can’t meet it, afraid she’ll see everything I’ve been holding back.
“Auntie Mel,” Alise says, softer but still firm. “Please give him some space.”
For a second, I think she’ll argue. But she just nods, stands, and walks out with the others.
The door shuts. The silence slams into me. And I fall apart.
The air I’ve been forcing down bursts out in a raw, guttural sound I don’t recognize, ripped straight from somewhere deep. My hand tears free from hers, clamping over my mouth like I can shove it back in. But it’s too late. Another comes. And then another.
Her arms are around me before the next breath, pulling me in like she’s been waiting for me to break. One hand cups the back of my neck; the other fists in the thin hospital gown at my shoulder. She doesn’t say it’s okay or tell me to calm down. She just holds on to me, and I grip her like my life depends on it.
The fight drains out of me all at once, leaving only the shaking. My breath saws in and out, still too quick and shallow, but she stays steady, grounding me. My forehead drops to her shoulder. I don’t care that I’m trembling hard enough to makeher sway. I don’t care that my face is wet. I don’t care that I can’t breathe right. For the first time since I heard the wordnever, I’m not pretending I can handle it. And I hate how much I need her here to keep from drowning.
But even as the sobs slow, the ache in my body sharpens. My wrists throb from how long I’d kept them rigid. My right hip screams from being locked in place. The heat in my lower back pulses with every beat of my heart, and there’s a bone-deep fatigue rolling in now that the adrenaline has slipped away. The silence feels fragile, like if anyone breathes too loudly, it’ll shatter. Alise’s fingers stay laced with mine, her grip firm but not demanding. When she finally speaks, it’s quiet enough that it barely stirs the air between us.
“I’m here.”
No promise that she can fix it or lie that it’s going to be okay. Just here. It’s the only thing in the room that doesn’t feel temporary. And underneath it all is the truth I can’t shake: Lupus isn’t walking out with them. It’s still here, crawling under my skin and waiting for the next hit.
The room might be quiet now, but my body hasn’t stopped screaming, and neither has my head. The quiet isn’t peaceful; it’s a vise tightening with every beat of the monitor. Without the voices, there’s no static to hide behind, no noise to muffle the thought that’s been gnawing at me since the doctor saidnever.
Alise is close enough that the faint scent of her shampoo cuts through the sharp tang of the hospital air. I feel the brush of her knee against the side of the bed when she shifts; a part of me wants to pull her into my arms and never let her go. But the closer she is, the easier it is to picture her leaving, and I know she will once she sees what I’ve become and what I’m not anymore. The thought sticks like a splinter I can’t cough out.
“You should go with them,” I say finally, my voice low and raw, clawing at my throat on the way out. “Get some air. You’ve had a day.”
Her fingers tighten around mine, firm and grounding. “So have you. And I’m not leaving.”
The refusal twists in my gut, not comfort or relief but cold and suffocating panic. If she stays, she’ll see everything. The cracks. The weakness. The parts I’ve been barely holding together with both hands. She’ll see me, the real me, and then she’ll go. And if she’s going to leave, I’d rather it be now, on my terms, before I’m left choking on the pieces.
I force down a swallow that sticks halfway, my mouth dry, my tongue thick and heavy like it’s fighting me. Every beat of my heart feels like a countdown. I can’t let her get close enough to see what’s rotting underneath.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I manage, the words tasting like defeat before they’re even out of my mouth.
Her gaze searches mine like she’s trying to find the thread that will unravel me, and she will if I let her keep looking.
“You don’t have to have all the words, just… tell me the truth.”
The words land between us like a dare and a lifeline at the same time. My chest locks up, my next breath stuttering as if my body already knows that once I say it, there’s no taking it back. My eyes close for half a second, and I think I can keep it in if I just stay quiet. But it’s pressing too hard against my ribs, clawing for a way out, crushing the air from my lungs until my head swims. When I open them again, it’s there in my voice, the sound of something breaking in real time.
“I thought… if I kept it to myself, I could control it and play through it. That if I just pushed harder, it wouldn’t catch me. And now—” I swallow, but it catches halfway, sticking like it knows how much I need it gone. “Now it’s taken everything.”
“It hasn’t taken everything,” she says, voice steady but strained. “You’re still here. You’re still you.”
“Am I?” What slips out is thin and jagged, a cracked sound that doesn’t even resemble laughter. “Hockey’s all I’ve ever been, Alise. The only thing that made sense, and now—” I gesture weakly at the IV, the monitor, and the hospital bed that feels like a cage I can’t escape. “Now I’m this.”
“You are not just a game you play. You’re more than that. You always have been,” she whispers, leaning in, her palm cupping my cheek and grounding me in a way that makes my chest hurt worse.
It should help, but it doesn’t. Instead, it just makes the fear coil tighter as my jaw locks until my teeth ache. “I’m scared.”
“I know, and it’s okay to be scared.” Her voice catches, soft but breaking. “But you’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”
