by Lia Kane
“It is,” she confessed. “And I do apologize, Jerrika. Your job is important and this Arts Center thingie this evening certainly doesn’t trump your orientation, dear. It’s just that there’s a bit more flexibility where you’re concerned. How about Monday morning? I won’t cancel and reschedule on you this time.”
“That would be fine.”
“Wonderful. I will see you on Monday then.”
“Actually, I’ll see you this evening. I got invited to the Arts Center, I’m assuming for the same event.”
“Excellent! It’s a very exclusive event, you know. You were lucky to snag an invite. Whose guest will you be?”
“Mayor Drake’s,” I said.
“How nice,” she responded. “How is it that you know Mayor Drake?”
“He called me the other day to welcome me to Hope House, and took me to dinner downtown. Then he asked me to the Arts Center event this evening – I’m assuming so I can get to know other community leaders and mingle a bit.”
“Well, yes, sure. That makes sense.” Agnes paused again. “Victor’s been a big supporter of Hope House over the years. And he and Kelly were… close,” she added. “I’m sure he misses her. Very kind of him to reach out to you and welcome you to your new job.”
“Right,” I said, trying to process Agnes’ cryptic tone and this new information. He and Kelly were close. Did that mean that they had been a couple?
“Anyway, I do need to run, dear. I’ll see you this evening. Have a great day, and thank you for being so understanding.”
“You’re welcome. Have a great day yourself, Agnes.”
“Bye now.”
As I hung up the phone, I heard the laughter of children in the hallway. I dashed back to my room and locked the door so I could get dressed before any of the little ones sought me out for more feet tickling or whatever other antics they might have up their sleeves.
I took a quick inventory of the clothes hanging in my closet, pausing again to ask myself where in the world I was going to find a formal gown on such short notice for the evening’s festivities. For the moment, I reached for a boatneck quarter-sleeve black shirt and a pair of khakis. I debated for a second, then grabbed a blazer to go with it. Not that there was a dress code for a doctor’s appointment, but I still felt like I needed to look somewhat business-like since Dr. Miles was the physician for the orphanage. Finally, I took way too long trying to decide between heels or mules. Heels won out.
I was bad at this kind of thing, and didn’t have a fashion-savvy bone in my body. I had always trusted Whitney’s advice when it came to dressing up. It bothered me that she still hadn’t called or texted me. I wanted to reach out to her, but just hadn’t had the time yet. I started to type a text to her on my phone, but stopped myself. After the harsh words we had shared, a text wouldn’t be the right way to extend the olive branch. When my appointment was done, I planned to drop by her place and do my best to make amends in person.
• • •
I arrived at the doctor’s office fifteen minutes early and parked my car. I checked my phone again, then looked up to see Dr. Miles stepping out of his vehicle.
A green Toyota Prius.
I couldn’t help but smile. Why did he have to be married?
Not that I ever had a chance, I reminded myself.
He hadn’t noticed me there, so I spied on him for a moment. Dr. Miles reached for a blue knapsack in the backseat. When he threw it over his shoulder, he looked like just like a college kid. He was wearing thick glasses, which I assumed he only used for driving since I hadn’t seen him wearing them the day before. Seeing him like that – geeky, boyish – made me like him even more. I found myself comparing him to Victor, who was so smooth, so well put together that he seemed perfect. Perfect scared me a bit. Seeing Dr. Miles just then reminded me that he was human too, and it put me at ease. I smiled as I watched him open the clinic and duck inside, then got out of my car and followed him in.
The same receptionist from yesterday, Trish, greeted me with a smile and took my paperwork. “Thanks. You can have a seat while I put this in the computer and set up a medical record for you.” Her dentures clicked when she spoke. “The doctor will be with you in a moment.”
I took a seat and looked at my phone again. No contact from Whitney yet. A few minutes later, Dr. Miles stepped into the lobby.
“Good morning,” he said with a huge smile. “Come on back.”
Instead of leading me into a patient room, we entered his office. He sat down behind a massive L-shaped desk, on which a computer and a small stack of patient charts waited for his attention. Behind him was a bookshelf filled with medical textbooks. The walls were lined with framed credentials, including his medical degree, board certifications for specialty areas of practice, and several plaques praising him for various awards and honors.
I zeroed in on a framed picture of a blonde woman on his desk. She had to be his wife. Lucky woman.
“So, Jerrika,” he began, “how are you today?”
“I’m alright, thank you.”
“Good. I just wanted to take a moment to chat with you and get a little medical history before we do the blood test. Can you tell me how long you’ve been VAM-Positive?”
“Seven years.”
“And do you know how you acquired VAM?”
“All too well. I went to a party in college, was drugged by a frat boy, then woke up in the hospital to find that he had bitten my jugular and drained way too much blood from my body. I almost died.”
Dr. Miles’ face melted into an expression of genuine sympathy. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Was he caught and prosecuted?”
I shook my head. “He disappeared from campus that night, and no one ever found him.”
“That’s terrible. I hate hearing about people like that. They’re the ones who perpetrate the myths about VAMPs being violent, monstrous…”
“Vampires,” I finished his sentence for him.
“Some people just have a tremendous capacity for cruelty,” he continued. “It’s unfortunate when people with VAM don’t show any self-restraint in how they feed. It’s a growing problem, unfortunately. There’s a big public health study underway right now on the association between VAM and violence.”
I raised an eyebrow. “So what will be done with the results? What happens if it turns out that VAM infection is strongly associated with violence?”
Dr. Miles shrugged. “No one really knows right now, Jerrika. It’s just a study. No one can tell what the results will be before it’s completed.”
“Someone at least has to be thinking about what it will mean. There had to be enough violence happening among people with VAM to justify a need for a study.”
“The study is just to help everyone understand the disease better, so that we’ll all know how to treat it and help people who are living with VAM,” he said.
“As well as protect people who don’t have it,” I added.
“That would be part of it, yes,” he said. He fidgeted nervously in his seat. I could tell he was sorry he had brought it up.
“Fair enough,” I added. “I’d never wish this on anyone, and if there was ever a way that I could get rid of this disease, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
Dr. Miles nodded. “So let’s get back to talking about you. Back when you first acquired VAM, did you get a standing prescription for blood?”
“No. I was diagnosed at the campus hospital at Tarheel State University, which was basically just a big emergency room where they dealt with injuries and acute illnesses. They weren’t equipped to deal with anything major – certainly not a VAM diagnosis. Once I regained consciousness after my attack, my roommate hit me with the news that I had contracted VAM. Then the doctor finally came in to talk to me. He was saying things like ‘go home and make yourself comfortable.’ He didn’t prescribe anything and didn’t tell me what I could do for myself. It was like my life was just over; like he was handing down a death sentence. ”
“Back then, VAM
was seen as a death sentence,” he said. “The prescribing protocols for whole blood likely weren’t even in place when you were infected, so there was probably nothing your doctor could have done to help you. The only way that anyone could survive in the early years of the VAM epidemic was if they figured out for themselves how to safely feed, and then had steady access to a donor. Which obviously, you did.”
“My roommate,” I explained, “who’s also my best friend, started drawing her blood and feeding it to me. That’s how I’ve stayed alive for the past seven years. Now that we’ve graduated from college and we’re moving in different directions, I need a prescription for the blood bank.”
“Of course,” said Dr. Miles. “You were very fortunate to have a familiar donor for as long as you did. But even for my patients who do have donors, I insist that everyone have a standing prescription on file – just in case. Familiar donors typically burn out after a year or two of daily donation. If not emotionally – then eventually, they’ll burn out physically. They become anemic themselves and develop scar tissue at their puncture sites, so it gets harder and harder for them to give blood on a regular basis. Your friend is quite the exception to have lasted as long as she has.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “She’s been a very good friend.” I swallowed, feeling a knot in my throat. I realized that I had been way too harsh on Whitney, considering she was the only reason that I was still alive after all this time. Fortunately, Dr. Miles kept the conversation going and changed the subject again.
“Talk to me about how you are now. Your overall health. How are you feeling throughout the day? How are you sleeping? Is your appetite the same, or has it changed? How are you dealing with the adjustment of a new job and a new living arrangement?”
“Ah. Well, so far everything is going well…”
I don’t know what happened next. Maybe it was lingering guilt from the way I’d treated Whitney that triggered it, or maybe it was just the realization that I was far more stressed than I had ever wanted to admit to myself, but I burst into tears.
Dr. Miles reached for a box of tissues on his desk and passed it to me.
“I’m sorry,” I said as I dried my eyes. “This just hit me from out of the blue.”
“It’s okay,” he assured me.
As soon as my eyes were dry and I thought I had finished my little crying spell, I started all over again. “I’m sorry,” I blubbered once more.
The doctor rose from his seat and stepped around his desk, settling into the empty guest chair next to mine. He placed a hand on my shoulder. “There’s no need to apologize. This is a place of healing.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I said. “I guess I should be happy right now… I mean, I’ve got a job, and a place to live, I’m in good health as far as I know… I’m just…I don’t know. I feel very lucky to have all that I have, so I don’t know why I’m even crying.”
“Good fortune in some aspects of life doesn’t mean you have to pretend that troubles don’t exist in others. Whatever is hurting you, Jerrika, you’re welcome to talk with me about it if you like. Any and everything you say stays inside this office. And if not, that’s fine too. Sometimes a good cry is the best medicine for what ails you.”
I dried my eyes again. “I think I’m just overwhelmed,” I said. “There’s so much going on right now. I had a fight with my best friend yesterday, and we haven’t spoken since. I need to make peace with her. And my job… well, so far, I like the people I work with, and I like the kids at the orphanage. I just don’t really know what I’m supposed to be doing. I haven’t had any kind of training yet, and everyone keeps talking about Kelly, like they miss her. I’m scared I’ll never measure up to her and that I’ll somehow be a disappointment. And then I’ve met someone. I think I like him. I think he might even like me. But I’m really, really confused.”
Dr. Miles nodded and listened.
“I want to like him,” I continued. “I haven’t dated since I was a teenager, before I was infected. I’ve kept myself shut off from men because I can’t even kiss a guy without putting him at risk. How do you have a relationship with someone if you can’t even kiss them?”
“The risk of transmitting VAM is very low if it’s just kissing.”
“But it’s still a possibility,” I countered. “I want somebody to love, but I can’t have it, not with VAM. This man that I mentioned doesn’t know that I have it, and I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want to scare him away and lose him altogether.”
“That sounds stressful,” he said. “Love shouldn’t be stressful. Maybe he’s just not the right person for you.”
We locked eyes.
“You know what worries me the most about my patients with VAM?” Dr. Miles asked me.
“What?”
“It’s not the disease itself. It’s the isolation that it can lead to. There is a group of VAM-Positive people that meets every other week –”
“Yeah, I know,” I cut him off. “I’ve already heard about it.”
“Have you thought about going to one of the meetings?”
“I don’t need a dating service,” I snapped.
“I didn’t mean to imply that,” he said. “I recommend the group to all of my patients. I just think it might help you if you can connect with other people who have VAM. People who understand exactly what you’re going through.”
“Maybe one of these days. Now just isn’t the right time.”
He nodded. “I respect that.”
I looked away. “Listen, can we go ahead and do the blood test, please? I don’t mean to be rude; I’ve just got a lot to do today.”
“Of course.” He rose from his seat and motioned for me to follow him. “I can’t say that I know what it’s like to live with VAM, since I don’t have it. But I do know from what I see my patients living through that it’s not easy. I just want you to know that if there’s ever anything I can do to help you, I hope you’ll call me. I’ll do everything I can to help you stay healthy. You’ve got an important job and the kids at Hope House need you.”
“Thank you,” I said with a nod. He really did seem to care.
After my blood was drawn and Dr. Miles confirmed what we both already knew - that I was positive for VAM – he prepared a standing prescription for whole blood products, gave me a paper copy and sent an electronic copy to the local blood bank. It entitled to me one pint per day of whole blood for human consumption, default type O, positive or negative. Typing wasn’t necessary since the blood was for consumption, not transfusion, but blood banks were directed to dispense type O blood first for VAM prescriptions and reserve types A, B, and AB for transfusions. It was a simple matter of supply and demand, he explained. About half the people in the U.S. have type O blood, so it was easier to replenish the supply. He also shared with me that anecdotally, he had heard that type O was the easiest to digest, even if it was a little bland compared to blood with A, B, or AB antigens.
Whitney was type A negative. Maybe I had been spoiled all this time, feeding off of delicacy-class blood and just hadn’t realized it.
I really owed her an apology.
When I left the doctor’s office, I made a beeline to her apartment.
• • •
I ran up the steps to Whitney’s apartment and knocked on the door. I waited, but no one answered.
Below, the door to the MacLynn residence opened. Sandy stepped out on the front porch.
“Hi, Mrs. MacLynn,” I called down to her.
“Hi Jerrika. How’s your new job going?”
“So far, so good. Do you know where Whitney is?”
“She’s gone to a job interview.”
“Oh, good,” I said. “When she gets back home, can you tell her I stopped by?”
“Sure,” said Sandy.
I made my way down the stairs, wondering how much, if anything, Whitney had shared with her mother about our argument. Sandy seemed a bit less chipper than her normal self, and I wondered if she thou
ght I was to blame for her daughter’s loss of employment.
“Is Whitney doing okay?” I asked.
“Sure,” Sandy smiled. “She’s just fine. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Just ask her to give me a call, if you don’t mind.”
“I certainly will.”
“Oh, and Mrs. MacLynn… I need a formal gown for an event tonight. Do you know where I could buy one on this short notice? Now that Marcelle’s has closed down, I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking in this town.”
“Such a shame about Marcelle’s,” she sighed. “There’s a bridal boutique at the mall. Maybe you could find a bridesmaid dress there that would work. Someone as tiny as you should have no problem finding something on the rack. Must be nice.”
Not really, I wanted to tell her. “Thanks, Mrs. MacLynn.”
I drove to Blue Sky’s sad little excuse for a mall, discouraged to see that it was even more desolate than when I had left for college. The two anchor stores at either end, Sears and JC Penney, had long since closed. More than half of the shops inside had gone out of business as well. I found the bridal boutique, sandwiched between two empty caves that were once Hallmark and Yankee Candle.
The sales clerk on duty eyed me up and down as I explained what I needed. She led me to two racks of dresses in the back and my eyes zeroed in on a strapless, ankle-length black sheath dress, size 2. I tried it on in the fitting room. The zipper was broken and it was a bit roomy throughout the bust, but it was otherwise a perfect fit.
The sales clerk told me that she’d give it to me for half off because of the damaged zipper, then shared with me that her cousin, who worked as the seamstress at the dry cleaners down the street, was starving for business. She placed a call to confirm that the zipper repair and minor alterations I needed could be done while I waited, giving me a thumbs up from behind the counter.
I picked out a burgundy wrap to cover my arms and shoulders, grabbed a pair of black stilettos, paid for everything and left for the dry cleaners.
Two hours later, I made it back to Hope House with my resized and repaired gown. The school-age children were in the middle of a math quiz, and Claudia was rocking two screaming babies in the nursery when I passed by. I heard more crying coming from the little ones in their cribs.