Purple Hearts(9)

“Sometimes.” What was she getting at?

“Do you have a history of diabetes in your family?”

Mom and I looked at each other. I didn’t know. She rubbed my back. Her father had it, she told the doctor. And his sister.

“Well, we’re still waiting for the full workup to come back.” The doctor looked at both of us from behind her glasses. “But I believe we’re looking at a diagnosis of type two diabetes.”

Diabetes. The messages from my gut. I looked at the ceiling. “Okay. What does that mean?” I asked, trying to keep back whatever was snaking up my chest, the tears burning at the back of my eyes.

“Well, basically your pancreas doesn’t know how to break down sugar in your blood, so you might need to take insulin to help you do that. But insulin can also work too well. So you watch what you eat so you don’t get hypoglycemic. Or, like you might have done tonight, pass out from low blood sugar.”

“Is this—?” I blew out breath, trying to slow my speeding pulse. “Is this what it’s going to be like all the time now?” I thought of smiling at Nora, banging on the keys with everything I had. How I finally thought I’d had it, and it was being taken away.

“It will be a couple of days until the test results come in,” Dr. Mangigian continued. “And if that is the case, we’ll start you on treatments. With diet, exercise, and proper insulin intake, diabetes is totally manageable.”

I didn’t really do “managing” when it came to my body. As long as it let me fit into my jeans and have orgasms and sleep every once in a while, I let it do its thing. But hypoglycemic? Pancreas? I couldn’t even point to my pancreas. All this time, I thought my gut was my friend, and instead it was trying to kill me. “Any needles?”

The doctor laughed. Mom and I didn’t. “Occasionally. You may just have to monitor. And as I said, we still don’t know.”

“But it’s diabetes. That’s likely what it is?” Mom asked, her voice faint.

The doctor nodded. Mom squeezed my hand.

“The nurse will be back in to check on you and get your insurance information, and we’ll go from there.”

My throat seized. I didn’t have insurance. My true form. I was so stupid. “I might have to pay out of pocket.”

Mom sighed. “Just have the nurse give me the paperwork. I’ll cover this.”

I sat up in the bed, still dizzy. “No, Mom.”

“It’s okay, Cass. You’re not insured. What other option do we have?”

“No!” She still cut coupons. She was still paying off her leased Corolla on janitorial wages. She couldn’t afford an ambulance and an emergency room visit any more than I could. “No,” I repeated.

The doctor cleared her throat. “I’ll give you a minute.” She left.

“I’ve got the money,” I said to the ceiling. I wondered if Mom could tell I was lying. There was my final paycheck from the firm, and the money from tonight’s gig, but my share wouldn’t be nearly enough. It was supposed to go toward a studio session anyway. I lay back and closed my eyes. My insides were boiling. My body ran me now. As the tears rolled down, I could feel Mom reach over and wipe them away.





Luke


I kept the Lexus I borrowed from Frankie at forty miles an hour, even on the freeway. No music, no air-conditioning. I wanted it to be like I had never been there. The sooner Jake and I could talk, the longer we had to get to know each other again before I deployed.

I entered on Old North Loop 4, down to Main Street, pulling past Bolero Pharmacy. I was surprised Tim wasn’t smoking Newports in the back, his red vest uniform hanging over his shoulder. He was the one who scraped OxyContin off the stock at Bolero, sold it to Johnno at a fixed rate. An AT&T had replaced the video store, and they had put up a new sign, but everything else in Buda was the same. The grass was brownish green from drought or the remains of a drought. Minus the cement and parking meters, the curlicue roofs and red brick could have been a film set for a Western.

I rolled down the window and smelled the dust.

Jake and Hailey’s house was just down the block from where we grew up on Arikara Street, a cobalt-blue single-story behind a patch of woolly butterfly and Gulf Coast penstemon, native plants we’d learned about working landscaping for a summer in high school. A swing set made of fresh lumber peeked from the backyard. It was Sunday, and I knew the garage would be closed. Unless Jake and Hailey had started going to church more than just on Christmas and Easter, they’d be home. Still, I should have called.

I parked and walked across the street, up the sidewalk, toward the door. I’d shaved my face raw and bought clothes. Nothing special, just stiff, generic denim and a checkered button-up that still smelled like the factory. In my hand, daisies for Hailey. Under my arm, a LEGO Star Wars set for JJ. In my pocket, the letter for Jake.

Neighboring kids screeched as they ran through a sprinkler. A dog barked. I ran my hand down my face, then knocked.

Nothing.

I knocked again. No one stirred in the house. I stepped back from the door, considering tucking the letter under the mat, which was shaped like a Dallas Cowboys logo. Then I heard laughter—JJ’s, high-pitched and raucous. I held the gifts tighter, and followed the sound around to the back. When I got to the edge of the yard, I stood, unable to go farther, as if I’d hit a force field. An electric-blue shape darted into the sunlight, making loops. Jacob Junior. He’d shot up like a weed.