“Is the Prednisone helping?”
“I think so.” She swallowed hard, wishing she had some water. The bottle she usually kept by her side was on the counter in the kitchen, though, and she didn’t have service on that side of the apartment.
“Good,” Dr. Warren said. “So I’m actually calling to go over your labs with you.”
“Okay.” Wishing Char was there with her, Amarie brought her knees to her chest.
“I hadn’t expected to find anything, but your anti-double-stranded DNA came back positive, and so did your ANA.”
The room around Amarie started to go gray, and she reminded herself to breathe. “Okay,” she said again.
“A positive anti-double-stranded DNA test means that your body is attacking itself at the DNA level,” Dr. Warren explained, “and a positive ANA means that your immune system is attacking your body.”
“What?” Amarie rubbed her temples. “What does that mean?”
“It’s a lot of alphabet soup, but it means that there’s definitely something autoimmune going on. You definitely don’t have Fibromyalgia.”
Amarie wanted to say “I fucking told you so.” Instead, she sucked in a deep breath. “So it’s autoimmune? For sure?”
“Yes.” Dr. Warren’s voice was calm and reassuring. She didn’t even sound annoyed by having to hold Amarie’s hand. “So we usually see these kinds of results in Lupus patients. Your sed rate came back normal, though, and so did your other inflammation markers. It’s strange.”
Though Amarie disagreed, she simply said “Okay.” She’d read several medical journal articles that argued a positive inflammation marker wasn’t necessary to diagnose Rheumatoid Arthritis. “So I have Lupus?”
“Well, no,” Dr. Warren said. “It’s more like pre-Lupus. You have Undifferentiated Connective Tissue Disease.”
Her brows furrowed. It sounded like she was headed back into mystery autoimmune disease territory. “What is that?”
“It’s an autoimmune disease marked by the body attacking your connective tissues. Those are your joints, tendons, and cartilage.”
She was confused, and for once she didn’t think it was the brain fog. “So I’m going to get Lupus?”
“Well, not necessarily.” A phone rang in the background. “Undifferentiated Connective Tissue Disease could develop into Lupus. It could also stay the same. In some patients, it goes away entirely after treatment.”
Amarie didn’t dare hope, but her heart fluttered in her ribcage. “How do we make it go away?”
“I’ll be honest with you,” Dr. Warren said. “You’ve had these symptoms for several years, which means the likelihood of it going into permanent remission is quite low. But it’s always a possibility. For now I want you to continue the Plaquenil and Prednisone. My goal right now is to get you feeling better. I’ll see you next month and we’ll run labs again. Okay?”
She nodded, forgetting that her rheumatologist couldn’t see her. “Yes. And Dr. Warren?” she asked, her voice thick with emotion.
“Yes?”
“You’re my hero. Thank you.” She blinked away tears.
Dr. Warren chuckled. “Do you believe in God, Amarie?”
“Kind of?” She was pretty sure that doctors weren’t supposed to bring up theology. “Why?”
“I’m just a woman,” Dr. Warren said. “God is the hero.”
“Maybe,” Amarie said softly, “but you listened. Thank you.”
∞∞∞
Pre-Lupus. It was going to take some time to get used to the idea. Amarie wrote out the acronym for her diagnosis in her agenda: UCTD. It wasn’t as simple a diagnosis as, say, Rheumatoid Arthritis. Nor was it as common. Whenever she explained her illness to people, it was going to take more than a few minutes. She wrote out the entire word.
Undifferentiated.
Connective.
Tissue.
Disease.
It sounded like the kind of diagnosis that doctors threw into patients’ files when they didn’t know. She supposed she was kind of an anomaly. Still, most autoimmune patients waited over a decade for the right diagnosis. Autoimmune diseases were tricky, and rarely looked the same from patient to patient. It was kind of a miracle that anyone got diagnosed.
The front door squeaked open, Char’s keys jingling as she let herself in. Amarie stifled a yawn. She’d wanted to talk to Char as soon as the other woman got home, but it was way past her bedtime—especially since she planned on going to work in the morning. She set her agenda aside and called out softly in greeting. “Hey babe.”
“Hey,” Char replied as she made her way into the living room. “What did you do for dinner?”
“Saltines. I was kind of afraid to eat,” she admitted.
“Plaquenil still being an asshole?” Char sat next to her.
Amarie nodded. “I think it’ll be okay. I found some tips online that should help.”
Char’s arm wound around her, drawing her in close. She kissed Amarie’s forehead. “Sorry Plaquenil is being a dick.”
“It really puts the ‘ick' in chronically ill.”
“You’re never icky,” Char said.
She snorted. “Not even when I first wake up, with the Medusa curls?”
“Nope.” Char nodded to the TV. “Wanna watch a movie? I brought home wings, if you want to try them.”
“I’ve got to call it a night.” She snuggled into Char.
“Ah, right. Tomorrow night, then? I’m off.”
“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “So Dr. Warren called me today with my blood work.”
Char’s eyebrows rose. “They found something.”
“Yep. You’re not even a spoonie and you know that.” She explained her new diagnosis.
Charlotte stroked Amarie’s curls with one hand, her other arm wrapped tightly around her. “How are you feeling about this?”
She lifted one shoulder. “Slightly relieved. A little worried. I mean, pre-Lupus? Ay, dios mio,” she muttered. “Dique, it might not turn into Lupus. But still. That attacks your organs. The joint pain and fatigue are bad enough.”
Pressing a kiss to her head, Char released her embrace slightly. “We’ll take it as it comes.” Her hand skimmed the waistband of Amarie’s shorts, trailing the exposed flesh of her belly.
Sparks raced across Amarie’s nerves, gathering in a bundle and pooling in a hot pulse between her legs. She sighed happily. No matter how terrible she felt, it didn’t seem to make Char care for her any less. The other woman always made her feel special and cared for—not to mention unbelievably sexy. Even when she didn’t feel up to sex, Char was always perfectly content to cuddle. She never made Amarie feel bad.
With a smile, Amarie turned until she lay on her back. She cupped Char’s face with her hands and pulled her closer until their lips met.
“I thought you were going to bed?”
“We haven’t christened the couch yet.” She lifted Char’s shirt off, tossing it to the floor.
“When you’re feeling like microwaved zombie tomorrow morning,” Char said between kisses, “you’d better not blame me.”
“It’ll be worth it,” she whispered, unhooking Char’s bra. She palmed Char’s breast with one hand, her other hand tugging at the waistband of Char’s yoga pants. “Off. Please.”
“So demanding,” Char said with a giggle. She obliged, though, wriggling out of her pants and then repositioning herself on top of Amarie.
She had no idea how she’d gotten so lucky. It seemed like, after years of bad luck, Char was her reward for good behavior. She couldn’t imagine being so happy with anyone else. It was a nearly delirious happy, she mused as she took Char’s nipple into her mouth. Her eyelids fluttered closed, her tongue and lips sucking at the pink flesh.
“Oh my God,” Char whispered with a giggle.
Amarie’s lids opened just a fraction. The high coursing through her made her eyes heavy, her body fluid. “Hmn?” she asked with a mouthful of boob.
“The wi
ndow.” Charlotte shook with laughter.
Eyes popping open, she glanced over Char’s shoulders. Sure enough, the window gaped wide open onto the street. The guys hadn’t left blinds, and their landlord hadn’t supplied new ones. She’d meant to get curtains at Target or something, but she’d forgotten—damned brain fog. “Oh,” she groaned, her cheeks and the back of her neck flushing.
Though they were on the third floor, all their neighbors across the street had to do was look out their own windows.
“Maybe we should move this to the bedroom,” Char said.
Before Amarie could agree, she was scooped up into strong but lithe arms. She giggled as Char carried her into the bedroom, laying her down gently on the queen-sized bed she’d brought with her from her parents’ house. Char nudged the door closed with one leg, then advanced toward her.
Lying supine, Amarie lifted her hips and pulled off her panties. They pooled onto the hardwood floor. “Come here,” she told Char.
The little redhead slipped out of her own panties then obeyed. Amarie parted her legs in invitation, one hand trailing down to her clit. Her eyes locked onto Char’s as her thumb drew slow, lazy circles. In the near complete darkness, they were mostly silhouettes to each other, but Char’s sharp exhalation told her that she saw enough.
Then Char pressed herself against Amarie, flesh joined, fingers laced above their heads. She ground against Char, pressure building with each slick slide. Char met her thrust for thrust, the leverage and friction drawing her closer and closer. She could tell Char was almost there, too, by the tightening of her fingers around Amarie’s.
After a few minutes of missionary grinding against each other, though, her hips decided they were all done. Wincing, she paused.
“Let’s try something else,” Char said, rolling off of her.
“Oh? What tricks do you have up your sleeve?”
Her girl lay on her side next to Amarie. “Can you lie like this too, and face me?”
She tested the position. “Looks like it’ll hold.” She grinned. Sometimes sex could be so awkward—especially with her surly joints—but Char never made her feel incompetent. She was always willing to try different things, to modify positions. She was even willing to just cuddle and talk when Amarie’s body refused to go along with it.
Reaching across the bed between them, Char drew a finger down toward Amarie’s vagina. Two fingers scissored open, gently parting her folds. “We haven’t done this yet,” she said in a low voice. “Are you okay with me going inside of you?”
She nodded. “Please,” she whispered.
Char’s longest finger caressed Amarie’s clit, drawing tiny circles around it. With every revolution, she became more and more wet. Char’s finger trailed further down. “Ready?”
She grabbed Char’s hand. “Yes,” she said, pressing her finger inside of her.
As Char plunged into her, her walls clenched around her finger. “Slow?” she asked, going as deep as she could. She drew out, taking her time. “Or fast?” She sank into her again, but instead of pulling out, she bent her finger into a comma, stroking the spongey back wall that led deeper into Amarie.
“Damn,” Amarie choked out. Blinking, she willed herself to come back down to Earth, to regain enough presence of mind to reciprocate.
After all, it was no fun coming by herself.
In the dark, she found her way to Char’s entrance. “Baby, I’m going to fuck you, too, if that’s all right?” She blushed. She’d never been much of a dirty talker, but Char brought out all kinds of facets of her wild side.
“I was hoping you’d ask,” her girl said.
Fingers slippery with Char’s arousal, she matched her thrust for thrust. Though she had to twist her wrist to reach all of the right spots at the right angles, she soon forgot about the pain in her joints. She’d feel it after—and she’d definitely pay for it—but for the moment, lust wrapped its hazy arms around her. Being with Char was the strongest painkiller in the world.
When she came, Char went with her. She tumbled over the edge, wrapping her arms around Char’s waist and moaning into her mouth as their lips latched again. Spent, body heavy with the afterglow, she curled herself around Char and immediately fell asleep.
∞∞∞
The next morning, Amarie took her meds after she parked in front of the school. So far, so good. She grabbed her tote bag and smoothed her black blouse and green cargo capris. She was ready. It was going to be a good day, damn it.
She strode into the building, appreciating the loose feel to her joints. Part of it was definitely Prednisone, but also Char. Love certainly couldn’t conquer all, but it could definitely make a girl feel good. Loving Char was like a perpetual warm bath.
“Good morning,” she said to teachers as she passed them in the halls.
As she neared the main office, her principal Hugh Moran stepped into view. His nearly seven-foot frame filled the entire doorway. He ducked under it and headed toward her.
“Good morning, Mr. Moran,” she called.
“Morning. Welcome back.” He smiled gently at her. “Can I see you in my office for a moment?”
Though he was still smiling, her heart thumped nervously. “Of course.” She followed him into the main office, weaving past the front desk and into the room that served as his office.
Hugh seated himself behind his desk and motioned for her to sit.
She put her tote bag at her feet, tucking them under the chair.
“It looks like you’re feeling better,” he said.
“I am.” And she was. Taking Plaquenil twenty minutes after eating seemed to be the trick. It was even playing nicely with her second cup of coffee.
He nodded, then placed his large hands on the desktop calendar. He drummed his fingers on it. “This isn’t easy for me to do.”
“What isn’t?” She swallowed in an attempt to force her heart down out of her throat.
He watched her from behind black thick-rimmed spectacles. “I’ll just cut to the chase.” Still, he ran a hand through sandy hair speckled with gray. “Well, first I want to tell you that we appreciate you. You filled damn near impossible shoes to fill, and the children adore you.”
Her shoulders sagged as realization sank in. He was going to fire her—she’d been through it before. She blinked away tears, willing herself not to cry in front of him.
“As you know, your position was temporary. We’d hoped to find something permanent for you, but . . .” He turned his hands over, palms up. “We need someone who’s going to be here more.”
She bit her lower lip, mind racing. She’d thought the Americans with Disabilities Act—or even the teachers’ union—would protect her from losing her job. Without a more permanent position, though, she wasn’t eligible to join the union.
“I understand that your illness can be demanding and unpredictable.” He frowned. “I just don’t have the budget to bring subs in when you’re already my sub. I’m sure you understand.”
She did. She truly did. Still, it stung. With a sigh, she lifted her chin. “Am I finishing out the day?”
He shook his head. “I’ve already got someone to cover the last couple weeks of school.” He drew a folder from the stack on his desk. “I did arrange for a severance package for you, though.”
She supposed it was better than being unemployed and broke, but panic rose in her chest. She needed to make rent, to pay bills. She’d anticipated a summer off, but she hadn’t expected to go into the fall without a job.
“I’m really sorry,” Hugh said. He did sound sincere. At least there was that.
After looking over the paperwork, Amarie signed and dated it, then accepted the copy that Hugh made for her. She tucked it into her tote bag, then stood. “Well, thank you for the opportunity,” she managed. How she wasn’t sobbing on the floor, she didn’t know.
“If a permanent position opens up,” Hugh said, “you will be the first person I contact. I promise.”
She shook hands with h
im, but she didn’t take his words to heart. No matter how much he hadn’t wanted to fire her, he essentially ran a business. And business was business. She was sure that he would be able to find someone who didn’t have to call out because their meds were giving them shitty side effects. Literally.
Once she was safely in her Hyundai, she let the tears come. They dribbled down her cheeks and dripped onto her pants, leaving dark green splotches. She had no idea how she was going to tell Char. They’d just moved in, and already they were going to have to move out. She’d have to go back to her parents’, she realized with a pang.
She slumped against her seat. It wasn’t fair. She’d failed. She was a complete and utter failure. She’d barely graduated. She’d hung onto her job at Dunkin Donuts by the skin of her teeth. She’d thought that, once she started treatment, things would be different. Yet there she was, in the middle of a parking lot instead of inside with her students.
She couldn’t go home. Char was there, relaxing or cleaning or something before she had to go into work at The 545. She would have to tell Char eventually, but at the moment, she didn’t have the heart to. There was nowhere else for her to go, though. She certainly couldn’t afford to get herself a pity cup of coffee. Every penny counted.
At least she had the severance. It could get her through the next couple of months—if she was careful. As a substitute, she hadn’t been making much money as it was, and she hadn’t been there long enough to qualify for unemployment.
There weren’t many options for people with chronic illnesses, she surmised.
She wondered if she’d even be able to get another job. Though Hugh liked her well enough, he couldn’t exactly recommend her to another employer. She was essentially unreliable.
Her hard-earned degree, she realized, was useless.
Chapter 18
Despite the air conditioner in the living room window, the apartment was near blistering warm in the July heat. Char plugged the new box fan she’d bought into the outlet, lifted it onto one of their kitchen chairs, and turned it on high. Then she angled the chair toward the other side of the apartment. Hoping to get the cold air circulating, she plugged in an oscillating on the opposite end, where it would—hopefully—catch the breeze from the box fan.
Any Other Love Page 17
