34. MADDIE

CHAPTER 34

MADDIE

W hen I open my eyes, and the first thing I see is my mother's face, I immediately know something's up.

"Whargh?"

Wow, what was that gibberish that just came out of my mouth?

I try to sit up and—nope. My body's not having it. In fact, I may not even have a body anymore. I've officially turned into a raw nerve that has been stabbed in the deepest fiber.

"Maddie, sweetie," my mother says, and I feel her cold hand grab mine. "Does your head hurt that bad? Excuse me, my daughter needs stronger?—"

"Not my head. It's my freaking uterus !" Every word comes out as a groan, and the last one as a scream. Too late I realize I don't even know if I'm someplace where it's okay to vociferate about my lady parts.

Mom sounds perplexed as she asks, "Your what?"

It takes monumental effort to open my eyes and survey the situation. By the fluid bag hanging next to my bed, and the fact I'm in a bed, I put two and two together. Gasping, I think back to what happened. One moment, I was trying to hide from Aran behind a bookshelf in the library, and the next… nothing. Until now.

I fainted again.

Oh no. I fainted in front of Aran .

His name spills out of my mouth unbidden, and Mom surprises me by squeezing my hand. "Your boyfriend seems like a decent fellow—strong too, because he carried you here. But I don't want you sleeping with him nilly willy, Maddie. What if the problem is that you're pregnant? You're just twenty-one!"

"What?" A couple other patients and a nurse turn at my screech. Pulling up the thin blanket, I hide my face with it. "Mother, what the heck are you talking about?"

"Aaron, right? Your boyfriend who arrived late at Meg's wedding and whisked you away."

I could cry. Or laugh. The sound that comes from my throat is a combination.

"It's Aran, not Aaron. And he's not my boyfriend. No pregnancy. Oh my word!"

She settles back on the chair and smooths the bedsheet as far as she can reach. "Well, the doctor did say you weren't pregnant, but I just wanted to make sure."

"I'd say a doctor is even more reliable than me."

"I just worry about you. You're my baby."

Irritation surges up my throat, and I clamp my mouth tight to hold it back. I don't want to explode on my mother in the middle of what is clearly an ER, surrounded by patients and hospital staff coming and going.

After taking a few deep breaths, I say through gritted teeth, "Don't worry, Mom. It's as you suspected at Meg's wedding. Aran and I are just friends. It's inconceivable that he'd impregnate me."

"I didn't say it was inconceivable. In fact?—"

"No, it was written all over your face."

She huffs. "Okay, maybe I was surprised. But not now. The way he was so eaten up with worry out there, you'd think the guy's wife was going into labor."

I bark out an awkward laugh that makes my abdomen spasm painfully. "Mom, please stop. If you keep saying absurd stuff like that, I'll have to laugh, and it makes my womb hurt."

"Then, what is wrong with your…" With a frown, she leans down and whispers, "Nether regions?"

Where's a black hole when you need one to swallow you whole?

"My uterus, mother. You know my periods are murderous."

Her whole face, so much like Meg's, with slim cheeks and a pointy nose, scrunches up. "To the point of fainting?"

I sigh. "Yes, this isn't the first time."

"What do you mean by that?"

At the edge in her voice, I realize that, uh, yeah… I made teenage Meg swear she'd never tell our mother, and Meg happens to be really good at keeping secrets. She's turned it into a professional career, even.

So, nine years later, I finally confess the whole story to Mom. One afternoon, some months after I'd gotten my first period, Meg and I were alone at home. I had a really bad pain episode and basically dropped like an anvil in the middle of a conversation with my sister. Cue her panicking, thinking I'd just spontaneously died on her, until I came to a few minutes later.

Of course, being a responsible person, Meg wanted to tell Mom the second she walked through the door. But I was twelve, okay? Everything about periods was extremely embarrassing, and we both knew Mom's capacity for making a whole mountain range out of a molehill. I begged Meg to not say anything unless it happened again, and it didn't. She sort of forgot about it.

Except I didn't. Knowing that, with every period, I could get pain so severe I could lose consciousness has made me walk on eggshells every month—or whenever my dang period does end up arriving. I have to walk closer to furniture, move slower, do less, and I've been okay taking all those precautions.

Until today, when I thought I could outrun a whole elite athlete. Or rather, not him, but my feelings for him. I simply have Mom's talent of making a whole mountain range out of a molehill. The time has come to accept that I truly am her daughter.

When I finish the tale, Mom's jaw is dropped. "Maddie! Why did you never say so?"

"I have." I know I sound like a whiny baby, and I don't care. "I've told you a million times my periods are extremely bad, and you never believed me."

"You never said they're bad enough to faint!"

"Well, you should've just taken me at my word! You and every doctor who's thought I was exaggerating for attention!"

"Shh! This is a hospital, for goodness' sake."

We both shut up at the admonishment. I hide under the blanket, but Mom has nowhere to go, so she sits there, her cheeks as red as apples and wearing an expression that says this is far from over. But as far as I'm concerned, it is. I'm done telling her my body hates me. And I'm even more done talking to her about anything and having her dismissing it.

The silence between us stretches unbearably until a doctor shows up at the foot of my bed. He grabs a chart, scans it quickly, and joins Mom at the side of the bed.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Pranad, RE."

"RE?" Mom and I ask at the same time. We exchange an annoyed glance.

"Reproductive Endocrinologist."

Mom draws in a sharp breath, and I cut in before she talks. "Mom, for the last time, I am not preg?—"

"She's not pregnant," the doctor says with a nod. "But she may need a gynecologist who also specializes in hormones. That's me."

"Oh."

While Mom eases back in her chair, I sit up straighter. "Hormones? Do I have a problem with my hormones?"

"Maybe. We'll run some tests starting now if you're up for it."

"Oh, I am so up for it." Tears brim in my eyes as if on cue. "I'm so ready to finally figure out what the hell is wrong with me."

"Madeline, language!"

"Fine, Mother. I will express myself in clearer terms." Turning to the doctor, I ask, "Dr. Pranad, can you please help me find out what in the actual hell is wrong with me?"

"Madeline!" Mom hits me in the arm hard enough that I'm sure it's left a mark, but all I do is laugh. Especially when the physician himself looks like he's holding back his own amusement.

I thought because I landed in the ER, the test would be some fancy, bank-breaking stuff. But no. It was just a good old ultrasound and more bloodwork.

But from the ultrasound results alone, Dr. Pranad says, "Yep, you have PCOS."

Mom gasps, bringing her hands to her mouth in abject horror. I shift wide eyes between her and the doctor.

"Um, is that cancer?" I ask.

"No, no. Polycystic ovary syndrome basically means your ovaries don't work like they should."

My hand flies up to rub my nape like Aran does all the time. The sharp pain in my head makes me realize what I'm doing. I drop my hand back to my lap.

"You have some of the visible signs," the doctor keeps saying, all blasé. "More body hair than average, overweight, extreme period pain. You probably have too much androgen too, but we'll confirm that in a few days."

"Doctor." Mom is serious as she cuts in. "What does that mean for my daughter? Like, for her health and her daily life. Is she going to be okay?"

"Sure, I have many patients with PCOS." He shrugs, because obviously, this issue doesn't want to unalive him every month. "Madeline's particular case looks to be on the severe end. It's a good thing she's getting diagnosed early, before any irreversible complications."

I swallow hard. "Like what?"

"Worst case, type-two diabetes, heart issues, masses, and fertility issues."

"Oh no." Mom's pale and wringing her hands. "What should she do to manage this?"

"Eat healthy, exercise. Losing weight helps?—"

"I told you?—"

But before Mom finishes, the doctor adds, "But my patients often say it's extremely hard to do so, and I get it. Your weight can naturally be off range when your hormones are out of whack."

"Thank you!" I throw my hands in the air and go the extra petty way and turn to Mom. "I told you so!"

"But you can still eat healthy and exercise," she snips back.

"I climb four sets of stairs up and down every day. I wouldn't say I'm a freaking sloth."

"The contraceptive pill also helps," Dr. Pranad says into the ether, because Mom and I are in our dimension.

"You can't possibly call that exercising, Madeline."

"Well, do you want me to join a CrossFit gym or something? Good luck getting me to lift weights that could kill me if I faint because of my period pain."

"It doesn't have to be so extreme. Just walking every day is fine. And also layoff the takeout."

I throw my head back and laugh. "I do takeout once a week, Mom. I can't afford more than that."

"Then why are you so… so chubby?"

"It's the PCOS," the doctor says.

Mom turns sharply to him. "But didn't you say the way to treat it is by losing weight?"

"Yes."

"That makes no sense," Mom fires back.

He nods. "Yes, I know."

"What?" The question is more rhetorical, because she leans back and shifts her attention to me as if seeing me for my first time. Blinking hard, as if she can't quite believe the picture she's seeing.

I wipe a tear from my cheek. "I told you it wasn't my fault. I told you it's not like I want to be this way. It's just how I am."

"But…"

Dr. Pranad checks his watch. "Sorry to cut this short, but I have another patient waiting. Madeline, set up an appointment after your bloodwork results are in, okay?"

"Yes, sir," I say in a mumble. "Um, thank you for everything."

Mom also expresses her gratitude, and we tumble out of the office into the hallway. Well, I do. Mom grabs me by the arm and steadies me. I don't know if it's because the painkillers haven't fully kicked in yet or if it's because I'm just shaken by the whole thing.

"So the good news is that I'm not dying, even though I do feel like crap," I say too lightly.

The crease between Mom's eyebrows deepens. "Yes, that is definitely good."

"The bad news is that I'm probably going to keep being fat for the rest of my life."

As we walk down the hall, Mom sighs several times. Finally, she says, "Sweetie, I don't hate that you're fat?—"

"Sure could've fooled me."

"I've just always worried that you weren't healthy."

"Funny, I always thought I was. Do you know how many salads vegetarians eat?" I snort. We exit the building at my snail's pace, and people look at the bandage around my head, probably imagining I had some terrible accident.

"Well, but you're not fully healthy, right? Otherwise, your ovaries would be normal." She stops us in the middle of the parking lot and muses aloud. "Come to think, Dr. Pranad didn't say why your ovaries aren't normal."

In her car, we Google PCOS and find an answer. A bull crap one: no one knows why ovaries act up and cause PCOS.

"Great." I grunt. "I basically have an unknown thing that has no specific treatment. Just peachy."

We're quiet as she drives away from the hospital. I'm so tired, even though it's barely noon and I haven't done much today—aside from making an absolute fool of myself and collecting new medical debt. What a great day.

It takes me a moment to recognize the streets, and I say, "Oh, I no longer live here. I moved."

"You what? Why the hickory am I just finding that out now?"

"Because we don't talk, Mom. Or rather, every time we do, you just want to complain about how imperfect I am and you don't care how much it hurts."

"I don't—" She splutters for a bit. "I'm your mother, Madeline. It's my job to worry about you."

"Well, just—stop worrying and accept me as I am!"

Aaand we're officially back to screaming.

"Of course I accept you! I love you more than anything else, and if I could make everything perfect for you, I would, no matter what it takes!"

"How is complaining about how my arms look or what I want to do for a living loving me? I just don't get it!"

"Because I worry!" She's breathing hard and has to stop herself. After a moment, she adds, more softly, "I worry that others are treating you badly because you look a bit different from them, and maybe if you try to look a bit more like them, they'll leave you alone."

"I'm not in middle school anymore, Mom. People in college could not care less about how I look. And actually, someone even told me I am damn hot. His words, not mine."

"Aaron?"

I clear my throat. "Aran. And maybe. What makes you think it's him?"

"That boy is absolutely smitten with you." She smiles a little. "Didn't I mention he carried you?"

I turn toward the window, hoping to hide the heat blooming in my face. "It's not the first time."

"See?"

I can't possibly explain to her how she's seeing something that isn't there. Aran made it very clear that he wants us to be friends and nothing more. And then I shot that down, so now we're nothing at all.

Rather than that, I say, "My point is, you really don't have to fret about how I look. As long as I'm as healthy as my ovaries let me be, it's fine."

"Fine. No more talking about your weight."

The way I whip toward her makes me dizzy. "For real?"

Mom grips the steering wheel tighter but nods. "Yes."

"What about complaining about my career choice?"

"That's different." Her stern frown is back. "Can you guarantee you'll always be able to support yourself with books?"

"Can you guarantee you'll always have a job as a teacher?"

"What kind of logic is that?"

I laugh. "Nothing in life is ever guaranteed. But I can tell you that there are many, many people making hundreds of thousands and even millions of dollars publishing, so… it may be tight sometimes, but I want to pursue what I love. What I'm good at."

Even though she keeps her attention on the road, she does several double takes. "Excuse me? Millions?"

"And hundreds of thousands."

"But millions?"

I nudge her. "What, do you like books now?"

"Oh, yes. Big fan." I start to laugh, but she cuts me off when she says, "I've already preordered your book. You'll sign it for me, right?"

First my mouth opens. Then my chin starts trembling.

"Y-You did?"

Mom huffs. "How could I not? You talk about it all the time."

"I, uh—I didn't think you were paying attention."

"I listen to every word you say, Maddie. And I scan every inch of you every time I see you to make sure there's not a scratch on you. Because you're my baby daughter, and I have to worry over you for your dad's share too."

"Great." I sniffle. "Now I'm crying."

Since we're at a red light, she reaches over and wipes my cheek with her thumb. Smiling softly, she says, "So, where are you living now, and why did you move?"

With a shaky breath, I explain the whole story, not just how to get there. And for the first time in as far as I remember, my mom and I have a conversation. A good one. And we don't even shout again.