4. Isla

4

ISLA

PRESENT DAY

“ H ome sweet home,” I mutter to myself as I pause the true crime podcast I’m listening to. I thank the flight attendants and pilots just before I step off the airplane. I adjust my bookbag as quickly as possible to better manage the weight on my back, walk past the gate, and head toward baggage claim. The faster I got out of here, the better.

How fast I can get out of here depends on how much my body is willing to cooperate with me. That’s why I’m standing in this airport, anyway.

The trek to baggage claim doesn’t take long, and I find my parents standing there just as quickly. I’m somewhat surprised to see Dad there at all, given his busy schedule coaching hockey, but it’s the one tiny bit of happiness I have given the situation. Having both of my parents here means the world to me. I put a smile on my face and wave, bracing myself for our reunion.

“Isla!” Mom rushes forward, pulling me in a hug that threatens to squeeze the life out of me. “How are you feeling? Was the flight okay? Do you need to sit down?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, although I understand her overreaction. “I’m fine, Mom. Just tired.”

Dad gives me a knowing look and rescues me from Mom’s embrace. “Let’s get your bags and head home. You look like you could use a nap.”

He’s not wrong about that. Although I’d dozed off somewhat on the plane, there’s nothing like a warm bath and lying in my bed to make me feel better. Or so I hope.

As we wait for my luggage, I can’t help but feel sad and disappointed with myself. I thought my return to Crestwood would go differently. Hell, I planned to fly home in December, and yet here I am, back stateside a few months early with a body that feels like it’s betraying me.

Dad moves forward to grab my bags as they appear on the carousel. As I reach out to help, Mom’s hand on my arm stops me.

“Let your father handle it, sweetie,” she says softly, “You shouldn’t strain yourself. In fact, hand me your bookbag, so you don’t have to carry that either.”

I bite my tongue, holding back the response that I want to make because I know what she’s saying is coming from a place of love. However, that doesn’t stop my frustration, which continues to build. I can pick up a suitcase, for crying out loud. But as I watch Dad snatch my overstuffed suitcases off the belt, I admit that maybe she has a point.

I hand over my bookbag, and my parents and I make our way through the airport and out to where they parked the SUV they bought several years ago. Dad pops the trunk while Mom makes her way to the back passenger-side door.

“I brought a blanket, pillow, and some snacks in case you wanted something for the ride home,” she says as she places my bookbag on the seat.

I walk around to the other back door and open it so I can stare at her. “Mom, the airport is, like, twenty-five minutes from our house.”

“You might need something in that time.”

I shake my head and take my time getting into the vehicle. For now, I feel okay, but who knows how quickly that will change.

As we pull out of the airport parking lot, I lean against the window, watching the familiar scenery that showcases we’re on our way home. The fatigue is already settling in, but I don’t want to fall asleep because we’ll be home soon enough. I try to focus on what’s outside my window instead of the dull ache in my lower abdomen.

“How are you feeling?” Mom asks for what feels like the hundredth time since we left the airport.

“I’m fine, Mom,” I reply, trying to keep my voice neutral. “Just tired.” That buys me some time before she asks again.

As we ride along, I spot the familiar sign for Crestwood University. All I can do is sigh as my stomach does a little flip because of the strange turn of events that has led me back here.

A few months into my high school senior year, I decided I wouldn’t attend Crestwood University the following fall and instead went to NYU. This funny thing called life has shifted my plans entirely, forcing me to come back to Virginia during the middle of the school year so that I can be close to home while figuring out what is wrong with me.

As we pass the campus, I think about all the what-ifs and could-have-beens. What if I’d just stayed here in the first place? Would things be different now? Would I still be dealing with my body deciding that now is the time to fight against me?

I shake my head because the thoughts are ridiculous. There is no use in dwelling on the past now, and whatever is going on with my body could have happened at any time or anywhere. I’m here, whether I like it or not, and I’ll have to make the best of it.

“Isla, I got your room ready,” Mom says, twisting in her seat to look back at me. “I thought you might want to rest when we get home, so I made sure everything was all set up for you.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. I’m not in the mood for conversation, but I don’t want to appear ungrateful. My parents don’t have to do any of this for me, and I’m grateful for my support system.

“Grace also asked how you were doing.” I know Mom is trying to keep the conversation going to help with the awkwardness of everything.

“I know. She sent me a text last night.” And that is all I offer because there is nothing else I want to say.

Surprisingly, the rest of the ride back to my childhood home is quiet. Once Dad pulls into our driveway and cuts the engine, Mom is out of the car and opening my door before I can unbuckle my seatbelt.

“Careful,” she says as she lingers nearby while I climb out of the SUV. “Don’t overexert yourself.”

I bite back a sarcastic retort. “Mom, I’m okay. Seriously.”

“We’ll get you settled in, and then your mom and I will leave you alone for a while,” Dad chimes in.

That sounds all right to me. We go to the front door together, and we are immediately greeted by Bella, our golden retriever. Her golden coat shines in the light, her tail wagging so fast it's almost a blur. As if sensing that I need the most attention, or perhaps because it's been a while since she's seen me, Bella comes to me first, nudging my hand with her nose. Her boundless energy is something I truly missed while I was abroad.

“Hello, old girl,” I say as I slowly bend down to greet her. She gives me several kisses, and I can't help but laugh. She knows exactly what I need.

Once we finish our greeting, I stand up and notice the familiar scent that can only be described as home greets me. Mom or Dad must have put dinner in the slow cooker, and whatever it is smells amazing. It reminds me of all the times as a kid when Mom would fix dinner this way because we were always on the go between my dad’s schedule and the activities Grace and I took part in.

“We’ll bring your bags up in a bit,” Mom says, already heading for the kitchen. “Why don’t you go lie down? I’ll bring you something warm to drink. Maybe tea?”

“Actually, I think I’m going to take a bath first. Is that okay?” I answer.

“Of course.” Mom pauses for a second. “Do you need any help?”

I shake my head, already heading for the stairs. “No, I’ve got it. Thanks.”

I make my way upstairs to my room, fighting the urge to collapse onto my bed. It’s almost like a time capsule from when I was in high school. Posters of my favorite bands and photography awards still cover the walls. A picture frame sits on the nightstand with a photo of Selene and me, both of us smiling without a care in the world. Behind it is a secret I've been keeping. It's an older photo of Asher and me, from when we were happy and in love.

At first, I had placed it there as a symbol of our relationship hiding in plain sight. Now, it’s just something I never had the courage to get rid of because it was such a cute photo. Not that any of that matters now.

Overall, I can’t help but feel a strange mix of nostalgia and discomfort, as if I’ve stepped back into a version of myself I thought I had moved on from.

Instead, I walk toward my bathroom and am thrilled to see that Mom also restocked everything there. With a heavy breath, I lock the door behind me and turn the faucet on.

As I wait for the water to fill up, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Dark circles under my eyes, skin paler than usual. The messy ponytail I put my hair in before I left Italy is still intact. I look as exhausted as I feel.

I rub a hand across my chin and feel the stubble. The more pronounced hair on my face makes me want to cry. I do my best to hide it, but having to shave so often just to not feel self-conscious sometimes feels like a job in itself. Sure, it only takes a minute, but it’s another checkmark on the list of things that make me feel broken. I open the brand-new razor Mom left me and get to work removing the hair as a tear slides down my face.

I watch myself in the mirror and think about the first time I noticed it. I was twelve, maybe thirteen, and I wondered why my face didn’t look as smooth as the other girls'. Back then, I tried to pretend it didn't bother me, but it did. It still does.

Once I'm done, my skin feels smooth, but it doesn’t bring me much comfort. It's a temporary fix for something I wish I didn’t have to deal with at all.

I toss a rose-scented bath bomb into the water. Once the water is at my desired depth, I peel off my travel-worn clothes and sink into the warm water, hoping it will soothe the aches and pains coursing through my body.

I close my eyes, trying to focus on relaxing and smelling the scent of roses. But my mind keeps drifting back to the whirlwind of the past few days. The sudden, intense pain that had me doubled over in my room in Rome. The frantic calls to my parents and being taken to the hospital. And then, before I knew it, I was on a plane back home.

A sharp cramp in my lower abdomen makes me wince. I take a deep breath, willing the pain to go away. This isn’t how I pictured starting my junior year of college. I was supposed to be exploring Europe, learning more about its art and culture. Instead, I’m back in my childhood bathroom, trying to calm the war going on within me.

After soaking until the water turns lukewarm, I dry off and change into my comfiest pajamas. When I open the bathroom door, the smell of chicken noodle soup greets me. That must be what is in the slow cooker. My stomach growls, reminding me I didn’t eat on the plane.

I spy my suitcases sitting near the end of my bed, informing me that my parents brought my things up for me. I debate whether I want to go downstairs to eat at the dining room table or stay here to eat in bed. Eating in bed sounds too good to resist, so I find my phone in my bookbag. I turn off airplane mode and quickly text my mom to let her know my decision before crawling under the covers.

I’ve barely settled in when there’s a soft knock at my door. “Come in,” I call out, wincing at the slight tremor in my voice.

Mom and Bella enter my room. Bella hops on my bed and gets comfortable near my feet while Mom is balancing a tray with what looks like a steaming bowl of soup, a mug of what smells like chamomile tea, a small plate of crackers, and some medicine. “Here’s dinner,” she says, setting the tray on my nightstand.

“Thanks for bringing it up for me,” I say, genuinely grateful. The aroma of the soup makes my stomach growl again.

She hovers for a moment, clearly wanting to say more. “No problem. Do you need anything else? Extra pillows? Another blanket?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m good. Really.”

She nods but doesn’t move. “Okay. I’ll let you rest. Let me know if you need anything else.”

I force a smile. “I will, Mom. Thanks.”

Finally, she leaves, closing the door behind her. I let out a long breath, reaching for the soup to get something in my stomach before I take the medication. As I eat, I scroll through my phone, seeing messages from my friends who are still in Rome, asking how I’m doing. I swallow a heavy lump in my throat as I realize what my leaving caused. My eyes fill with tears as I think about the fact that I won’t be returning.

I set my phone aside, unable to muster up enough energy to reply. The soup is soothing but doesn’t stop the dark thoughts surrounding me. I cannot express enough how grateful I am for my parents’ care, but being back in my childhood room feels like a step in the wrong direction.

My phone buzzes again as I finish my meal and take the medication. This time, it’s a text from Selene.

Selene: Are you home yet? I hope you had a good flight.

I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of me wants to put the phone down and ignore her message for now until I feel more like myself.

I stare at it for a while, debating if or how to respond. Finally, I find the words.

Me: Just got home. Exhausted. Talk tomorrow?

Selene: Of course! Get some rest. Call me when you’re up for it.

I smile faintly at her response. Selene has always been good at reading my moods, even through text, and since she knows as much as I do about my condition, I knew she would understand. I set my phone aside and sink deeper into my pillows, letting out a long sigh.

I close my eyes, willing sleep to come, and when it finally does, the only thing I dream of is finding answers to the medical questions that are burning a hole in my soul.