Page 69 of The Turning of the Tables

20

ELLIOT CRANE

How are you feeling?

SETH MAYS

Like shit.

Scared.

My phone buzzed.

I wiped the tears off my face before I answered it, even though Elliot couldn’t see me. But it made me at least feel a little bit like I was more in control of myself.

I wasn’t.

But I needed every little lie I could tell myself.

“What symptoms do you have?” he asked me, before I even managed to say anything. His voice was tight, sharp.

I sniffled a little. “Congestion,” I told him, although it was half because of Arcana and half because I’d been absolutely freaking out. “A splitting headache. Nausea, although I haven’t actually been sick. Sore throat.” I also sounded like someone had run an angle grinder over my vocal chords, but he could hear that without me needing to tell him.

“Any pain other than your head and throat?”

I let out a deep breath. “Nothing new.” I had to sound miserable. I felt miserable. If I were being honest with myself—which I sometimes manage to do—the illness itself wasn’t actually that bad. At least not yet. It was the dread and fear, the anticipation of some greater catastrophe, that was the worst part. So far.

I knew that some people got through Arcana with little more than cold symptoms. Other people, like Quincy, had worse symptoms, but were ultimately fine. It was entirely possible that I wasn’t going to feel any worse than this. Or maybe only a little worse. And that would mean that all my anxiety and fear were for nothing.

It was also possible that they were very much for good reason.

And that was the part that was absolutely turning my stomach in knots.

“What do you mean,” Elliot asked me. “‘Nothing new’?”

I felt my brow furrow. “No pain that I didn’t already have?”

“Do you often have pain?” he asked, and he might have sounded concerned.

“Yes?”

“Why?” He sounded genuinely surprised… and something else, although I couldn’t tell what it was.

“I have chronic Lyme,” I said softly.

“This goes with the alpha—” He paused, clearly not remembering it.

“Alpha-gal,” I finished for him. “You’d think so, but no. I’ve had Lyme since I was twelve. I didn’t get the alpha-gal until late last fall.”

He was silent for a moment. “That’s a lot of tick bites,” he observed.

“Two,” I said. “I mean, I’ve had more than that. Maybe five? Six? But…” I wasn’t sure how to finish that thought.

“I’m sorry, Seth,” he said gently.

I shrugged, even though he couldn’t see me. “It is what it is,” I replied, feeling even more awkward that usual. I never know how to respond when people express their sympathies for my Lyme. I get it when people want you to feel better because you’re sick or injured, but when they say something about a chronic condition it’s just… weird.

Like, I’m also sorry I have Lyme and alpha-gal. I’d liked meat and cheese, and now I wouldn’t ever be able to have them again without risking death. I also really wasn’t a fan of having swollen and painful joints that would give me arthritis before I hit forty. But are you supposed to say that?Yeah, I’m sorry too. Or do you thank them for pitying you? Because that also feels wrong.