Page 49 of The Unfluencer

“One sec…” Priscilla is up and moving about her bedroom, tears dried, rifling through snacks. But then she stops in front of the screen, hair still socket-shocked, squinting as she bends into the frame. “Wait, have you checked your lab results?”

“They haven’t returned my call yet.”

Priscilla twists her lips. “I know, but did you check the app? They usually upload the results and set follow-up appointments to discuss them with you, in case you’ve got questions.”

“Oh.” I didn’t think of that.

“Log in. There should be a list of records, vaccine history, previous visits, prescriptions. Look for lab results.”

Scrolling slowly, I scan each heading.

“Ooh, it’s here. She wants to see me again Monday, March first… and there’s a link dated for last week’s appointment.”

“What’s it say?” she asks.

Shallow breaths, heart thudding, I click on it and scan the page until my eyes hit a complete curveball.

Jagged and sharp against my throat, I say, “Abnormal.”

“Oh, well it’s probably fine.” She’s super nonchalant. “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything dire. Which one? The pap or the mammogram?”

Icy fear chills my blood as I cup my precious boobs. “Both.”

My mind spirals into a kaleidoscope of depressing fractals.

This is it, I think. I’m headed to departures, and I’ve got nothing to show for this lifetime. A beautiful gallery that was just getting started. A nonprofit partnership set to pave the way for young, underprivileged Black artists. A six-bedroom, chateau-style, multi-generational home with a spacious living room and two stone fireplaces that I paid way too much for. But that’s really it.

Emotion thickens in my throat.

I never got to meet Prince or Michael. No monuments erected in my likeness. I don’t even know if I’m capable of real love because I was raised by narcissists who only ever neglected me and used money to manipulate me, so I’m basically a hardened, heartless shrew who has a beef with wealthy folks.

“Dammit, I thought I had time.”

I drop my phone, chest tight, skin on fire, my whole world flashing before my eyes as I slow-motion fall back onto my bed into darkness. Vaguely, I hear Priscilla’s faraway voice saying my name, talking. But I only catch a handful of words.

Emergency.

Abnormal.

Warner.

Definitely horror-movie stuff.

Chapter Eleven

Whitney

Inheritance

Suddenly, light floods the room. The world refocuses, coming in loud and in blinding Technicolor. And all I can think is, Keep your eyes closed, Whit. Whatever you do, don’t be that woman who stupidly looks into the light.

“Whit?”

It’s Priscilla’s faraway voice.

Logically, I was on the phone with her, and she does have an emergency key to my house. I should just open my eyes and realize my five minutes to be dramatic are over. But there’s this part of me that knows those terrifying scenes just before the end, when the person has just been in a horrible accident or encounters a shifty character in a dark alley. They blink, and suddenly it’s all warm light and thrown voices guiding them into the afterlife.

“Oh my gosh. Open your eyes.” She groans.