Nothing good came from a 5 a.m. text.
Ivy
Camila had gotten out of bed to pee and was going to sleep in until she looked at her phone and read that. Leaping out of bed, she typed a very panicked response back to Ivy.
Camila
Ivy sent the hospital name and said she was about to be taken back and put under. Muttering curses, Camila tore through drawers, looking for comfy sweats and baggy t-shirts and stuffing them in her gym bag. She asked Google to read her an article about ruptured ovarian cysts, then tried to wipe the article from her brain so she wouldn’t double over herself imagining the pain. She didn’t think she was squeamish, but the roiling nausea in her belly was making her question that.
She took three deep breaths. OK. Surgery would take a while. There was little she could do. She should drink coffee so she’d be awake enough to drive. She should eat something because she might not get a chance later. She should read up more, make sure she was bringing what Ivy actually needed. Twenty minutes. She’d give herself 20 minutes to calmly prepare.
During that 20 minutes, she texted Rahul to make sure he knew what was happening. The ever practical Ivy had texted him right before Camila, so he was already prepared to cover for her at the gym and then come see her after. Camila then texted Era, who was up early troubleshooting an app glitch, and Era volunteered to go to Target to stock up on supplies for after surgery.
Ivy was still under when Camila arrived at the hospital. A few other people were in the waiting room. A local news broadcast was playing on the TV mounted high in a corner. Camila occupied herself with scrolling through BuzzFeed and adding random products she knew she’d probably never need or buy to her Amazon wishlist.
How she wished her coffee was spiked. She’d welcome the splintery oak sting of bourbon through the bitter coffee. She was too electric, her muscles too tight.
She needed something to dull the sharpness of her fear for her friend. This was the best women’s hospital in Pittsburgh. She was sure Ivy was in good hands. But she was also dreading Ivy’s recovery. It wasn’t that it would be painful, but Camila had read it could take a few weeks to be fully up and running again, and Ivy wasn’t going to be happy about that. The woman got up before the sun every day to work out. How was she going to run the gym or teach classes or do training if she had to be laid up? She was going to be miserably bored.
But also, what if something went wrong? What if Ivy died during surgery? Yeah, OK, a 1 in 100,000 chance of dying under anesthesia was small, but it was not zero. Ivy couldn’t leave her! Camila started to sob and tried to hide her face under a wad of tissues.
Distantly, she wondered if she should be calling Ivy’s family. But she didn’t know anything about them. Ivy wasn’t close to any of them and Camila was pretty sure they lived out of state, somewhere out west. New Mexico, maybe? Arizona?
Camila had ordered $70 worth of crap on Amazon and cried hard enough to draw pitying looks from other people in the waiting room by the time someone came to talk to her. She promised she would spend an equal or greater amount on a local business and apologize to everyone in the waiting room to offset her crimes.
Ivy was out of surgery and was fine, but still not coherent after the anesthesia. Once Ivy was a little more alert, the nurse said, Camila could go back and see her.
Three more deep breaths. Ivy was fine. Camila’s legs should stop shaking so much. She stood up and marched to the vending machine, got a honeybun and an energy drink and a stick of beef jerky for good measure. By the time someone told her she could head back to see Ivy, she was jittery and puffy-cheeked and tear-stained and full of salty regret.
Ivy was munching on shortbread crackers and sipping apple juice out of a carton. Her svelte frame looked even more petite in the oversized hospital gown.
“Hey Jiminy Cricket,” she said drowsily when she saw her. Camila burst into tears.
“No, shit, stop,” Ivy said. “I’m totally fine.” Moving slower than usual, she pushed the blanket aside and lifted her gown over her stomach. Bursts of blood were trapped under surgical glue right above her hospital-issued undies. “They did these tiny little incisions. There’s one in my bellybutton, too. No big deal.” Her words were a little slurred.
“Yes big deal!” Camila whined. “Oh my god, you’re in a fucking hospital, like in an actual hospital bed with an IV drip and everything. You know I have never seen your face without moisturizer? What happened?”
“I thought I was having really bad cramps for maybe a week and I ignored them. Apparently I had big ol’ cysts on each ovary, and one of them popped like a blueberry when I did burpees this morning.” She mimed an explosion with her hands. “They had to stop the bleeding and take the other cyst out so it wouldn’t twist up my insides.” She closed her eyes and grimaced. “Can we go to Burger King?”
“They must have given you some damn good drugs,” Camila laughed. “I’ll get you all the Burger King you want once you’re sober enough to actually consent to fast food beef.”
“We could go to the bakery!” Ivy sighed. “Ana’s so pretty, right?”
“Yeah, she’s pretty cute. You going to ask her out? Now that you’ve escaped death by reproductive organs?”
She let out a long “Naaaaah” and blew a raspberry at the end. “But we can go to the bakery.”
The nurse had arrived. “You’re not going anywhere until you urinate, miss ma’am.” She looked at Camila and pointed to Ivy’s IV bag. “She’s on her third unit of fluids and she still hasn’t produced. If she doesn’t go soon, we’re going to have to put in a catheter.”
“No no no no no!” Ivy said. Tugging Camila’s hoodie sleeve, she whispered, “Camila. This is what I’ve trained you for. Defend me. I am too weak to fight.”
Camila gingerly removed Ivy’s hand from her sleeve and patted it between both her hands. “Don’t listen to her. About the fighting, I mean. Do listen to her as an autonomous being who is capable of making her own medical decisions. Is putting in the catheter… painful?”
The nurse, whose name tag read Susan, let out a low whistle. “It’s not fun, I can tell you that much. There’s a reason we wait until the patient is under anesthesia.”
“Wait. Ivy, coffee goes right through you. That’s why you never drink it.”
“Plus it’s super bad for you. Which we need to have a conversation about.”
Camila put her hand over Ivy’s mouth. Ivy licked her palm.
“Can we try that? Can she have a cup of coffee?” Camila wiped her palm against her yoga pants.
“I guess it’s worth a try,” Susan said with a shrug.
Half an hour later, Ivy was shuffling in her nonskid hospital socks, escorted by Susan, toward the bathroom. She exited a few minutes later with a triumphant smile.
“OK, she’s good to go,” Susan said. “Did you bring her a change of clothes?”
Camila dug through her bag and produced sweats, a baggy shirt and a sports bra that pushed Camila’s tits to the moon, it was so tight, but that would probably be a loose crop top on blondie. While Ivy changed, Susan detailed post-surgery instructions. Camila typed them up on her phone even though Susan had a printed copy of them. She swiped away the text notifications from Zach asking her out for breakfast — Pamela’s on the Strip, or the Dor-Stop if she wanted to stay close to home. Now was not the time. She’d get back to him later.
Ivy was pushed out of the hospital in a wheelchair into Camila’s waiting sedan. She fell asleep on the drive to Ivy’s condo. It had an elevator, thank God. They got in, got Ivy settled on her bed with pillows and tea, and then Camila checked her phone.
First she shot off a text to Era.
Camila
Era texted back a thumbs up.
Era
Then she texted Zach back to tell him she couldn’t meet him, and why.
Zach called immediately.
“Hey. Is she OK? Are you OK?”
She was surprised how instantly his voice tinkered with her neurotransmitters. “Hey. She’s fine. She’s napping now.”
“Do you need anything?”
“I mean, we haven’t really eaten. Era dropped off groceries but I was also going to order pastries from that bakery she likes.”
“Which one? I can just pick them up for you.”
“Would you? That would be so sweet of you. It’s like a $6 delivery fee.”
They hung up shortly after, and Camila tapped a dozing Ivy and asked her what she wanted. She mumbled a long list of sweets before trailing off in the middle of the word “croissant.”
She texted Zach a list and a kiss emoji.
Camila
He sent her a GIF of a cartoon Batman, cape in the wind, lightning striking behind him.
* * *
Within the hour, Zach rang the doorbell at Ivy’s. Camila leaned over the bags of pastries and gave him a peck on the cheek, then helped him take the haul to the kitchen.
He wore a black T-shirt and dark jeans, slip-on sneakers, and his glasses. His hair looked adorably rumpled, overdue for a haircut. She hoped he never, ever scheduled it. She wanted to Porphyria’s Lover him at this hair length. Oh, she needed a nap.
“This is for you,” he said, handing her a small paper cup. She took a sip — Cuban coffee, rich and sweet. “And this one,” he said, handing her one of the white paper bags. She opened it to find three guava and cream cheese turnovers. Camila swooned.
“You’re spectacular,” she said.
He shrugged. “You’re giving me the third one.”
“You’re a monster,” Camila said. “Come on, let’s go feed the patient.”
Zach grabbed the bags and Camila found plates and napkins. Ivy was already half-awake, propped up slightly on a few pillows.
“Hey Zach,” she said sleepily. Zach hung back in the doorway until Ivy motioned for him to come in. He took a seat on Ivy’s storage ottoman while Camila climbed into bed next to Ivy. She unloaded the bags onto the plates and watched Ivy’s eyes go wide at the bounty — cheese danishes, gooey cinnamon rolls, still warm, chocolate croissants and fruit-filled Swiss rolls, savory empanadas with seasoned ground beef and raisins. Ivy took a bite of a cinnamon roll and sighed, her life’s purpose met.
“My macros are fucked,” she said, mouth full.
“Counting macros is fucked,” Camila said. “Eat up, muchacha.”
“Zach, do you want some of these?” Ivy said, before taking a bite of a croissant.
“I was kind of eyeing one of those danishes,” he said.
“Please, do,” Ivy said. She winced when she leaned over.
“Stop moving around so much, you just had robots crawling around your organs,” Camila chided.
The three of them stuffed themselves full and Ivy recapped the story of her ill-fated burpees and the surgical procedure. Ivy showed off the glue-covered scar over her right hip and Zach gagged.
It was only while hearing the story again that she realized she’d bounced back from her intense anxiety all morning. Ivy was in good spirits and already coming up with a plan for covering shifts at the gym with Rahul having to take on her clients. Zach was here, looking hot as ever. She had guava in her belly. Everything was fine.
Zach kept the visit short. He had to work today and he said he didn’t want to intrude anyway. When Camila walked him out, he wrapped her up in his arms, leaving no space between them, and somehow Camila managed to press herself even closer to him and inhale his scent, just soap and shaving cream and something cool and green.
“Thank you,” she said into his chest. He twirled a curl in his fingers and kissed the top of her head. Usually a gesture like that would make her feel infantilized, but instead she felt a deep sense of reassurance.
“Any time,” he said quietly. “Call me when you can.”
She nodded, finally breaking their hug. “Era is coming over later and then I need the nap to end all naps. I’ll call you after.”
They said their goodbyes, and Camila leaned against the door for a moment, feeling like she could take that nap right now.
When she got back to Ivy’s room to collect the plates for the dishwasher, Ivy was grinning at her.
“What?”
“You’ve got a boyfriend, babe. Admit it.”
“Oh my gosh, shut up!” Camila said in her best Valley Girl.
“You luuuuuurve him,” Ivy said.
“I’m going to smother you in your sleep,” she said.
* * *
At some point Camila passed out on Ivy’s bed. She’d been quietly reading some goal-setting and self-development book she’d checked out of the library on her phone while Ivy dozed on and off, and the combination of stress, sugar and the early wake-up call overpowered her. Her fluttering eyelids skipped every other word, until the phone slipped between the bed and the nightstand and her head settled on the pillow at an uncomfortable angle. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep when the doorbell rang.
Camila stumbled toward the door, trying to shrug out the kink in her shoulder, and let Era in. The hypnotic smell of Thai food came in with her, and Camila was all at once wide awake.
“Clocking in for my shift,” Era said. She gave Camila a quick hug and set the food down in the kitchen before finding Ivy.
The pain was catching up with Ivy. She was tired of being on her back, but any other position hurt her abdomen. And she had terrible shoulder pain, which the doctors had warned was a side effect of the anesthesia. Camila fetched ibuprofen and water, and Era plated the takeout. The pair climbed into the bed and helped Ivy sit up.
“Oh, this smells so good,” Ivy whimpered. “My macros. My macros!”
“Oh my fucking Mandalorian, shut up about your macros,” Era said, and they all laughed.
“I love this place,” Ivy said, looking at the name on the bag. “You know they have a really good bar? Last time I went there was this gorgeous redhead working there. She had kind eyes and a bump in her nose, and was wearing a plaid shirt, buttoned all the way up, and she had these flower tattoos all over both arms, and when she turned around her apron strings sat right at the deep curve of her lower back, highlighting her surprisingly high, fat ass.” Ivy was stroking the air now, as if painting that deep curve, and her eyes closed with her hand still waving in the air.
“She’s still a little high from the pain meds,” Camila explained.
Camila turned on Ivy’s bedroom TV and linked her phone to the casting device. After browsing for a minute, she suggested an adorable romantic comedy with Sandra Bullock and Channing Tatum that they’d all seen multiple times, and the decision was unanimous.
Despite her routine being upended, which made her feel unmoored, Camila couldn’t make herself leave. She wasn’t the one convalescing — a word that always made her think of the word “convulsing,” which had almost the exact opposite connotation — but she felt like she was recovering from something, too. She hadn’t realized how exhausted and stressed she’d been, how hard she’d been pushing herself. And it wasn’t that Zach added to her stress — he definitely made her feel much better, all the time — but relationships were taxing to her. Moderating her own stuff was hard enough without always having to juggle the feelings of another person and mustering up the energy to show up for them, to do all the things and be fun and exciting and up for anything. Zach didn’t really put that pressure on her, but she still felt it.
And work felt so draining lately. She loved working with clients, aside from the really bad days when she felt like she wasn’t making any positive impact. But she hated rushing to and from the T and having to pay for expensive parking if she missed it. And she hated some of the people she worked with. It wasn’t a nice thing to say, but it was true. Camila resented the therapists who had open disdain toward mentally ill people. She hated how much pressure she felt to be Mary Fucking Sunshine to everyone, even if she was in a dark mood, but it seemed no one extended that same courtesy to her. She felt that way often, as if the rules of existence were different for her and she was subjected to a stricter set of guidelines.
“Don’t you have to go?” Era whispered to her between bites of rice.
Did she? No, forget her to-do list for today.
“I’m good,” she said. “What should we watch next?”