Untitled
1503 Words
Two weeks passed quietly, like time itself was unsure what to do with me. The house became familiar. I cleaned, my suite, I organized, I folded laundry that was already folded. And I sometimes ventured into the main house. Meeting the housekeeper and then the cook. I rarely cooked even though all the supplies were available. James the cook always brought food for me. He asked my choice for food but never questioned it. The housekeeper collected my laundry and returned it to me neatly folded and starched. Lyonel rarely commented on any of it, but he noticed. He was a man who noticed everything and said very little.
I tried to be invisible. Invisible people didn’t cause problems. Invisible people didn’t get thrown out.
But visibility had other plans.
The morning it happened started with nausea. I threw up like nobody's business. Then came dizziness. Not the soft kind either, the kind that crawled into my skull and turned everything into static. I had been rationing my insulin more than I should have done for the last two weeks. Trying to save until I could come up with a way to procure more. I told myself it was temporary, that I’d figure out how to afford more later. Later was the enemy. Later never came soon enough.
I kept moving anyway, wiping down cabinets that didn’t need wiping, breathing through nausea that came in waves. That was the mistake I made. Every few seconds I pressed a hand to the counter just to remind myself I existed in a vertical world, not horizontal.
Then when my vision was beginning to grain at the edges, black dots like flies over glass, I knew I was doomed.
Cook knocked and I called him to come in.
“You’re pale,” he said.
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Just tired.”
“You’ve been tired for days now. Are you sure you are okay?”
“I’m adjusting.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. Assessment. Suspicion. Curiosity. The kind of stare that made me feel transparent.
“Sit down,” he said.
“I should finish the...”
"Please."
James's plea was soft, but my legs obeyed. As soon as the chair touched the backs of my knees, I collapsed into it.
My hands wouldn’t stop trembling. It was small at first, then violent enough that the chair creaked when I gripped the sides. Sweat soaked my back running through my mid back. The room tilted. My breath caught. The dizziness surged hard enough that I squeezed my eyes shut.
"Lyonel is going to kill me." Those were the last words I head before darkness consumed me.
When I opened my eyes again, I was on the couch. My vision blurry. I saw a man in a white coat and as I tried to move my left hand I noticed an IV attached to it with some clear liquid running through. Lyonel was kneeling in front of me, a glucose tablet pressed against my palm
“Mercy. How are feeling now”
"A bit groggy," I croaked.
His voice changed, cooler but sharper. “How long have you been managing diabetes on your own?”
My heart stuttered. I didn’t remember telling him. Not the word. Not the diagnosis. Maybe he guessed from the symptoms. Maybe I’d slipped, the way people slip when they think they’re not being listened to.Then I remembered the man in the white coat, and the IV. Of course the doctor. I wondered how much the doctor had disclosed whilst I was out.
“I’m not..” I started.
“Don’t lie to me,” Lyonel said, already moving.
I tried to stay conscious, but my body had already decided betrayal was easier.
“Chew,” he ordered, pointing to the glucose tablet.
I obeyed only because my body begged for it more than my pride did. The sweetness hit fast, almost painfully. When the shaking slowed, voice returned before courage did.
“I didn’t want to be a burden,” I whispered.
"So passing out in my house was better,” he said. “That’s more burden than asking for help. You could have died for Christ's sake.”
“I didn’t think you’d understand.”
He leaned back on his heels, eyes steady and unreadable. “Understanding isn’t required. Information is.”
I swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Just answer the question: how long have you been rationing medication?”
The truth was heavy. Denials were lighter.
“A couple of weeks.Since I came here.”
He exhaled once, slow, restrained, controlled. The kind of breath men take right before action.
“I called my physician, we are waiting for results of some tests he ran. We go in tommorow for more tests” he said. “No argument.”
I nodded, but fear prickled under my skin. Doctors meant questions. Questions led to answers. Answers led to the pregnancy I had no words for.
And then he said the quiet part, the part that made my stomach knot so tightly I thought I’d scream.
“And Mercy...”
His voice lowered.
“You’re sick. But there’s more you’re not saying. Are you sure there is nothing else I should know.”
My blood went cold. My hand drifted, to my stomach without permission.
I hid it quickly, but not quickly enough.
His eyes followed the movement.
Silence became the loudest thing in the room.
"I am pregnant." I said lowly but he heard it anyway. I heard a sharp intake of breath. He looked at me and I looked back. Afraid of what was to come, afraid of being thrown out.
"So you mean you have been rationing insulin whilst at the same time you are pregnant. Do you have a death wish."
I didn't answer.
"Lyonel, I....”
The door opened again. The doctor came back, wiping his hands on a towel. “Your blood sugar dropped significantly,” he said, matter of fact. “Not surprising considering the symptoms, and it’s stabilizing, but it shouldn’t have happened this easily.”
I shrank into the cushions. I wanted to tell my own story, in my own words, before someone medicalized it.
"She has been rationing insulin." Lyonel said almost accusatory
“That explained the ketones,” he murmured to himself. Then, louder, “Rationing insulin is extremely dangerous. Especially now. Blood sugar flactuating could cause a lot of health complications.”
I frowned.
The sentence didn’t explode, it landed. Heavy. Final. A truth that already lived in my bones, now given shape.
My throat tightened. I kept my hands flat so he wouldn’t see them shake.
The doctor continued, not cruelly, just thoroughly. “With diabetes, pregnancy changes everything. You need consistent insulin, proper nutrition, prenatal monitoring. Your glucose levels are already fluctuating. Malnutrition hyperglycemia or hypoglycemia put you and the baby at risk.”
Baby. There it was. Not rumor or maybe or suspicion. A word with teeth and future.
Lyonel didn’t speak. I could feel his shock like static in the room. My confession died on my tongue not because the truth had become irrelevant, but because it had been stolen from me by medical accuracy and perfect timing.
I pressed a hand to my stomach. Not dramatically. More like instinct.
The doctor softened. “None of this is irreversible. But continuing like you have been will hurt you both."
I swallowed hard.
“It matters that it changes now.”
I looked at Lyonel.
"Don't worry doctor everything changes now."
I didn't know what he meant.
And somehow, that was worse.
"It better. And rest. She must have plenty of it."
"Don't worry doctor. She will get plenty of rest. Eat and exercise. I will make sure she does." It sounded more like a threat than assurance.
"I think I am done here."
"Thanks doc, we will see you tomorrow morning."
"Great," he said packing his things back into his bag.
Lyonel saw him to the door and came back.
He sat on the couch across me for a while in silence.
"I am sorry Lyonel. For all the trouble I have caused." I said trying to stand.
"And what the hell are you doing?" He was beside me in an instant steadying me on my feet.
"Didn't you hear the doctor you need to rest." He helped me to sit with my back against the couch.
"You are moving to my suite where I can keep an eye on you properly."
"I can stay here I promise I will..."
"Have James fired." He finished for me.
"Don't argue with me Mercy. I am still trying to think what to do with you. I haven't decided between strangling you and..." He ran his hands through his hair in frustration.
"James!!" he called and within seconds James was beside him.
"Make sure she eats. Tell John to move her to my suite.My bedroom."
He stood looked at me and left.
- Writer
