Chapter 5: Nadiya
“So take my pain and
Tell me something’s wrong, yeah,
I need to know
I need to know!
You can tell me I’m a lost cause,
I’ve had enough,
‘Cause if my body is a temple,
Why does it hurt like hell?”
–Tonight Alive, Temple
I’m so freaking tired, Rita thinks as she wipes down the counter with a damp rag. This late in July the air hangs, hot and dusty over the city everywhere but the riverbanks. She can remember it making her tired and sluggish before she was chronically injured. Now it’s all she can do to keep her eyes open. She leans back in the high-backed office chair Paolo found to replace the unsupportive stool that was behind the counter when she started out. She gathers her hair into a ponytail, her side spasming painfully at the reach. She’s grateful for the mesh back, it being the only reason her shirt isn’t completely soaked in sweat.
This afternoon, Paolo is out running errands and Angela is working in the basement, so Rita mans the register.
She’s still waiting on the Nerve blocks. The gabapentin helps a bit with the fibro pain, but does little to nothing for her flank pain. And the heat is not helping things.
The bell on the door jingles and Rita looks up, sitting up straighter to greet the customer. It turns out to be a young woman not much older than Rita, with pale brown skin, long, lanky limbs and a plain metal cane covered in anime stickers. She comes in about once a week, but Rita hasn’t had the opportunity to talk to her one-on-one until now. She struggles to remember her name.
“Hello, how can I help you?” Rita could cut to the chase with the regular back room customers, but she doesn’t like to assume that’s the only reason they’re here. The other woman browses.
“Just looking around.” Her cane taps against the floor as she peruses the shelves full of teas and herbs. She wears a t-shirt with characters Rita’s not familiar with over comfy-looking lightweight billowy pants in shades of purple and blue tie-dye. Her chin-length dark hair is done in neat, even cornrows and her eyes are expressive, narrowing as they take in her surroundings. “What’s your name again?” Her voice is sharp and to the point.
“Rita.”
“I’m Nadiya.” She waves a hand. Her knuckles are swollen and slightly pink.
“Thanks,” Rita chuckles, waving back. “That’s the problem with not using our special customers’ names in any records. Makes it really difficult to remember them when you’re here in person.” Nadiya laughs and approaches the counter.
“It’s nice to finally meet you properly.”
“Likewise.” Rita retrieves her brown paper-wrapped parcel from behind the counter and sets it between them. Purple. A hybrid bred for pain relief and other things Rita can’t remember offhand. Probably the kind Rita would go for. It’s a smaller package than a lot of the backrooms because Nadiya comes in once a week instead of once a month like most. Rita wonders why. Clearly she has some mobility issues, but Rita doesn’t want to pry or make her uncomfortable. She so rarely meets people like her who are her age, she doesn’t want to make a bad first impression.
“Do you like working for Angela?” Her shrewd dark eyes fix on Rita’s face.
“It’s pretty great,” Rita says, shrugging a hand. “I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to work for anyone else. She’s super… understanding isn’t quite the word…”
“Accommodating?” Nadiya suggests.
“Yeah, I guess so.” Nadiya nods understandingly.
“That’s why I work for myself,” she explains. “It’s so hard to find bosses who understand that we sometimes need to miss work or go home early or have a chair when everyone else doesn’t.”
“Tell me about it. I applied for a few other cashier jobs but they all require their clerks to stand. They claimed the customers prefer it.” They roll their eyes in unison, chuckling when they notice.
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“Cool, I’m twenty. Would you want to come over to my house on Friday and hang out?” Rita almost can’t believe her ears.
“I’d love to,” Rita replies hastily, inwardly cringing at how overeager she sounds.
“Cool, can I put my number in your phone? Then I can text you the address. It’s just down the street.” She gestures vaguely to her left, Rita’s right.
“yeah, definitely.” Rita hands over her phone and tries to compose herself as her potential new friend enters her contact information.
“Cool.” She hands over cash and takes her parcel off the counter. “I’ll see you Friday, then.”
“Not if I see you first,” Rita says, cringing inwardly. Why does she sometimes seem to turn into a sitcom dad when she’s nervous? It’s all she can do to stop herself from shooting finger guns at Nadiya as she exits the shop, bells jingling above her head.
Alone once more, Rita lets out the breath she hasn’t realized she’s been holding and looks around. Did that just happen? This job has lots of perks, it seems. Rita can’t wait until Friday. It seems months away, not days.
On Friday, Rita stands on the sidewalk in front of Nadiya’s house, her cane tapping nervously beside her foot. She checks the address for the tenth time. Every house on this street looks exactly the same. All two stories painted some shade of off-white, with picket fences and neatly manicured, green lawns. The kind Tía calls ‘ticky tacky’.
“This place looks familiar,” Cam says from the driver’s window of his car parked at the curb behind Rita. “Way spenser than our neighborhood.”
“Probably built by the same developers as the block near us.”
“Maybe…” Her brother sounds unsure. Nadiya spoke the truth. The development she lives in is just up the road from Angela’s. Still, Rita is glad she got a ride to conserve her energy.
“You can go now,” Rita says, gesturing him off.
“Not til I see you get inside safely. Mom’d kill me otherwise.” Rita grins, shrugging.
“You’re not wrong.” Taking a deep breath, Rita teeters up the stone walkway, climbs the two steps up to the door, and knocks. It’s all she can do to keep her cool as she waits. Nadiya is the first potential new friend Rita’s made in years. Definitely the first since the accident.
Rita’s not sure why she expected Nadiya to open the door herself, but she did, and is taken aback when an unfamiliar face greets her. A taller guy stands in the doorway, looking down at her. His dark hair is cut into a short fade and he wears a t-shirt and basketball shorts. He probably weighs twice as much as Rita, most of it muscle, and she finds herself taking an involuntary step backwards.
“What’s up?”
“I’m here to see Nadiya,” Rita squeaks out. The older guy’s face softens in recognition.
“Right… the chick from Angela’s, right? My sister mentioned you’d be coming over.” Rita nods gratefully, sighing in relief that she’s gotten the right house after all. “Come in.” She steps into the house past Nadiya’s brother, looking around at the tidy foyer.
“Yo! Clay! How long has it been?” Rita jumps slightly at Cam’s cry, looking back over her shoulder through the open front door. Her brother turns off the engine and climbs out of his small sedan, loping up the walkway to clasp arms with Nadiya’s brother. “We were in high school together,” Cameron explains when he sees Rita’s questioning look. “How’ve you been, man?”
“Not bad, not bad,” Nadiya’s brother, Clay responds. Leaving them to catch up, Rita tentatively ventures further into the house. The floors are a glowing hardwood, the walls covered in family photos, the knickknacks on shelves dusted and neatly arranged.
“Well, hello!” A shorter dark-skinned woman with a bright smile glides into the foyer through the far doorway, wiping her hands on the apron she wears around her waist. “You’re Nadiya’s new friend, right? We’ve been expecting you. I’m Darlene, Nadiya’s mother. It’s so nice to meet you!” Her voice is smooth and melodious. Rita inwardly sighs in relief that Nadiya lives with her parents, too.
“You, too, Rita says, flustered as the older woman folds her hand in both of hers. Her hands are soft and warm and she has the same bright, expressive brown eyes as her daughter.
“She’s upstairs, working. She said you can go right up.” Darlene gestures to the broad staircase behind her, the wood banisters glowing in the sunlight coming through the windows around the front door. There’s a thick metal track along the wall on the left hand side. Looking up, Rita notices a stair chair at the top of the stairs. She’s halfway up, cane in one hand and the railing clutched tight in the other, before it occurs to her that she could have asked to use it as well. She finishes the climb and pauses on the landing to catch her breath.
It’s obvious which door leads to Nadiya’s room, even without her voice emanating softly from behind it. The door is decorated with a large yellow ‘yield’ sign, with the words ‘To The Boss’ added beneath in silver sharpie. Rita grins as she knocks.
“Come in!” Nadiya calls through the door, finishing the sentence she’d been in the middle of as Rita walks in.
“-I’m just saying, as gamers in general, we should be trying to move away from the toxic misogyny and general bigotry of speech rampant in parts of our community.” Nadiya sits propped-up in bed, a screen in front of her, a controller in her hands, and an expensive-looking pair of over-ear headphones with a microphone that snakes down over her jaw on her head. She glances up at Rita and gestures to her to come over, quickly returning her focus to the game she is playing. “Not to say I’m against profanity. I’d go fucking crazy living in this body without the outlet of expletives, I’m just saying there’s a significant difference between swearing at the world and life in general and calling people slurs. That being said, to answer your question, grocerygrover99, I think ‘clam slam’ is the best afab alternative to ‘t-bag’. I like the rhyme.” Rita looks around, taking in the walls covered in art and posters, the nightstands on either side of the queen bed covered in meds, wet wipes, and other chronic illness aids, and the desk in the corner where a much more impressive-looking gaming setup is arrayed. Nadiya’s room is nearly twice the size of Rita’s, yet somehow everything is much more within reach. It’s so surreal to see how set-up her house is for her disability. It gives Rita good ideas and excellent vibes. “my new friend Rita’s just arrived.” Rita jumps slightly when she hears her name. Nadiya pauses her game and covers the mic with a hand. “Are you okay being on camera a little?” She asks in a half-whisper. “It’s cool if not, I just have 45 minutes left on this stream.”
“Um,” Rita stutters. “I guess that’s fine.” She shrugs a hand, slightly flustered.
“Cool, come on over then, make yourself comfortable.” She pats the unoccupied side of the bed closer to the door. As Nadiya resumes her game and her conversation with the people in the twitch live chat, Rita sits down on the edge of the bed and repositions one of the plentiful pillows behind her back, laying her cane down carefully along the side of the bed, settling in to watch. “Thank you for the recommendation,” Nadiya says to someone in chat. “But if you want to have a say in what I play next, feel free to join my Patreon. Even the lowest tier gets to vote on my next Vod.” She plays in silence for several seconds, then turns to Rita. “Someone in chat wants to know if your glasses are actually purple.” Nadiya glances over. “They look purple to me.”
“Yeah, they are.” Clearing her throat, Rita takes off her glasses to show the camera the purple-enameled wire frames. “And the other side is green.” She turns the frames to show Nadiya’s webcam the inside.
“Nice! They suit your face well.”
“Thanks.”
“Chat likes them, too.”
“Thanks, Rita chuckles as she replaces her glasses and refocuses on Nadiya’s screen.
“Yes, she also uses a cane,” Nadiya says wearily, eyes darting as she reads the live chat. “Mods can we get this person kicked from chat, please?” A moment passes, and Rita squints at the screen, trying to read the comment Nadiya’s referring to but the chat’s already moved on. “Thank you very much. The stream is once again a troll-free zone.”
The game she plays is interesting, involving firing paint instead of projectiles at other players. Consequently, it’s vibrant and colorful, and visually captivating. Still, Rita finds her gaze wandering around the room more often than not. She marvels at how much Nadiya’s room says about her. She’s clearly a person with layers, hanging retro gaming posters next to an endangered species calendar, beside a picture of Nadiya, using crutches on some school trip surrounded by classmates, smiling and laughing. 45 minutes pass in no time, and Nadiya signs off and begins stowing her equipment in a rolling cart stacked with drawers pulled up to her side of the bed.
“Sorry about that,” Nadiya says, coiling up the cord of the headphones before stowing them in a drawer. “It’s both a gift and a curse having chosen a career I can still do during a flare. On the one and, I can still work on a bad day, which is great, but it also means I don’t have an excuse not to work on bad days either.”
“You’re a streamer?”
“Mostly, yeah. I make some other shorter-form content from time to time, but mostly I’m a streamer, yeah.”
“That’s awesome.”
“Thanks.” Nadiya smiles, shrugging a hand. “It’s definitely not what I’d be doing if I was healthy, but until someone invents a cure for faulty hemoglobin, it works for me.”
“Hema-what?” Nadiya smiles wearily as she explains.
“I have sickle cell anemia. Basically I inherited faulty genes from my parents so my body produces defective hemoglobin and my red blood cells are too rigid. They collect in the blood vessels and joints and cause pain flares and tons of other potential complications. You’ve probably heard the term crisis, which refers to severe flares that usually land us in the hospital for one reason or another.”
“Damn. That sucks ass.”
“Definitely. I don’t really know anything else. I was diagnosed at 2, before I can even remember. this is the only body I get. So I work with what I have.”
“I get that.”
“What’s wrong with yours?”
“I’m not really sure?” Rita tries to explain. “I got rear-ended a couple years ago. At first the injuries seemed relatively minor, but then 6 months later it… flared up really suddenly and painfully.” Nadiya nods knowingly, listening. “No one seems quite sure what’s wrong with me now. I guess I have fibromyalgia. But, like, several other things as well, if that makes sense.”
“It definitely does. Most people think medical science is all-knowing. But people like us run into its limits all the time.” She packs the bowl of a small glass pipe as she speaks.
“That’s a really good way of putting it.”
“Thanks. I’ve had a lot of practice. Is the pain constant?” It’s the first time anyone’s asked her that question without pity in their voice.
“It shifts around and fluctuates in intensity, but, basically, yeah. Something’s always hurting, whether it’s my flank, my limbs with the fibro, something else, or a combination of things.”
“That’s rough, buddy.”
“Is that an Avatar reference?”
“Yeah, totally! I love that series.”
“Me too!”
“Sick! If you could be any type of bender, which would you pick?” Rita considers.
“I’d probably go with air bending. With Aang’s reflexes, I might just even out to a normal level of balance.” Nadiya laughs freely and Rita joins in. “what about you?”
“Fire bender, all the way. I like their intensity.” Nadiya lights the bowl and inhales deeply, then exhales into a small box with a mouthpiece.
“What’s that?” Rita asks as Nadiya switches on a small air purifier on her nightstand.
“It’s a smoke trap.” She explains, taking another long hit off the pipe before snuffing it and setting it back on the rolling cart. “Cuts down on the air pollution when I don’t feel up to going outside to smoke.”
“Oh, speaking of which.” Rita reaches into her pocket and pulls out the small Ziploc she almost forgot about. “Angela sent me with a gift.” She hands it over. “It’s just a couple pre-rolled joints. But she did say that this strain is supposed to be really good for joint pain.”
“Sweet,” Nadiya says, taking the bag. “Maybe we’ll smoke one later.”
“I don’t know,” Rita says, uneasy. “I’ve actually never tried it.” A trickle of sweat runs down her side as she shifts her weight uncomfortably, not meeting the other woman’s eyes.
“Oh, for real? Okay, no pressure either way.” Rita sighs in relief.
“Thanks for that.”
“Do you mind if I ask why you’ve never tried it?”
“I… don’t know, really. So many people feel like I should have already, but then the other half judge anyone who does. It’s just so… confusing.”
“I totally get that. The number of people who almost seemed to imply that my parents and or doctors were negligent for not giving me any at whatever age they decide is the right one that day. It sometimes feels like there’s one set of rules for us and another for everyone else. Like as soon as you bring chronic illness into the conversation everything instantly becomes several times more loaded.”
“Exactly!” Rita can’t describe the relief she feels at finally finding someone who understands where she’s coming from. It’s one of the first times she actually wants to continue the conversation.
“So, you mainly use it for pain, then?”
“That, and chronic nausea.”
“Nausea?”
“You’ve heard of the munchies?” Rita nods. “To some people they may be a joke, but to me and people like me, they’re a lifesaver.” Rita looks at the thin woman next to her, with not a pound to spare, and realizes the full truth of her words. Nadiya continues. “Most of the prescription antiemetics are only really useful if given through an IV, and none of them also stimulate my appetite the way weed does. And when you’re in as much pain as us, your stomach gets upset at the drop of a pin.”
“Tell me about it. I didn’t realize that’s why my stomach hurts when my pain flares, but now that you lay it out that way, it makes perfect sense.”
“Right? If only all providers had the patience to explain stuff like this.”
“tell me about it. Can you imagine?”
“Only in my wildest dreams.”
“Do you mind if I ask you a couple more questions about it?” Rita has never had an opportunity like this before to pick the brain of someone in so similar a situation to hers. Especially since she seems to have so much more of a grasp on the whole situation than Rita. She supposes that’s the product of Nadiya’s condition being genetic and therefore present since birth, where Rita seemed perfectly healthy for the first 15 years of her life.
“Sure, go ahead.” Nadiya takes another hit from the pipe as she listens.
“Well, they say it can cause memory loss if you start using it before age 25, right? I hear it all the time. Are you worried about that at all?”
“Those statistics are almost always misquoted by people with the privilege of assuming they’ll live past 25. Some of us are struggling just to make it to next week. And it’s not like the legal drugs I get prescribed have any fewer side effects. Most have many times more. If a little memory loss is the price I have to pay for significant relief during a flare and not losing 15 pounds every 6 months, then I’m happy to pay it. It’s not like I want to remember my crises anyway.”
“But aren’t you worried it’ll interact with the meds you’re prescribed?”
“Not really, seeing as all my doctors know I use medical marijuana and none of the meds they’ve prescribed have interacted with it yet.”
“Your doctors know you smoke? Aren’t you afraid they’ll turn you in? even if it was legal, you’re still underage.”
“Not really. Hippa would only allow them to share my information if I was a danger to myself or others. Me smoking weed to help with my pain and nausea isn’t hurting me or anyone else. Besides, in Washington you can buy weed under 21 if you’re a documented medical user. I’ve yet to have a doctor tell me not to use it. Including my pulmonologist.”
“Really?”
“Really. I was like, ‘yeah, I smoke, but only weed,’ and the medical assistant just nodded said ‘oh, yeah, that’s fine,’ and didn’t write anything down just checked the no smoking box.
“I would think a lung doctor would at least tell you to switch to edibles.”
“I know, right? I mean it’s not like I reach for a joint when I’m having an asthma attack, but it doesn’t seem to trigger them, either.”
“That’s so weird. I’d think any smoke would be a trigger.”
“you would think so. Who knows why it isn’t. But I’m glad of it. I take edibles sometimes, but I prefer inhalables because they’re faster-acting and easier to regulate in the amount of high you get.” Rita nods, thinking.
“That’s interesting. The customers seem to mostly agree with you. That or they’re making their own edibles with flower they buy from us.”
“Yeah, the dosing with edibles is always tricky. Three out of three times I’ve ever gotten too high it was from edibles.”
“And how long have you been… you know.”
“Smoking? Only regularly since 18, but I dabbled before that.”
“And you’ve only gotten too high 3 times?”
“yeah, I mean, It’s bound to happen to most people eventually. I took some CBD and rode it out. I guess my system just responds well to cannabinoids” She shrugs with a grin. “One of the only things it responds well to.”
“I hear that.” They both chuckle. “Is it true it stops you from dreaming?” her dreams are one of the only best escapes Rita still has and she doesn’t want to lose them.
“So I’ve actually researched this,” Nadiya starts. “Because I heard that too, from several different people.”
“I’ve tried, but it’s hard to find research on it in conjunction with conventional meds.”
“Tell me about it. The ability to just try substances and see what happens is a privilege of the able-bodied.”
“Hear, hear.”
“So, according to what I’ve read, THC doesn’t actually inhibit your dreams, so much as it affects your sleep cycle and memory. It makes it easier for your brain to get into and stay in the first stage of sleep, before your REM cycle starts up your dreams. That’s why many people use it to treat insomnia. That being said, it can also shorten the period of REM sleep in your sleep cycle and make it harder for you to remember dreams when you wake up. But it doesn’t actually inhibit dreams in the way most people think. I still have vivid dreams pretty much every night as long as I stick to strains that my nerves react well to.”
“What strains don’t they like?”
“Heavy Sativas and anything with too high a THC concentration.” Rita nods, digesting.
“What happens with them?”
“Usually, I get a short, sharp anxiety flare, then a bit of a headache and some low-level paranoia.”
“So that part is true?”
“For some people, yeah. Everyone’s nervous system is unique. NO two react exactly the same to any stimulus. And there are hundreds of different weed strains; if not thousands.”
“You sound like you’ve read a lot.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been gaslighted by nedical providers more than a couple times, so I like to arm myself with information. I do read a lot more scientific studies than most. Which isn’t to say I always understand them, but I do try.”
“I thought I was the only one.”
“Not at all! It’s super common in our community.”
“What community?” Rita blinks at the flood of information.
“People with chronic illnesses. Spoonies.”
“Ah, right, sorry.”
“No worries. The brain fog is real.”
“Definitely. Why would anyone smoke Sativas if they make you anxious and paranoid?”
“Well that’s just the reaction I have to them. Others have no issue. And more abled users often prefer the more alert Sativas because the higher energy makes them more functional while high. Indicas can make some people too sleepy and relaxed to feel motivated to get things done.”
“Some people, but not you?”
“No. Since, for me, it’s medicinal, the relief it gives me from symptoms makes me more functional when I’m high, not less. Plus the sleepiness factor is nothing compared to chronic fatigue.”
“That makes a lot of sense.”
“And since I don’t drive or operate heavy machinery, it really isn’t much of an issue. Not compared to everything else.” Rita nods thoughtfully. “I never really wanted to learn to drive,” Nadiya muses. “but every now and then I get the urge. Do you drive?” Rita stiffens abruptly, eyes darting. She forces herself to breathe through the wash of anxiety that suffuses her torso, making her heart pound erratically and her stomach drop harshly. The pain that comes a few seconds later as a result of the tension is almost enough to make her forget what they’ve been talking about. Almost, but not enough. Nadiya notices her change in behavior and her tone softens in response.
“Sorry. Sore subject?” a small choked laugh bursts from Rita’s lips.
“Literally.”
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“No, I think I do want to. It’s just hard.” Nadiya waits, listening patiently. Rita usually avoids talking about the details of the accident, but it’s different with Nadiya. Rita’s instincts tell her she’ll understand in the way few others have. Rita takes a deep, shaking breath. “I’ve only driven a few times. It happened during my first practice drive for driver’s ed. I was stopped at a light and I got rear-ended. My foot was on the brake and the impact went up from there.” Nadiya nods sympathetically and Rita continues, encouraged. “I haven’t driven a car since. As long as someone else is in the driver’s seat I’m fine. But every time I’ve tried to get back behind the wheel I start to sweat and freeze up and basically have a full-on panic attack. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to drive again.”
“That’s super understandable.”
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely! You went through a trauma and were permanently injured as a result. It makes total sense that you’d have a strong reaction when recreating those conditions.” Rita breathes a sight of relief that seems to fill her whole body.
“Thanks for understanding.”
“What are friends for?” Nadiya gently bumps Ria’s shoulder with her own. “We spoonies gotta stick together.”
“Yeah,” Rita smiled. “We do.”
They hear a knock and Nadiya’s older brother pokes his head around the door. Cameron right behind him.
“It smells… familiar in here,” Cam says jokingly. Rita cringes inwardly, but Nadiya glares openly. “I know! It’s weed.”
“You’re not funny,” Nadia says, cutting off his laughter. “When you make that comment, what you’re actually saying is ‘it smells like medicine in here. Like you need medicating.’ Which is something I already dwell on enough, thank you very much.” Cam looks chagrined.
“It’s all good,” Clay consoles him. “I should have warned you my little sister has
a tongue as sharp as her bony ass elbows.” Nadia throws a light pillow across the room at her brother but she isn’t scowling anymore. He easily dodges, grinning.
“You should be grateful I’m the one with these bony-ass joints, or you’d be the one laid up in this bed.”
“I know, I know. Thank you again for housing the shit genes.”
“You’re so welcome.” Nadiya smiles through her own sarcasm. Rita gets the impression this is an exchange the siblings have had more than a few times before.
“We’ll be on our way then. Just wanted to say hi,” Clay says, turning to Rita. “Good to meet you… Rina?”
“Rita.” She waves a hand slightly. “Likewise.” Cam looks like he’s about to loose another quip, but thinks better of it, waving bye to Rita on his way out of the room.
“Sorry,” Rita says when they’ve left. “he’s not usually so tactless.”
“It’s fine,” Nadiya says. “I’m used to it.”
“It must be nice having a family who’re used to you being chronically ill.”
“Yours will get there, too,” Nadiya assures. “And no one’s perfect. I’m sure if you asked clay what type of defective hemoglobin I have he’d just stare blankly or make something up.”
“There are multiple kinds?”
“quite a few, yeah. I’m type S. The type most people are somewhat familiar with. Clay and my parents are all carriers, they’ve been tested. They just don’t have enough abnormal blood cells to be symptomatic in normal conditions.”
“So you pulled the genetic short straw?”
“Basically.”
“That hella sucks.”
“It really does.” They sit in silence for a couple minutes, just thinking.
“I kinda think I might want to try it.” Rita blurts, nervously tucking her hair behind her ears. “Smoking, I mean. With you.”
“I would be deeply honored.” Nadiya smiles and puts a hand over her heart.
“I mean, not tonight,” Rita adds hastily. “My mom’s coming to pick me up at eleven when she gets off work. But some other time, maybe?”
“Cool, let’s talk it out.” They do and Rita agrees to come over again in a week and gives Nadiya a gentle hug full of endearing winces and crackling joints.
Rita takes the chair down the stairs, holding her cane carefully between her knees so it won’t snag on anything, and thanks Darlene profusely for having her, before stepping out into the cooling night air and walking over to Mamá’s car.
“Did you have a good time, Mija?”
“ I really did. Rita gets in and buckles her seat belt before realizing that Tía’s in the back seat. It’s only then that she remembers her aunt’s weekly poker game.
“Hi, Tia, how was your game?”
“Not too bad,” she replies, smile reflected in the rear-view mirror. “I’m up sixty bucks!”
“Congrats.” NO wonder she’s in a good mood.
“So what does this new friend do?” Tia asks.
“She’s a streamer.”
“You mean she works for Netflix or something?”
“No, I mean she plays videogames on camera for people to watch.”
“Who’d want to watch that?”
“Millions of people. Have you been on YouTube in the past decade?”
“I have. I just keep my viewing to worthwhile content.” Rita knows there’s no point trying to make her aunt understand. She doesn’t need to, anyways. Rita gets it, and that’s enough. In spite of Tia’s cynical attitude, the whole ride home, Rita can’t stop smiling.
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