Page 69 of Spectacular Things

The Chair

Mia does her best—and worst—thinking in her dialysis chair.

It’s where she came up with Oliver’s birthday present (running shoes), figured out the problem with her recent batch of tomato sauce (not enough nutmeg), and determined what she’ll put in Betty’s first Easter basket (bunny-shaped teethers and a pint of strawberries).

It’s also where she’s dreamed the most realistic, horrific dreams about her sister.

The chair itself is simple, similar to one of those massaging recliners they have in nail salons.

As Mia makes herself comfortable at the start of yet another three-hour session, she imagines that she isn’t getting hemodialysis but a luxurious pedicure with all the expensive add-ons because spring is coming and that’s the kind of thing other women do, even busy moms.

But not Mia.

No, Mia’s spa day is spent here, shackled to a machine at the Kidney Care Center. The chair itself is dark gray. Mia refers to it as her loyal steed to the technician who checks her in, and the tech laughs politely, every time, which is now too many times to count.

“Mia!” Ro, Mia’s favorite nurse, stands before her in Tweety Bird scrubs. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in a minute.”

“Wednesday?” Mia guesses, rolling up her right sleeve and making a fist.

Thumbing Mia’s plump vein for the IV, Ro asks, “So you haven’t heard about Mrs. Simms?” At Mia’s worried expression, Ro clarifies, “No, no, it’s all good—great, actually—her daughter said she’ll be her donor.”

The news knocks Mia sideways. No one deserves kidney failure, but Mrs. Simms just celebrated her eighty-fifth birthday last month and now her daughter is giving her a new lease on life. Everyone here should be so lucky.

“I’ll check back in a bit,” Ro says, patting Mia’s shoulder before waving to her next patient from across the room. As the machine works to remove, filter, and replace Mia’s blood, she closes her eyes and indulges in an alternative reality:

If her own mother were still alive, Liz would be a B-positive match and a willing donor, which means Mia would have a new kidney already, and she would never have fought with Cricket.

If Liz were still alive, Mia wouldn’t be here, tethered to this chair and dependent on dialysis for survival.

If her mother were still alive, Mia would be at home with her six-month-old daughter, who would be content instead of bawling in the arms of whichever hungover college student Mia was able to nail down to babysit that day. And if Liz were still alive—

Mia is suddenly hot, very hot, which is weird because this process usually makes her cold. Sweating through her shirt, Mia checks the hemodialysis machine, but her levels are normal and it’s running smoothly.

The problem is that Mia needs to set her chair on fire at this exact moment.

She needs to pour gasoline on the hemodialysis machine and watch it burn.

Because this is way too much and this is too damn hard and Mrs. Simms? Really?

“I’m done,” she whispers to herself, testing out the sentiment.

It feels good. An unfamiliar buzz tingles through her body and Mia realizes it’s the rush of rebellion, the thrill of making a unilateral decision based on her own desire.

“I’m done!” she says a little louder. “Done, done, done,” she sings as she begins to detach herself from the machine.

Mia is twenty-nine years old. She is too young for chronic kidney disease, and Betty is too vivacious to have a mother so compromised.

This isn’t fair and she’s not doing it anymore.

Instead, Mia hums as she carefully removes the IV needle from her forearm and glances through the glass doors to her future.

Outside, the next three hours beckon from the parking lot like a seductive stranger with a full tank of gas.

Mia slips her shoes back on and ignores the sounds of displeasure coming from her dialysis machine because she’s done here, forever, and she’s going to go get a pedicure like a regular mom, and she’s also going to the mall, and the beach, and then she’s going to drive to Montreal because in the grand scheme of things, it’s really not that far, and—

“Mia?” Ro says, walking over. “What’s going on?”

“I quit!” Mia announces, grabbing her bag from the side table. The other patients look over with a mix of curiosity and concern. Lowering her voice so only Ro can hear, Mia says, “I quit and I’m driving to Canada.”

“What are you talking about?” Ro’s eyes narrow, trying to understand. “I need you in that chair for the next three hours.” But Ro has three exuberant kids and two healthy kidneys of her own, so Mia just stares at her because she doesn’t get it. She can’t getit.

“I need you to sit back down, please,” Ro says calmly. “Come on, Mia, let’s do this.”

“No,” Mia answers defiantly. “I’m leaving.”

“Because this sucks?” Ro asks.

The answer surprises Mia. “Yes,” she manages to say.

“And because this is unfair?” Ro continues. “And absolute bullshit?”

“Yeah,” Mia says, her voice cracking as she tries to sniff back everything she’s suppressed for six months. Everything she’s told herself wasn’t constructive in her effort to be positive.

“I don’t know if anyone has mentioned this to you,” Ro says. “But this is really hard.”

Mia puts her hands on her hips and stares up at the fluorescent light, willing herself not to cry. “Yeah,” she agrees. “It fucking sucks.” And the expletive feels good as she releases it into the atmosphere, violent and transgressive, like the disease itself.

“Come with me,” Ro says, steering Mia through a door with a sign that reads Staff Only .

Inside is a small office area with a mini fridge, a row of lockers, and a round table with two chairs.

Ro pulls one out for Mia, then the other for herself.

“Being a human is hard, and being a human mother is even harder,” Ro says.

“But being a human mother trying to care for her family while fighting CKD? Are you fucking kidding me? ”

Mia laughs as she blinks back more tears. No one has said anything like this to her. Everyone has told her to stay positive, be strong, look on the bright side. Ro is the first person to express all the wretched feelings swirling inside her.

“Every time I see you, I hope it’s the last,” Ro says, offering Mia an opened box of Cheez-Its. Mia shoves a handful into her mouth. They taste like childhood and remind her of her mom. “You don’t deserve this,” Ro says.

Mia just nods, dazed by the staggering brightness of these neglected truths finally dragged into the sun.

“You’re doing a phenomenal job in an impossible situation,” Ro says. “Now do me a favor and get back in that chair.”

Mia nods at Ro and they leave the staff break room.

While Ro checks on another patient, Mia returns to her loyal steed.

She stares at the chair, hesitating. She should sit down, she needs to.

Instead, she walks out of the clinic without looking back.

Because despite Ro’s best efforts, Mia just can’t do it anymore. She just can’t.