ma’am, I do.”
“Well then, can’t you just tell me them? Why do I have to call someone else?”
“I’m not authorized to do that.”
I was beginning to get upset. “What do you mean? You’re authorized to give me my other test results. Why not this one?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t answer that. Have a nice day.” She hung up.
What the hell?
I dialed the social worker’s number, my pulse racing.
“Diane Sullivan,” she answered on the first ring.
I cleared my throat. “Um, hi, this is Lucy Moore.” I realized too late that I wasn’t supposed to use my last name. “I was in there back in October—”
“Lucy! Yes, I remember,” Diane said. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “I’m just calling for my confirmatory results.”
“Well, we usually ask our clients to come in person to receive their results. Would you like to schedule an appointment now? I have several openings this week.”
“No, I want to know now.”
“Lucy, it really is better if we speak in person.”
I hesitated. “Why?”
“It’s standard procedure—”
My grip tightened around the phone. “It’s because I’m positive, isn’t it?”
There was a tension-filled pause. “We ask everyone to come in, regardless of their results.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re not legally allowed to withhold my results from me.” Having a lawyer for a father came in handy sometimes.
Diane gave a tiny, yielding sigh. “Do you have your client number available? For confidentiality reasons, I can’t give you any results without it.”
I read it to her, the paper and my voice shaking. I heard Diane’s fingers typing the number into a computer.
“Lucy, your HIV result is positive.”
I dropped the phone in my lap and brought my forehead to the steering wheel.
The hope I’d been clinging to since three o’clock yesterday morning evaporated.
I waited for the nausea, for the panic, for the demons’ resurgence. I waited for the streak of denial, for the compulsion to lash out in violence. I waited for any perceptible reaction at all, but nothing happened.
And then I realized. Nothing was happening because inside, I was already dead.
“Lucy?” Diane’s tinny distant voice was calling to me. “Are you there?”
I took the length of five deep, long breaths.
“Hello? Lucy?”
Slowly, I picked up the phone and brought it back to my ear. “I’m here.”
“What are you feeling right now?”
“Nothing,” I said truthfully.
“It’s important for you to understand that with proper medical care and support, people with HIV can lead very productive lives,” she said.
“You have to say that.”
“I don’t. I say it because it’s true. I’ve been doing this a long time, Lucy. I know many people with HIV who live quite normally.”
“Well, I’m not one of them.”
“You can be,” she said.
“No. I can’t.” My voice was rising. “You don’t understand. How am I supposed to care about normal things like high school when I’m slowly being killed from the inside out? How am I supposed to be normal when the first person I told ran for the hills the second the words came out of my mouth?”
“I’m very sorry to hear that happened to you. But I’m sure you have many people in your life who will support you. A trusted friend or family member, maybe?”
“No. I’m not telling anyone else.”
“Having a reliable support system in place is a key factor in living a full, happy life, Lucy. I’d encourage you to reconsider. In the meantime, we have many group meetings here at the clinic, and I’d also really like to schedule a one-on-one in-person appointment with you.”
The dim ring of the bell sounded from within the school’s walls.
“I have to go,” I said quickly, grateful for an excuse to end the conversation. “Bye.”
“Wait, Lucy—”
I hung up the phone. The normal world was calling for me.
17
Sixteen Going on Seventeen
Lucy Moore as I had always known her ceased
“Well then, can’t you just tell me them? Why do I have to call someone else?”
“I’m not authorized to do that.”
I was beginning to get upset. “What do you mean? You’re authorized to give me my other test results. Why not this one?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t answer that. Have a nice day.” She hung up.
What the hell?
I dialed the social worker’s number, my pulse racing.
“Diane Sullivan,” she answered on the first ring.
I cleared my throat. “Um, hi, this is Lucy Moore.” I realized too late that I wasn’t supposed to use my last name. “I was in there back in October—”
“Lucy! Yes, I remember,” Diane said. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “I’m just calling for my confirmatory results.”
“Well, we usually ask our clients to come in person to receive their results. Would you like to schedule an appointment now? I have several openings this week.”
“No, I want to know now.”
“Lucy, it really is better if we speak in person.”
I hesitated. “Why?”
“It’s standard procedure—”
My grip tightened around the phone. “It’s because I’m positive, isn’t it?”
There was a tension-filled pause. “We ask everyone to come in, regardless of their results.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re not legally allowed to withhold my results from me.” Having a lawyer for a father came in handy sometimes.
Diane gave a tiny, yielding sigh. “Do you have your client number available? For confidentiality reasons, I can’t give you any results without it.”
I read it to her, the paper and my voice shaking. I heard Diane’s fingers typing the number into a computer.
“Lucy, your HIV result is positive.”
I dropped the phone in my lap and brought my forehead to the steering wheel.
The hope I’d been clinging to since three o’clock yesterday morning evaporated.
I waited for the nausea, for the panic, for the demons’ resurgence. I waited for the streak of denial, for the compulsion to lash out in violence. I waited for any perceptible reaction at all, but nothing happened.
And then I realized. Nothing was happening because inside, I was already dead.
“Lucy?” Diane’s tinny distant voice was calling to me. “Are you there?”
I took the length of five deep, long breaths.
“Hello? Lucy?”
Slowly, I picked up the phone and brought it back to my ear. “I’m here.”
“What are you feeling right now?”
“Nothing,” I said truthfully.
“It’s important for you to understand that with proper medical care and support, people with HIV can lead very productive lives,” she said.
“You have to say that.”
“I don’t. I say it because it’s true. I’ve been doing this a long time, Lucy. I know many people with HIV who live quite normally.”
“Well, I’m not one of them.”
“You can be,” she said.
“No. I can’t.” My voice was rising. “You don’t understand. How am I supposed to care about normal things like high school when I’m slowly being killed from the inside out? How am I supposed to be normal when the first person I told ran for the hills the second the words came out of my mouth?”
“I’m very sorry to hear that happened to you. But I’m sure you have many people in your life who will support you. A trusted friend or family member, maybe?”
“No. I’m not telling anyone else.”
“Having a reliable support system in place is a key factor in living a full, happy life, Lucy. I’d encourage you to reconsider. In the meantime, we have many group meetings here at the clinic, and I’d also really like to schedule a one-on-one in-person appointment with you.”
The dim ring of the bell sounded from within the school’s walls.
“I have to go,” I said quickly, grateful for an excuse to end the conversation. “Bye.”
“Wait, Lucy—”
I hung up the phone. The normal world was calling for me.
17
Sixteen Going on Seventeen
Lucy Moore as I had always known her ceased
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