In The Comment Section

Chapter Five - Are You Okay?

When I finally came out of the bathroom, they had finished eating. Jemma was on the couch, Mom was in one of the armchairs, Grandpa was in the other, and Grandma was in the rocking chair. They were watching TV, probably Murder She Wrote. Jemma looked at me over at me as I exited.

"Are you okay?" she asked, worry written all over her face. 'No. Now stop asking!' I thought.

"Yeah. That spice... didn't agree with my stomach," I hedged. It was sort of the truth, in its own way.

 "I'm so sorry," Grandma fretted as she paused the TV. I felt an immediate surge of guilt.

"It's okay, really," I assured her. I had actually thrown up after a few minutes, unable to stop myself. But then again, that was all the more proof that it didn't sit well with me. After all, it didn't.

 "Maybe we should take you to the doctor's," Mom suggested.

 "I'm fine, really," I lied once again, shifting from side to side uncomfortably at the prospect.

 "Maybe, but we should still get you checked out. I'll see when their nearest appointment is," Mom said, and stepped outside to make the call.

While we waited, Grandma hit play on the TV. It was Murder She Wrote, just as I had thought. We always watched this when we went over to their house; it was basically a tradition. 

We were just getting to the murder scene when Mom came back in. "Good news!" she said.

"What?" I asked apprehensively.

"Someone just canceled their appointment last-minute! There's a slot for us in 20 minutes," she explained.

"Can i stay here?"Jemma asked. Mom nodded after glancing at my grandparents for confirmation.

"Sure. Val, we should get going now. We'll be back in an hour or so," she told my grandparents.

****

The car ride was silent. I pretended to read, whilst quietly having a mini heart attack. Could the doctors tell why the spice made me throw up? What if they found out the real reason? Would I be sent to therapy? Would everyone think I was weak? My mind swirled and spun, a roller coaster of thoughts, emotions, and most prominently, questions.

"So... How's school been? Do you still like Ovie? " Mom asked, trying to make conversation.

"Yes, I do," I replied sullenly, pulling my hood over my head. 

'Just like the past 7 years...' I silently added.

 Finally we arrived, which did nothing to help settle my stomach. However, the moment I saw the receptionist my whole demeanor changed. I smiled a bit, and waved, pulling off my hood. 

'Act happy,' I warned myself.

The waiting room was the first room you entered. It had light blue walls, rough dark blue carpet that's more for businesses like this than a house, hard navy chairs scattered around, a receptionist desk in the corner, a door that probably led to the actual doctor office, and pictures adorning the walls.

 "We're here to see Dr. Inez, we have an appointment for 4:30," Mom stated, placing one hand on the desk, which went up to my stomach. 

 "Name?" He asked, glancing up.

 "I'm Maggie Lamur, and this is my daughter, Violet. L-A-M-U-R," she spelled out.

 "You can take a seat," the receptionist told us after clicking around on his computer for a second. He gestured to the waiting room. 

 "May," I mumbled, "You 'may' take a seat." He didn't hear. 

I took a seat on one of the navy chairs. Mom sat beside me and studied the pictures as I returned to my book, the pages cool and smooth against my fingers. 

I shifted slightly in the plastic chair as the seconds ticked by, loudly marked by the obnoxious, constant ticking of the clock right above the door.

 "Look at this one. Violet, isn't this a pretty painting?" Mom exclaimed. I looked up to where she was pointing, nodding as I smiled fakely. 

 I heard the door open and glanced that way. A man with a brown beard and a half head entered. I returned to my book, ignoring them.

The doorknob of the door leading to the doctor office clicked and I looked up again. 

 "Violet Lamur?" The doctor called. I smiled, standing. 

 Moment of truth. Here we go...