Page 23 of The Senator's Wife

Taking a deep breath, Athena thought for a moment, recalling Sloane’s full bookshelves. “Well, one of my favorite things to do is poke around old bookstores. I could spend hours looking through the shelves.”

“Mmm. I love that too. What do you like to read?”

“I’m all over the place. I love biographies, especially ones about strong women. I’ve always been drawn to Greek tragedy.” She smiled. “I guess it’s in the genes. And I read a lot of nonfiction.”

“I love biographies too. And I’ve gone back and reread many of the classics I studied in college. Such a different take, almost thirty years later. But I have to say that I’m a sucker for a good love story,” Sloane said.

Athena did her best to keep her expression impassive. Love stories always ended badly. Didn’t Sloane know that?

- 19 -

SLOANE

Fifteen days postsurgery, and Sloane was doing well—at least as far as her hip was concerned. But a feeling of alarm filled her, as if her very breath were being squeezed from her body. What her rheumatologist had feared was coming to pass: her joints were achy, her feet swollen. A lupus flare. Athena had driven her to the doctor’s two days ago for blood tests, and Dr. Porter, her rheumatologist, had confirmed it when he called her yesterday with the lab results. Her sedimentation rate was elevated, which meant that she was experiencing inflammation. Sloane had a follow-up appointment in an hour, and he would give her an injection of triamcinolone to see if that would mitigate the flare instead of upping her prednisone, which came with a host of side effects. She hoped the steroid shot would work. No wonder the physical therapy had become more arduous instead of less so.

Sloane put down her toothbrush and leaned against the vanity, drawing in a breath to steady herself. Just the effort of washing up this morning had already drained her.

She heard the sound of an incoming FaceTime call and picked up the phone from the vanity top, smiling when she saw Emmy’s name.

“Hello, sweetie! How are you?”

Emmy’s smile faded and her eyes clouded with concern. “Mom? Are you okay? You don’t look good.”

Sloane forced a cheerful note into her voice, trying to sound better than she felt. “Just a little under the weather. Nothing to fret about.” She didn’t want to tell Emmy about the doctor’s appointment. It would only worry her. Although when she looked at theimage projected on the screen, she could see why Emmy had asked. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her color was gray.

“Mom. You have to take it easy. That’s the whole point of Athena being there; you’re supposed to rest. Maybe I should take some time off and fly home.”

“No. I’m fine. You haven’t been there long enough to take time off. I have Whit and Athena here.” Sloane took a deep breath and tightened her free hand on the cane for support.

Emmy didn’t look convinced. “I don’t know.”

“You’ll be home for the donor party in a few weeks. And by then I’ll be as good as new. Now stop worrying!”

“Okay. Love you, Mom.”

“Love you more.”

Sloane ended the call and inched slowly to a chair. She felt bad lying to Emmy. She still hadn’t told Whit about the flare either—she was hopeful the shot would do its magic and she’d be back to normal. She’d tell him about it after her appointment today. She thought again of Madelyn’s cheap shot about her illness and was filled with anger. She could just imagine the elation Madelyn would feel if Sloane became sick again.

The truth was that people lived a lifetime with lupus and kept it well under control with their medications. Sloane had been lucky so far, but the fact that she had central nervous involvement put her at a higher risk of serious illness. Central nervous system vasculitis could cause inflammation of the brain and spinal cord vessels. If that happened, the complications ranged from fever and headaches to terrifying seizures, psychosis, depression, and coma. It was something she tried not to think about, but in these quiet moments, the fear tormented her. She pictured herself unable to move or speak, a prisoner of her own body. She had a living will and had specified that she didn’t want to be kept alive by any artificial means. But she also knew from her support group that she could be sick enough to lose control of her faculties, but still able to live unassisted for years. That was the nightmare she lived with.

—

Sloane heard the door chime and looked up from the book she was reading: it was only five thirty, early for Whit to be home. He walked into the living room and sat next to her on the sofa, leaning toward her for a kiss.

“This is a nice surprise. What brings you home early?” she asked.

“I have a meeting with my staff later to go over a new bill. I wanted to stop home and check on you, since it could be a long night.”

Sloane saw her opening and took it. “I need to tell you something. I had Athena take me for some bloodwork. Dr. Porter ran more tests. It, uh…it seems I’m in a flare.”

Concern filled Whit’s face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Iamtelling you.”

He leaned forward for emphasis. “I meant right away. How bad is it?”

“It’ll be okay. He gave me a steroid shot today, and that should reduce the inflammation. I need to take it easy for a few days; not that I’ll be doing any calisthenics with this hip thing going on, but I’m sure everything will be fine.”

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