The freaked-out woman is starting to put me on edge, so I look away and see, sitting across from me, Stan.
Stan is like me in that he has a brother who is also an Arctic Recovery Orphan, whose name is Ted, I think, but I’m not 100 percent sure. Ned? Anyway, I can’t remember the last time I saw Stan, but here he is now, in gym shorts and new but dirtied Nikes and a hoodie. We’ve been together in this waiting room enough times that I smile and wave at him now. But we’ve never really talked before, and never outside the hospital. For some reason there isn’t, like, I don’t know, a listserv or a message board for people like us. It’s not as if the government or whoever makes up the rules for our sisters and brothers has actively tried to make sure that none of us ever meet, but it’s also not as if anyone’s ever encouraged it.
I’ve seen Stan, like, three times, and I’ve never seen his brother before. Once, once, maybe three years ago, I remember he and I were sitting with our parents in this very same room, waiting for Callie. Jane, her caseworker, came out alone, and Stan and I both stood up to greet her, and his eyes fell a bit when she came over to us instead of him. That’s how I figured out who Stan was and why he was there. Later I saw Jane talking to him, and I heard her say “conniption,” and it is not like everyone just goes around saying “conniption” like it’s a fashionable new turn of phrase. So it’s always a bit weird to see him here, I guess. Seeing Stan could mean that his brother and my sister are having seizures at the same time.
I want to ask Stan if his brother’s getting weirder too. And also about Jane and what he thinks of her.
See, Jane always talks to me in this sweet, concerned, authority-figure voice. But her eyes are cold. She’ll be smiling at me and calling me “dear,” but she’ll look at me with these eyes that let me know that my life or death would mean nothing to her. Maybe I’m just being melodramatic or projecting because here she is, this stranger who is in total control of Callie and what happens to her during check-ins and after she has fits. And because I know all about what’s involved in caring for and about Callie, knowing that is a little terrifying to me. And I’ve seen how her posture changes as soon as she walks away from me, like she only cares about making me see her as kind and nurturing for as long as I’m in her line of sight. Anyway, suffice it to say, I’m not her biggest fan.
“Hey,” I say to Stan, after we catch each other’s eyes. “How’s yours?”
He kind of coughs and kind of laughs, and then he takes down his hood as if to let the world in a little. “Been better,” he says.
“Mine too.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“Mine too.”
He smiles at that, which is nice, but he does it in this way that makes me think it’s been a while.
“So,” I say.
“So.”
“Is he getting worse? Than usual?”
He takes a breath and holds it in a bit.
“I know how weird it is to talk about them. You know, with anyone besides family. And Jane,” I say. He looks at me like he agrees, so I lean in, and I decide I’m just going to go for it. “But my sister is getting worse, and I don’t really have anyone to talk to about it. She’s been having fits more and more, and, I don’t know, maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I feel that if I talk to my parents, all they’ll do is worry and maybe just make things worse, and if I talk to Jane . . . I don’t even want to know.”
“Ugh, Jane,” he says, then pauses to think. “Jane is either, like, a vice principal desperate for you to like her, or she’s completely terrifying and her whole life is a front.
“Ted’s,” he starts, but then stops. “I don’t know how your sister is,” he says, restarting. “I used to like to think that, like . . . that they were all the same. But now I feel like maybe they’re not.” He pauses, looking more thoughtful than I would have assumed he could. “Ted is pretty aggressive. My dad has us, like, wrestle, to let his aggression out. We can play football. We can’t really play basketball. When I say ‘football,’ I mean my dad throws me passes and Ted tries to tackle me. And when we play ‘basketball,’ it’s just layups and dunks. And his fits,” he tells me, “have been getting rough. Dad feels as though this means we should work harder to give Ted outlets.”
“And what do you feel?” I ask.
Stan shrugs. He makes a face, and then another one, but I can’t read either and don’t know if I want to try to right now.