Dad shook his head. “The fact that you have the capacity to lose your bearings is enough information for me.”
Mom agreed. “Once is already too many times.”
“Goddamnit.” I thought we had gotten past this part. I let go of their hands. “I love you both so much but you can be so stupid sometimes.”
“Watch it,” Mom said.
“The specialist told everything he knew to Dr. Clarkington. What more do you want? Do you want me to leave and go live in Minnesota so I can rot at the Mayo Clinic? ”
“Don’t get worked up,” Dad cautioned.
“Is that what you want?” I couldn’t look at their close-to-tears faces so I kept my eyes on the ceiling.
I heard Mom mutter, “That is the last thing you say to Sammie when she’s worked up.”
“I know everything is scary but I’m the one going through it, okay? And I get to decide how to feel about it. Which is very, like, practical. And rational. You should be glad that I’m not depressed, like that girl from”—I brought my gaze back to both of them—“Michigan who found out she had leukemia and got suicidal!”
“Christ, Sammie…” Dad said.
Mom looked toward the hallway, making sure Bette and Davy hadn’t overheard.
“Read about it in the Detroit Times! It’s a real thing! I’m happy, I’m focused, and I will do everything to get better. Except for compromise on my goals. Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, once said…” I was flustered. “He once said…”
“Samantha,” my mother said. “Listen to me.”
“Okay!” My fists were clenched. She waited. “Okay.”
“We can’t be around all the time to monitor your health…”
I opened my mouth to protest.
“… and we might not always know what to do anyway,” Mom said, holding her hands up. “So you’ve got to, you’ve got to help us. You’ve got be smart.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Smart doesn’t always mean grades and vocabulary and all that, Sammie. We need you to be realistic.”
Dad started in, too. “Start preparing for the future.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing for the past eighteen years of my life?”
“No, I don’t mean that, I mean a future where…” Suddenly, he stopped, and I didn’t know why. Mom was looking straight ahead, but I noticed one of her arms was behind him where he sat. Pinching him, probably. She did not want him to go on. Now, that. That pushed a button—maybe because they worked so much and were rarely together, I wasn’t used to the magnetism of their powers combined. Jupiter and Mars aligned. Those bastards. The two biological sources of all my strength and weakness in one place. They think they’re protecting me. But I know them as well as they think they know me.
“Well,” I said. I swallowed, and went on. “I am no longer competing in debate, so I will be able to focus my efforts on completing the year without incident.”
“Good. And resting,” my mom said.
“And maintaining my status as valedictorian.”
Dad moved one of my clogs to match it with other, making a pair on the floor. “And visiting the doctor.”
“And finding a new doctor that we trust in New York City.”
Dad nodded. “We’ll take it one day at a time.”
I nodded with him. “Yes, one day at a time, moving toward next year. I agree.”
Mom put her hand on my hand. “Okay,” she said. She smiled at me less with her mouth, and more with her eyes. “Yes.”
And that was that.
But now I’m here, back at the attic window, and things look dark. I am not dumb, Future Sam. I am not blind to the tone with which my parents speak to me, and the bright-eyed choo-choo-train innocence with which I respond. Next year! I’ll get better! I’m fine! I can beat this!
I even speak strategically to you.
Because the truth is that my memory loss was much worse than I had described it here. Before I remembered who Maddie was, I was inches away from drooling and taking her hand on the debate platform like a little kid lost at a playground, asking her to take me home to Mommy and Daddy.
I don’t know how long I was quiet up there, blinking and looking around, before I called “time-out.” It felt like hours.
No matter what plans I make, no matter how much I help my parents, I feel like my body is failing me, and I don’t know how to stop it.
SPEAKING OF PITS OF DESPAIR, DON’T SPEAK
I just went to get a glass of water (thanks for the reminder to hydrate, Zavesca!), and I could hear them talking downstairs.
“There’s no way,” Dad was saying.
“But what’s the point of telling her that?” Mom whispered back. “You know what that would do.”
“I’m on her side! We’re both on her side! I want her to go and live and be happy. But how are we supposed to ignore fuckin’ science, Gia?”
“Stop cursing.”
“I’m serious!” Dad’s voice was almost raised now.