“Okay.” Amanda nods.
I keep my eyes closed, the darkness helping me draw sense into my words. “So . . .” I go slowly, not wanting to confuse Amanda. “I have Shanna’s self inside of me, wrapped up in her heart. If I look at an inversion of myself, like the mirror box, I guess . . . I guess I’d see her.”
It feels right, like I’ve done it. Unwound another problem put in front of me and come up with the answer. I open my eyes, and Amanda stares back at me so long I have to resist the urge to tell her that her glasses are crooked.
“I spoke to your mother yesterday,” she finally says.
Amanda is smarter than she looks. This is her first non-question, and she vocalized something meant to throw me off guard.
“Okay” is all I say.
“She’s made some progress in therapy sessions with her own doctor.”
I keep my face stiff, hoping she can’t tell I didn’t know Mom was in therapy. Ever since Dad cut his losses with me he’s re-upped his investment in her, which I imagine is where this is coming from. I picture them stopping at Starbucks on the way home from her appointments, sitting by the lake in the park we used to picnic in together. Except now there’s no space between them on the bench where I used to be. It would almost be romantic if it didn’t leave me stranded.
“She said I could share some things with you that you might find helpful. Would you like to hear them?”
I try to want to. I think Sasha Stone would want to. Somewhere, her heart cares that her mother has been destroyed by this, and that the little pieces are being put back together by a stranger while she’s being sidelined. As if Sasha Stone were an impediment to her own mother’s improvement.
“Yes, tell me,” I say.
Amanda flips some pages in her notebook, and I wonder where the demarcation is between the pages that are about me, the pages that are about Shanna, and the ones about my mom, and if the ink bleeds through, one page to the next.
“She told her doctor that she was worried about weight gain when she found out she was pregnant with twins, and that she was determined to remain active throughout the pregnancy. But that she may have overdone it.”
“Okay,” I say again, keeping my face blank while Amanda waits for me to interpret.
“Sasha, your mother blames herself for your sister’s miscarriage. She always has.”
I nod to encourage her to go on, not because I agree.
“Your mother has been carrying the guilt for years, and the chance to right the wrong to the unborn child inside her living daughter made her want to believe you.”
Amanda leans forward in her chair, which should be dramatic but she loses her balance when it rolls a little.
“Sasha, I’ve spoken to quite a few doctors on this topic and all of them say that there’s no way to effectively determine what causes a miscarriage that early in pregnancy. Your mother didn’t cause the miscarriage, and neither did you. You don’t owe her anything.”
“Well, she gave birth to me, so . . .”
“I mean Shanna,” Amanda says.
I lean toward her as well, because I think she would like that. “I know,” I say.
What I don’t say is that I’m starting to think Shanna owes me.
Big-time.
I am (here you are) you (there? goes my heart) attack—serious as (a little birdie told me that you hate me).
And I believe that little birdie.
From Isaac
How you feeling?
Sasha?
Sasha?
I. Things I Know
A. Mind over matter is not only a saying.
B. Buddhist monk Thích Quang Duc set himself on fire in 1963, meditating peacefully while he burned alive.
II. Things I Don’t Know
A. How far I can take this
thirty
TODAY AT THE CARDIAC CENER!
Apparently not proofreading classes.
11:00 a.m.—Civil War Reenactment on the Lawn! Get hooked on hoop skirts as the Historical Society brings us their best! Note: The cannon will not be in use due to last year’s pacemaker incident.
I would rather hear about that incident than attend the event.
2:00 p.m.—Wild for Woolies! The zoo brings in their cuddliest cuties for some special playtime in the common room!
To be followed by earnest hand washing so that our compromised immune systems don’t collapse.
4:00 p.m.—Songs with Sasha! Who knew such talent walked these halls? Come hear resident musician Sasha Stone in the meditation room to get those toes tapping!
“You’re famous,” Layla says as I take my seat at lunch.
“Only in the Cardiac Cener,” I say, and she rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, I knew you’d catch that typo.”
I try to act like I don’t care, but the truth is that instead of ending up as a crumpled ball in my trash can, like every other day’s schedule, today’s is tucked in between the pages of the only romance novel Layla’s mom could bring me that didn’t have three inches of cleavage and some side boob on the cover.
“Wild for Woolies?” Brandy asks, eyeing the schedule. “Do they even know?”
“No,” Layla says with conviction. “They don’t know.”
“Know what?” I ask, peeling a banana.
“Lily-white,” Layla singsongs under her breath, so I look to Brandy for the explanation.
“A wooly is a big old joint laced with crack,” she says.
“I’m definitely not wild for that,” I tell her.
“No shit,” Brandy says, managing some fake shock.
“We should write our own schedule,” Layla says, pulling the sheet back from Brandy.
“Dead-on,” Brandy says. “Um . . . give me a sec . . . Fondle the Furries!”
“Wait, wait, wait, I got it,” Layla says. “Meet your favorite mascot in the laundry room to get down in kinktown.”
“A furry is—”
“Yeah, I actually know that one, thanks,” I stop Brandy from explaining.
“Roll Your Own,” Layla goes on in a fake radio announcer voice. “Nurse Karen isn’t the only one with skills! Joints with Angela meets before dinner!”
“You guys . . .” I try to shush them, but Layla holds her hand out.
“Okay, okay, I know. Belt the Bitch! Nadine will be grabbing her ankles—”
“GUYS,” I say, and they understand two seconds too late.
Brandy sighs. “She’s standing right behind us, isn’t she?”
Layla and Brandy turn to face Nadine, whose face is white with anger, her lips a flat line.
“Hey, sorry, Nadine.” Layla at least has the grace to look guilty; Brandy is just glancing between the two of them like she’s gauging how much time she needs to get away on her gimp foot.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Layla goes on. “We got carried away.”
Nadine shakes her head. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry, Layla.”
“How’s that?”
“Sorry for you that the organ donor registry isn’t an equal-opportunity employer,” she says, and Brandy stands up. I think she’s going to run for it, but instead she plants herself firmly in between the two of them.
“Shut your face,” Brandy says, low and quiet.
“What are you going do, crip? Chase me down?” Nadine says, stepping in toward Brandy.