“And I’m saying what is that?” Remy’s tone is more aggressive than he intended, but he’s worried that his inability to understand the acronym may be part of the condition, like he’s now medically unable to speak English.
“Sorry,” Mike says. “Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. You may know it as Lou Gehrig’s disease.”
The words hit his brain but didn’t penetrate.
“Didn’t he die of that?” Remy asks.
“Yes,” says Mike. “He did.”
Remy’s heart began to race. “But—”
“There are drugs,” Mike told him, “that can slow the progression. But there’s no meaningful treatment. I’m sorry, Remy. There’s no easy way to say this. You have an aggressive neurological disorder that is going to take over your life, and you need to prepare yourself for that. Does Margot know you’re here?”
But Remy wasn’t listening anymore.
*
You have arrived at your destination.
He pulls over on a quiet, tree-lined street. The internet has told him that the loss of muscle control in his hands will worsen and spread. The muscles in his body are literally wasting away, deprived of nourishment. One day in the not-too-distant future he will lose the ability to walk, then speak, then eat, then breathe. And then he will be dead.
He shuts off the car. Beside him, Margot is still buzzing.
“Six three one. This is the place.”
They get out. The sound of cicadas hits them along with the heat, as if the temperature itself is a life-form. They are on the east side of town—east and west separated by highway 35, a north/south artery commonly known as the NAFTA superhighway. The area used to be predominately Black, but the last ten years have seen the blooming creep of gentrification. first the artists, then the restaurants, then the strollers, housing prices rising, driving out the existing community. In some ways it is the history of the United States played in perpetuity as a meme. The manifest destiny of wealth to spread and absorb. The word “reclamation.”
Story and her boyfriend—Felix?—moved into a sublet on Holly Street near an artisanal restaurant that used to be a Laundromat. It’s a small white clapboard house that needs a paint job. The lawn, Remy notices, has surrendered to the heat and lies sickly yellow beside the cracked concrete walk. The house has been squeezed between two adjoining homes, one a modern remodel, the other a dilapidated Craftsman with a FOR SALE sign by the curb.
“We could buy that one,” says Hadrian, already taller than his mother at twelve.
“She’d love that,” says Margot, wishing she’d thought to bring a gift or a bottle of wine. Do you bring alcohol to your adult children? she wonders. Is that a thing?
They approach the house. The shades are drawn. There are lights on inside.
“You told her we were coming?” Remy asks for the third time since they landed.
“Again, yes,” says Margot, a hint of annoyance coming into her voice. “I texted, but I didn’t hear back.”
Remy knocks. The front lawn is sunlit and hot, and they stand sweating, waiting for the kids to answer.
“You—”
“She knows,” says Margot. “Maybe we should have gone to the hotel first.”
Hadrian goes to the living room window, peers in.
“Hadrian,” says Remy.
“I’m just looking.”
“This is Texas. Black men shouldn’t look in people’s windows in Texas.”
“He’s twelve,” says Margot.
“You don’t think they shoot twelve-year-olds here?”
Margot checks her watch. In her head she’s already heading to the airport to fly to DC. She steps past Remy, tries the door. It’s unlocked.
“Mistake,” says Remy.
“I’ve got to pee,” Margot tells him.
She steps inside. There is no entryway. The front door opens into the living room. The decorations are a mix of post-college IKEA assemblage, his and hers. Margot recognizes a few heirlooms—Grandma’s trunk, covered with a linen doily, Story’s childhood armoire. Several black-and-white photos in cheap frames line the walls—the boyfriend’s work? On her way to the bathroom, Margot passes two suitcases and a leather overnight bag but doesn’t notice them. Why would you?
Remy and Hadrian enter behind her in time to see the bathroom door closing. Even though it’s his stepdaughter’s house, Remy feels nervous at the trespass. He closes the front door quickly. Inside, the air-conditioning is on. The coolness is welcome, but with it comes a smell—a subtle sourness, like milk that has turned. He looks over at Hadrian, but the boy has his phone out already. So Remy follows the smell to the kitchen door, opens it.