* * *
—
At home her father helped her into bed and told her to sit tight.
Dad? she said as he turned to go.
The words felt unlikely in her mouth even before they were fully formed: Can you call Mom?
He returned a few minutes later with water and pills and a bag of frozen spinach. He helped lift her head and put the icy bag at the base of her neck.
I talked to your mother, he said. She said she used to get migraines when she was your age. Something about hormones.
It was hard to decide what felt most improbable: Charlie’s mother having been a teenager, the two of them having this visceral thing in common, or how very much Charlie wanted her here now, how the pain bore a mother-shaped hole her father’s tenderness did not fill. But the pain was also exhausting, and soon—despite the chill of the ice pack and the fact that she never slept on her back—Charlie felt herself sliding out of consciousness.
* * *
—
She woke later, startled by something she’d dreamt. She had a feeling she was supposed to be somewhere. What time was it? She tried to reach for her phone, but her arm was heavy, torpid. She dipped into sleep again, waking some time later, clammy, her father’s hand on her shoulder and her pillowcase mottled with spinach melt.
How you feeling, sweetie?
She considered. Her vision was gauzy but the pain was no longer viselike. It was broader, but as it spread it had also thinned.
Better.
Do you want me to call you out tomorrow?
Charlie shook her head, said she wanted to make sure she had all her assignments for over the break, but really she just wanted to be back with her classmates. She thought of the people she was slowly coming to count as her friends—Austin, Kayla, and even the stage crew kids—and hoped she hadn’t missed anything interesting.
That night, she opened her phone to find an unfamiliar icon in the notification bar. When she clicked it, a small video of Austin appeared.
You o-k? Missed you today.
She set her phone upright on her bureau, smoothed down her hair.
Sent home sick, but I’m o-k.
Good enough for pizza Tuesday?
For sure.
Charlie sent the message, then stood there staring at her phone screen until it went black and the reflection of her own goofy grin snapped her out of it. She wondered whether the invite for pizza counted as a date, though even if it didn’t, it had to mean something that he’d checked in on her. What exactly, she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t even sure what she wanted it to mean. Still, the exchange warmed her, and she went to sleep buoyed by the hope of what tomorrow could be.
and you’re sure they’re treating you well. You swear?
February sat on the couch, rolling and unrolling her shirtsleeve as her mother gave her all the latest Spring Towers news via videophone. Her mother was thriving, constantly busy with a daily spread of activities, and February once again felt conflicted—mostly pleased, of course, but not without a pang of jealousy, too. It was infantile, she knew, to want her mother to miss her the way she missed her mother. Selfish. But if she couldn’t help feeling it, at least she could quash it quickly.
We’re having a great time! said her mother. It’s so nice to be with Lu again.
I tried calling yesterday.
I saw that, but you know, in the morning we were playing shuffleboard, and then for half the day we couldn’t find the remote to check the message. And do you know where it was? In my slipper!
At the sound of her mother’s laugh February could feel her own smile shift, no longer forced.
I’m glad you’re having fun.
I feel young again!
Excited to see you next week, February said.
Me too! Can’t wait for Mel’s pie.
You and me both.
So you’ll pick me up Thursday morning?
I will. I was thinking around 10.
Perfect. Now will you go get your father for me? I need to ask him something.
Dad? said February, stalling.
She couldn’t tell her, not again. She’d broken this news dozens of times, and each time her mother was stunned and wounded, just as she had been the night he died. What a cruel disease, she thought, to steal from a person all their best moments, and make them relive the worst ones nightly. To force their loved ones to deliver these blows of memory until they, too, were subsumed by the echoing grief.
He’s resting.
February heard the jangle of Mel’s keys as she came in the side door and plopped them on the kitchen counter.
Hey, babe, Mel called. Do you want me to do something to this lasagna?
He ate too much pie? said her mother.
February nodded.
He always does that!
Her mother smiled again, and so did February. He had always done that.
Well, I should go down to dinner now. Can’t wait to see you!
Me too. Love you.
February hung up and padded into the kitchen, still unable to have a conversation across rooms after all these years. Mel sighed.
The whole point of me calling to you is that you don’t have to get up, Mel said.
But this is nicer, right?—February hooked a finger in Mel’s belt loop, pulling her closer—face-to-face?
No argument here. Hey, you all right?
But February did not want to talk about dementia or her dead dad. So instead of answering, she kissed Mel, and was relieved when she kissed her back. She let her body relax into Mel’s, clinging to the small of her back to bring her closer, until there was no space between them at all. Mel ran a hand up February’s thigh.
The lasagna needs forty-five minutes, said February, and led her toward the bedroom.
classifier trip
ASL Classifier （CL）： A handshape that functions as a specialized pronoun. A signer will first say a specific sign, then introduce a classifier as a stand-in through which the signer can more seamlessly elaborate on the size, shape, manner, location, and action. For example, a signer might say “teacher,” then use the classifier for “person” to show how the teacher walked across her classroom. Unlike pronouns in spoken languages, classifiers aren’t just static stand-ins for a word, they can move through space to create a three-dimensional narrative.
NOW YOU TRY!
English: The red car speeds down the street headed right.
ASL: car+ red + （CL: vehicle move fast toward right）
English: The boy walks to the school down the street.
ASL: school + （CL: squat building） + boy + （CL: person shows walking path）
after play practice on Tuesday, plans for a trip into Colson materialized—this had been the pizza Austin was referencing, and Charlie tried to gauge whether she was disappointed or relieved. Together, a small group left the theater and crossed the quad.
Shit. Need to get my wallet.
Part of her expected them to leave without her, but instead, the group followed her back to the girls’ upper dorm without discussion, and stood out front to wait for her, which was sweet and a little embarrassing—she was still the new girl, running behind. In their room, Kayla was sitting with a book in her lap, but staring listlessly at the wall. Her hearing aids—a bulky brown analog set—were beside her on the bed, and she’d dedicated one hand to fiddling with the old-fashioned on-off toggle.
You o-k?
Yeah, fine.
Some of the theater kids are going into Colson for pizza. Fickman signed off. We can add you to the list.
No thanks.