After answering Mom—a lot, perhaps, no—Dr. Anderson turns his attention to me and frowns. “Viola, it was quick thinking to throw the blanket over the sunroof.”
“Josh did that,” I whisper.
“You’ll have to remember next time that the snow reflects the light. Let’s get you something to take the inflammation down.”
“That’s it? That’s all you can do for her?” Dad asks.
“It might be time for you to consider more aggressive treatments,” Dr. Anderson tells me after reviewing my chart. “Photochemotherapy could be helpful.”
“The research says the benefits are just temporary,” I mumble. “Not worth it.”
Dr. Anderson sits on the wheeled stool and scoots toward me. “I’m afraid your condition is a lot more pronounced than we first thought. I know this is hard to hear, and I wish I could tell you otherwise,” he says with a heavy sigh, “but I think you need to let your body recover. Stay inside. Then, if you absolutely have to go out, try to keep it at night, or at dawn and dusk. Start with no more than five minutes or so. And get a lot more aggressive with the techniques we shared with you a few weeks ago, like always using a sun-blocking umbrella. And if it’s really sunny outside, even consider using an umbrella at home since even with the film on them, UV light still makes it through windows.”
“Umbrella,” Mom echoes, but thankfully she doesn’t say I told you so.
“And finally,” Dr. Anderson says, “you might want to consider homeschooling. At least for the time being.”
“That’s a good idea,” says Dad.
Horrified, I sit up. “But my friends, my bake sales, my college apps …”
In the imaginary theater in my head, the curtains rise. And … action!
THE EMERGENCY FAMILY MEETING
A Play in One Painfully Short Act
by
Lee & Li Productions,
a subsidiary of Lee & Li Communications
MOM
Dr. Anderson’s right. Plus, given everything—the school’s lackadaisical implementation of UV-protective window-ware …
DAD
Not to mention, how you have to take notes on your Mac in class.
MOM
And frankly—and I hate to say this—but, Viola, your irresponsibility with the safe boundaries that we’ve put in place for your own good—I—
DAD
We.
MOM
We agree with Dr. Anderson. You’ll be better off finishing senior year at home as much as it hurts us to do this.
DR. ANDERSON
(not understanding that his role is to be a silent observer, not a complicit enabler)
You should stay inside and in the dark as much as possible.
MOM & DAD
(power nodding)
See?
ME
(dumbfounded, rendered speechless; then, in a voice that plumbs every punctuation mark known in the English language)
What. What? What!
DAD
(waving his hands as if he’s at the podium of a contentious news conference)
Think of this as a hybrid solution. Some Liberty, some homeschool, some Khan Academy, and some Auntie Ruth. I’m sure she’d be happy to work with you on math and science a couple of days a week.
MOM
Plus, do you know how much time is wasted at school each day? If you’re really productive—really efficient—you should be done by eleven, assuming a six a.m. start.
DAD
Think of everything you can do with all your free time.
MOM
(with the air of a queen bestowing a stay of execution)
You’ll have time to do whatever you want.
ME
(BLACKOUT)
(END OF SCENE)
…
One small step to homeschool for senior year, one short leap to homeschool for college. Was that even possible? My parents and Dr. Anderson exchange a meaningful look, one that is resigned and resolved, one that says there will be no safe place left for me to live.
“You.” Mom’s voice is blistering.
Before I open my eyes, I know it’s Josh. Some people go on dates; others wait in the lobby of the Children’s Hospital. I scoot to the edge of the wheelchair, order my feet to hit the floor, close the span separating us, and fall into Josh’s arms. But the shocked look on his face cements me to the wheelchair. I wish I could unsee that expression, proof that I’m not the Sick Girl; I’ve become the Freak Girl.
“I wanted to make sure that Viola’s okay,” Josh tells my parents, not me. He’s looking everywhere except at me.
“Okay?” Mom’s voice rises to a glass-breaking pitch. “What you did—the two of you did—was highly irresponsible.”
“Mom. Mom. He didn’t know that I didn’t tell you we were going out. He even asked if you knew. It’s not his fault.”
Dad should be calming Mom down with me, but instead he’s glaring at That Boy, the one in his Seattle Central College sweatshirt, the one holding our blanket, folded neatly over his arm.
“I’m really sorry,” Josh says quietly.
I can hear my parents thinking: You should be. Even worse, I can hear the phantom echo of his parents: It should have been you. I would run from all possibility of hurting anyone, too, if that judgment—that blame—was echoing in my head.
“It was my idea,” I remind him, Lee & Li, everyone. “I made the decision to go. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”
He shakes his head. “Your parents are right, Ul—Viola. It was a mistake to go out with you last night when I should have known better.”
A mistake.
To go out.
With you.
A mistake to even use my nickname. My heart seizes each phrase, whittling away the unnecessary words. Reducing the message down to its essence. Each phrase is a tiny stab.
A mistake.
“No one—not even the weather channel—predicted the snowstorm,” I say loudly, wanting everyone to know, wanting to grip Josh’s hand, because I especially need him to hear me. I don’t want him holing up in an even deeper cave because of me. “Everyone says it was a freak storm.”
“Don’t,” he mutters.
A mistake. I should have known better.
“The car’s outside,” Dad reminds us now. “We need to go.”
My eyes are watering and my throat is closing. I insist, “It was an accident.”
“Accidents, mistakes. Aren’t they the same thing?” Josh asks, ready for his own getaway. “You need to rest.”
“That’s a good idea.” Genghis Khan singes the enemy with a sharp glare.
Auntie Ruth’s jaw tightens as she frowns at Dad, disappointed. I’m even more surprised than Josh when she throws her arms around him in a big, Aminta bear hug, and my heart floods with gratitude for my auntie. “Thank you for doing everything humanly possible for her. You literally thought of everything.”
He stands still, like even the smallest motion will break him. With an effort, he gathers himself for one last nod, then leans down to place my blanket on my lap, a peace offering. Then, my Josh walks away.
Let him go. Ask him to stay. The head wars, and the heart waffles. Not yet. Not when he hasn’t heard me: It’s not his fault. I throw out one last life buoy and stand up over my parents’ protests. The blanket falls to the ground. I cry out, “Wait!”
Josh stops, his back still turned to me, still silent, still lost somewhere I can’t see, somewhere I can’t follow. When he turns to face me, his eyes don’t falter. He sounds exhausted. “I’m tired of hurting people I care about.”
“You didn’t hurt me. And I don’t regret it. Not at all.”
“But I do,” he says.
A mistake.
To go out with you.
I regret you.
“Stay inside,” he tells me. The glass doors close gently behind him.
Guilt and grief overwhelm what could have been Us. I sob. I didn’t just do this t
o myself; I did this to Josh, too.
Studies show that customer trust declines by a full 12 percent after a security breach.
—Lee & Li Communications
Inside the War Room: The Crisis Management Playbook
The sound of sobbing wakes me a few minutes before three almost every morning for the next week. Every single time, I think it’s me, crying from a terrible dream, wispy remembrances of Josh walking away from me. But I touch my cheeks. They’re dry. My eyes close, not that it makes much of a difference. It simply trades darkness for bleakness.
The ghost of a meteor darts behind my shut eyes now. The sight is mocking: See? See? You thought you could be normal, but Freak Girl, what the hell were you thinking?
That was no fragment of a dream I heard, but the sound of my fracturing reality.
Even if all I want to do—all I feel I can do—is stay in bed, I haul myself out of my room. It’s been a quiet week at home, and I’m only now beginning to feel my new normal. I trudge past Roz’s bedroom, her door still shut. She’s sleeping the blissful sleep of the healthy who can row themselves exhausted under the hot sun. From the kitchen, I can see the lights gleaming outside in the Shed, where my parents are conferring in secret, most likely about today’s destruction for my life.
I know why I’m upright. The Basket of Doom draws me. There, I find a bombardment of texts from Aminta, Caresse, and Auntie Ruth. A week of silence from Josh.
“Viola,” Dad says, stepping into the kitchen, startling me.
Mom follows, shutting the door behind them. I lower my phone hastily, guiltily, even though this is within my sanctioned fifteen minutes of usage. Her eyes lock on me as if by the sheer power of her stare, she can stop me from disobeying their No-Josh Mandate. Honestly, that mom death stare could be another superpower for Persephone. I make a note to tell Josh, except would he even answer? (No.) Are we even working together? (Unclear.) Does he want to see me ever again? (Unlikely.)
“Have a seat, honey,” Mom says, gesturing to the breakfast nook.
Sitting across from me, Dad intones, “We need to talk about trust. You know how important trust is, between all of us.” He gestures first to himself and Mom, then his hand moves back and forth between them and me.
“And we know how developmentally appropriate it is for teens to test boundaries. But when you do, you erode our trust,” Mom says.
Trust, really? They want to start in on trust again?
I can’t take this, not anymore. I slide out of the breakfast nook and stand in front of the kitchen island, glowering at them. “Do you mean trust as in being consulted about all your grand plans for me? Trust that I can figure things out, too? Trust that I actually know how to research? Trust that I want to get better, too?”
I’ve become Roz, whose every utterance creates yet more havoc to deal with later. Being messy is liberating.
“Honey,” Dad says, back to his radio-talk-show soothing voice. “We think it’s better for you not to go outside for now. Let’s get your skin back under control, and then we’ll take stock.”
“You’re locking me up?” I ask.
“No, not that at all,” Mom says. “We’ve even remodeled—”
I won’t hear it; I can’t. I leave them, midplan.
“Viola!” Dad calls.
I ignore him for once. Out of habit, I touch my lariat, but it’s not there. My reminder to be fierce, to fight for truth, to speak for the powerless is gone.
Of course it is.
I’ve lost my boy. I’ve lost my life.
And now, I’ve lost the last best part of me.
My parents may take the sky away from me, but they aren’t touching my bake sale. Nothing is stopping me from raising funds to feed hungry little kids with food-stuffed backpacks, not even my shaky legs. Just the thought that any kid in our community, let alone the entire world, doesn’t have enough to eat—eat!— makes me want to spend an entire week cooking. Aminta’s promised to pick up the miniature cupcakes and bite-size brownies after Souper Bowl Sunday, and Caresse is printing out my (short) article on hunger in America. Two hours after my showdown with my parents, I throw open the freezer to look for the flour. It’s no longer jammed full of Ziploc baggies of frozen soup from our canceled Souper Bowl last week; all of those are defrosting in our fridge. I cannot bring myself to care that the soup won’t be custom-themed for the game this week.
Out of nowhere comes the familiar, searing heat of my sister’s irritation. “Thanks to you,” Roz snipes, “I’m not allowed to go to India with Auntie Ruth anymore. Now they’re all paranoid about the malaria meds.”
I shut the freezer door without removing anything. “But they don’t know for sure if the drugs made me photosensitive. It could be anything, a freak of nature.”
“Does it matter?”
Roz is right. When our parents are in serious lockdown mode, logic doesn’t matter. I tell her, “I’m sorry.”
Roz sniffs. “It’s not fair that I’m being punished because of you.”
“Welcome to my life.”
“You’ve never been punished for me.” Offended, she crosses her arms in front of her chest. Wait for it, wait for it. And there it is: the royal lift of her nose.
“Can you say, personal driver?”
“You were going to school anyway.”
“At five thirty in the morning?”
“I have to go then, too.”
“That’s the point. I didn’t.” My thoughts, usually so tightly contained, burst through every lock I’ve bolted in place: Be the good girl, the good friend, the good big sister.
Roz narrows her eyes. “You’re always so mean.” Then, as always, the cry of the mortally wounded little girl who needs protection from the big, bad older sister: “Mom! Dad!”
To which, I dismiss her with a shrug and return to setting out my ingredients.
“Mom!” Roz hollers, since I’m not caving or apologizing, frantic to make it up to her. “Dad!”
The parent brigade rushes in to find Roz ready as always to air her complaints about me. With both hands on the back of her chair, legs spread wide, she could be addressing her crew team. “Why should I be punished just because Viola got sick?”
“It’s called being prudent,” says Dad patiently. “What if Viola’s condition is genetic? There aren’t enough studies to know. Why chance you getting sick, too?”
“But I didn’t do anything,” Roz wails. “This is all Viola’s fault.”
That is my cue to leave before Hurricane Rosalind gathers force, but I can’t abandon those hungry kids. Silently, I turn to fetch the butter, but my legs feel weak. My hands shoot out to the kitchen island at the same time that Dad wraps his arm around me.
“Gotcha, princess,” he says, which is just about the worst thing he could call me now, the nickname that had been mine until it was given to Roz as her birthright.
“You always need all the attention,” she snarls at me. “Oh, I’ve got another bake sale! Oh, I’ve got another cause to support! Oh, I’ve got to make all the soup for Souper Bowl Sunday. Whatever.”
“Rosalind!” Mom says, shocked.
Dad says to Roz in his best placating tone, “Princess, you don’t mean that.”
That princess is too little, too late, salt in my sister’s wounds. She snaps, “I do.”
Even Dad is looking at his little princess like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. While I should feel a spurt of vindication, I am woozy, something I won’t admit. Dad must see it because he lifts me into his arms.
“No bake-sale prep today,” Dad says.
“What do you need, honey?” Mom asks me. Again with the Mother Touch on my forehead like I have a cold or the flu, but this—this tender first responder attention for me before Roz is something that neither she nor I are used to.
“No, I’ve got to bake,” I tell them, but, tired, I stay put in Dad’s arms.
“Forget about that for now. Okay, honey, so we were thinking,” Dad says, shooti
ng a look at Mom, who nods at him.
A new phase in my crisis management plan is about to be rolled out. I brace myself.
“You can choose,” Dad says.
I am literally shocked by those words. “What?”
“We finished the basement last week. It’s all ready for you, and our strongest recommendation is for you to be down there because it’s the safest place for you to be out of the light. But you can choose,” Mom echoes Dad.
“She gets the basement?” Roz explodes as if anyone in their right mind would agree to live in a den of wolf spiders.
Dad asks, “Want to see it?”
“Yeah, I would,” I say. There is nothing up here for me anymore.
No wonder they designated the basement as my final resting place. There is no chance of any light penetrating the windowless cement walls, now painted a warm shade of gray. Or of anything penetrating for that matter—not a hint of fresh air or the lilacs blooming in spring or even the barking of dogs trotting by our house. The exposed overhead light bulb that could have been part of a set for a horror movie has been covered in a UV-protective shell, diffusing a vague suggestion of candlelight glow. As if that was the design intent, candle-filled lanterns of all sizes accent the basement.
In the corner, five throw pillows in varying gradations of pink cover the platform bed. The soft sheepskin rug from the Shed has been transplanted here, now topping a nubby carpet so plush under my feet, I’ve become Tigger, bouncing as I approach the back wall embellished with large decals of affirmations—“Wake up and be awesome!” and Firefly quotes—“Time for some thrilling heroics.” My fuzzy, oversize beanbag chair occupies the back corner. Where the washer and dryer have gone, I don’t know.
This is my dream room, the dorm space I’ve been designing on Pinterest for the last three years. I’m astonished my parents knew. I lift my eyes to Dad to find Mom at his side; both are nervous and expectant at the same time. How many hours did they pour into creating this room, the one that would have been totally perfect if it had been upstairs along with everyone else, or better yet, in a college far, far away?
“No fair,” grumbles Roz, thudding down the stairs before gawping. “No. Fair.”