“I am,” said Mariana flatly. She was supposed to feel something here, wasn’t she? She felt a numb, lightweight thud, as if someone had thrown a beach ball at her head. That was all. “I am?”
“She doesn’t have it.” Joy lit Nora’s voice.
That was it. Mariana was supposed to be happy. Overjoyed.
“Are you sure?” Mariana asked, unhooking her leg from Nora’s and leaning forward.
“Yes. Completely. You will not develop EOAD. You can, of course, be at risk for regular Alzheimer’s, just like anyone else, but that’s an epigenetic question, and we can talk about that if you like. It’s not at play in this, though.”
“Holy shit,” said Mariana. Disappointment, crisp and utterly shocking, filled her blood.
“Oh, my god.” Nora covered her mouth. “Mariana. Thank you. Thank god you’re okay. Thank you, Doctor.”
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fucking fair.
Mariana stuck her index finger into her mouth and peeled off a strip of skin that tasted of dirt from the fern frond. Bright blood bloomed, a single red star of it next to her nail bed. How dare she feel disappointed? How dare she feel what was flooding her, the emotion that was so much worse than disappointment.
“Mariana?” Nora touched her arm.
Mariana was jealous. It was so far beyond unacceptable she couldn’t even be in the same room, contaminating her sister with it. She stood, saying, “I’ll just—” Then she sat again.
“Honey, this is good.” Nora was stroking her arm, gentling her.
Of anyone in the world, Nora would be able to see into her heart, to see the black jealousy that lay curled there, wanting to unfurl into diseased smoke. A jealousy flare—that’s what she was about to shoot into the sky. To have the disease with her sister, to be together as they began to fade, to live together all the way to the shortened, devastated, smashed end—they would have gone out tougher, faster, better. The way they’d always said they would. “This is good,” Mariana repeated, her tongue thick.
The doctor leaned back, appearing content to wait for them to process the information. How many lives did he change or destroy while sitting in that chair? Why did he get that power? Why couldn’t she have some of it? Mariana would change this, reorder the deck, stack the dice . . .
Nausea churned her stomach, turning it over. Sweat broke at her hairline. The shame of it, of her terrible reaction, burned her throat like battery acid. What should have happened—her heart filling with joy that she wasn’t sick—hadn’t. She couldn’t look at Nora. Nora would know. Maybe she already did.
She took a risk and glanced sideways. “Nora,” she started.
Her sister’s eyes were swimming, not overfilling with tears but simply leaking, like water dripping down a porcelain fountain. “I’m so happy,” Nora whispered, but there it was—there, at the corner of her mouth, was the truth. No one in the whole world would have been able to see it, no one but Mariana.
Mariana saw it. Nora was jealous the same way Mariana was. Nora wanted to be well, like Mariana. And Mariana wanted to be sick.
“So happy,” Nora said again before standing. “This is—I’m so sorry. I think I need a minute.” She threw a wide, desperate smile at Mariana like a heavy blanket. Then she fled out into the quiet waiting room. Mariana heard a thud and knew Nora had crashed down the stairs and out the heavy door.
Nora wanted to be well. Mariana turned in her chair. “I’ve never lived farther than twelve miles away from her.” When she’d been in the country, that was . . . She wasn’t counting either India trip or the time Stephen had taken her to New Zealand for four months. . . . She shouldn’t have gone then. She should have stayed close.
Mariana stood.
“Wait,” said the doctor. “Before you go, hear me out. In every case of this type of familial processing, this is normal . . .”
This was a type?
“She just needs a moment to deal with this information. Alone.”
Mariana nodded and wished that she had thought to bring the fern frond with her to the chair. She’d have been able to strip it with her strong, healthy fingers. Instead, she pulled at the skin of her second finger. A small stripe of flesh followed by exactly what she wanted—a bright second of searing pain, a tiny stab. She put her finger in her mouth. Blood. It all came down to this, didn’t it?
“This is normal?” The word had almost ceased to have meaning to her.
Dr. Ghanjit, his face softening, his eyes sympathetic, said, “Yes. I counseled her to bring a third person. It can make this time a little easier. But she said she wouldn’t bring her daughter. Is she getting tested, do you know?” He looked down at the file. “Ellie?”
“No.” Mariana remembered how clear Nora had been about it. “No, she won’t be tested.”
“That’s fine, of course, if that’s what they both want. I’ve known teenagers who want to know and others who didn’t.”
“Who makes the call?”
“The guardian parent. Most of the time. It can get sticky.”
“So if Ellie wanted to know but Nora didn’t want her to, she wouldn’t be able to be tested.”
The doctor shook his head. “She wouldn’t, not until she was eighteen. Things can get . . . complicated, though. When guardianship changes.” He shuffled papers on the desk. “Her father—he isn’t in the picture?”
“Shit.” Father’s Day was coming up, wasn’t it? “He’s second string. No, he’s last string. I don’t know sports. Is that a thing?”
“Will that change, do you think?”
“I’m not the one to ask.” Paul would never change. Nora might hope and Ellie would believe and Paul would let them down, and then Mariana would have to—finally—kill him with whatever came to hand, even if it was a rubber duck. She could do it.
“I often find the closest family member”—he looked over his glasses at her—“to know more than the patient does about family ties.”
“Yeah, well, her dad’s a dickbag.”
Dr. Ghanjit nodded. “Then you are the most important one.”
What did that mean? Did he mean . . . custody? Impossible—Mariana couldn’t keep Luke’s houseplants alive. She’d killed five African violets so far.
She couldn’t think about it. They’d figure something out. Nora wasn’t going anywhere without her. Swallowing down the burn in her throat, she said, “I have to go find my sister.”
The doctor closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose as if it hurt. “She’s probably in the garden in the back. There’s a big swing. That’s where most people go.” Then he said, “You will be good at this.”
Startled, Mariana said, “Pardon?” This man didn’t know her. She wasn’t good at anything except being the fuckup sister. Granted, she was pretty excellent at that.
“I can tell.”
“How?” she challenged.
“It’s your turn, I think.” He smiled, and his eyes were so warm that Mariana felt strength start, deep inside her. Such a small tendril, barely alive. But it was there. As Mariana walked out of the office and down the hushed hall, she wished for it to root, like a blackberry, for it to grow tangled and fearsome without her trying. For it to be so big, someday, that no one could tear it out.
For now, she’d just be grateful it was green, and that she hadn’t moronically ripped it from its stalk just to prove a point.