The air outside got colder and colder, and I still had zero response from Knight-Rowell Publishing. No response to my emails, or my letter. That’s when Nonny’s nausea started getting worse. I texted Talia about it and she said that her mom got sick a lot when she was pregnant with her little brother and sister, and that it was pretty normal. To me, though, this didn’t seem like Normal Pregnant Sick. This seemed Very Not Normal.
I paced nervously from my bedroom to the living room, hearing Nonny vomit and dry heave in the bathroom. Every time I saw Nonny’s gray face and heard those gasping, retching sounds, I thought, This is what failure looks like. This is what it sounds like, hints at what could happen if I don’t get this right.
Nonny barely had the energy to stand up. She hadn’t kept anything down in almost thirty-two hours. I was keeping track.
Are you trying to warn me, Cecilia? I thought. I know all the things that can go wrong. I won’t let them. I will work harder and harder. As hard as it takes.
This was way bigger than tea and marmalade.
I found Mom in the kitchen kneading dough with a Grand Canyon furrow between her brows, barely even noticing what her hands were doing. The dough looked pulverized. It looked like I felt.
“Mom, what can we do?” I said.
She looked at me for a few moments, then picked up her phone. Half an hour later we were at the hospital. Mom, Dad, and me, waiting with brow creases and fidgety feet in a too-small room while nurses put an IV in Nonny’s arm.
The attendants kept saying, “She just needs fluids, she’ll be okay.” And I believed them, like I normally do, but it was the first time I didn’t like being around doctors and nurses. In fact, I hated it, because it meant my sister was less safe than if she’d been able to drink a normal glass of water in the first place.
After a few hours with fluids, Nonny looked more relaxed. Less shaky. But she looked exhausted, with dark purple circles under her eyes. Even though she did look a little better and was breathing more normally, I knew I never wanted to see her like this again. I would rather be the one in the hospital bed myself. A million times rather.
And even though I trusted, this time, that she would get better, somehow it still felt like seeing a glimpse of what the future would be like if I failed in my deal with Cecilia Payne. What if I didn’t win the grand prize and couldn’t calm Nonny’s financial black hole? And what if Thomas never found a good job and I couldn’t help them?
And what if the baby had something that could never get better? Something that maybe meant a damaged heart or kidney and shots every day? What if she was scared of shots like Thomas? What if there was someone in the baby’s class who thought they were super clever about mean nicknames? Or worse?
This was why it didn’t matter if I was the only one with Turner syndrome—because the alternative was a whole lot worse. Maybe even dangerous.
And there was another thing. A silly thing, maybe. Because really, no matter what, Mom and Nonny would look at me the way they always had. The way that said, You are my sister who I love no matter what, and, You are my daughter who I love with my whole universe no matter what. They’d look at the new baby the same way, too, no matter what. But in the place inside your head, the only person you’ve got there looking at you and talking to you is yourself. Like you’re staring into a mirror that shows what you really look like on the inside, and if I failed in this deal, even if nobody else knew, I’d know. It’d be like a sticky note taped to the corner of my Inside Mirror that said, Here’s another thing you missed.
Here’s another thing you couldn’t do.
I’d recently watched a documentary on the History Channel about the Apollo space missions and how dangerous and important they were. The title of the show came into my head while I sat in that hospital room.
Failure Is Not an Option.