Okay, it’s two a.m. but this thought just occurred to me: Maddie is a bigger fan of simplified plans as opposed to plank plans in 1AR (first affirmative rebuttal, in case you forgot that), but I think it’s just because she’s stressed and wants less to memorize.
Plus, if we go by records alone, we’ll probably be facing Hartford Prep, and those fuckers pack planks like they’re going out of style. Again, don’t worry if you forgot planks—it’s just what it sounds like—flat statements of “what we intend to do about the problem” on top of each other in a really specific order. Simplified plans are much easier and more natural to say, but planks are better at preventing you leaving anything out or (ahem) forgetting anything.
So I’m going to tell her, leave researching the planks to me on both the 1AR AND 2AR, and I’ll give her cards, she can just do the thing where she acts like each idea is occurring to her as she’s saying it.
Okay, you know what, I’m going to email this to Maddie.
Still up at four a.m. I hear a car coming up the mountain—Mom’s home from her shift.
Went down to visit Mom before she went to bed, and she was making tea. Her turquoise scrubs clashed with the old red-and-yellow tile on the counters and walls. Coop always used to say our kitchen and dining room looked like a McDonald’s. The house was dark except for one light above the kitchen table. While she filled up the kettle, Mom kicked off her white tennis shoes.
When I said “hi,” she jumped. I scared the bejesus out of her.
“What are you doing up?” she asked when she recovered and sat down at the chrome table.
I sat across from her. “It’s two days before Nationals, Ma, what do you think?”
She shook her head over the steaming cup. “Oh, Sammie. You gotta sleep. You can’t push yourself this hard.”
“You should talk. You’ve been working a lot of overtime.”
She muttered, “Well, these medical bills aren’t going to pay themselves.”
She immediately said, “Oh god,” and put her hand on my arm. I knew she was sorry. I forgave her. Her big eyes had dark circles around them.
“So what’s the deal with this one? With Nationals,” she continued. “It’s the big show, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you’re done after this, right?”
I sighed. I hadn’t really thought about it that way. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
Mom smiled a bit, relaxing. “And does this mean you’ll be spending a little more time at home?”
“Depends. Why? I mean, Harrison is going to be fourteen soon, he can babysit just fine. Plus I paid him to do my chores while I’m gone this weekend…”
“No, hon. I mean just to be with us. Just to watch a movie or something once in a while.” She rubbed my arm. I got goose bumps.
She used this guilt tactic a lot. She would whisper to Bette and Davy while the rest of the family was watching the Patriots play on TV, sending them screaming across the house to coerce me from doing homework. When Puppy needed to be let outside, she would send him into my room until he practically dragged me from my desk. While he ran around me in circles, banging into the screen door with excitement, I would hear her from her spot curled up in the living room, laughing to herself.
I pushed out, “Yeah, sure. Maybe after graduation.”
“Mmhmm,” Mom said softly.
After a bit of silence, she reached for my face. “Can I—” she started, and after years of her checking for sore throats, for brushed teeth, for hidden hard candy, I opened my mouth automatically.
“Hmm,” she said. “How’s your tongue?”
I seized up and pulled away. “Fine. Why?”
She looked at me and shrugged, pasting on a smile. “Nothing.”
I put my hand to my jaw. “What, was I slurring?”
“No! No,” she said quickly. “Are you packed?”
She was trying to change the subject. Tomorrow, Maddie would tell me if I sounded weird. I mean, sure, I’d have to make up an excuse, like perhaps I drank a slushie too fast and my tongue was frozen, but anyway, nothing a few of her theater-kid tongue twisters couldn’t fix.
“Yep,” I said. I had packed last night. I would probably unpack and repack again, just for the satisfaction.
“Got your prescriptions?”
“Yep.”
“Even Zavesca?”
I grunted.
(What is Zavesca, you ask? Future Sam, have I not told you about Zavesca? It’s kind of like the grapefruit soda Fresca, except it’s not at all like Fresca, because actually it’s just a terrible pill! Side effects include: Weight loss! Stomach pain! Gas! Nausea and vomiting! Headache, including migraine! Leg cramps! Dizziness! Weakness! Back pain! Constipation!)
“Doctor’s note?”
“Yep.”
“Do you want some spending money?”
Now it was my turn to change the subject. “No, no, no, no worries, Mom.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, we raised enough at the raffle this year to cover everything we’ll need.”
“Mmhmm,” she said again, in only the way Mom can do it. Those “m” sounds. Her mantra. Her strength. If a hurricane started blowing the windows in, Mom would breathe through her nose and say Mmhmm. Once, when I was nine, I had slipped right where I was sitting tonight and hit my head on the edge of the counter, cracking my skull. Mom had made it from the yard to the kitchen in minus-five seconds without a word, wrapped my head in a T-shirt, and called 911, all the while rocking me and saying, Mmhmm, mmhmm, mmhmm.
I stood up from the table, feeling the scar on my scalp. “You know, Mom, someday I’m going to pay you back. When I’m a successful lawyer, or whatever. I’ll pay you back for all the medical bills.”
“Oh, honey,” Mom said, and came around the table in her stocking feet to hug me. I held her tiny body. Her head only came up to the crook of my neck.
“I’m serious! You can even make a ledger…”
“You just get better,” she said, muffled by my shirt. “That’s all I need. You just get better.”
“Okay, I will,” I told her.
And I will.