by Elly Swartz
“That must have been very hard,” she says. “And painful for you. But your parents told me that Nana’s forgetfulness was from dementia. That’s very different. Your grandmother’s brain had a disease that made it difficult to remember. You don’t have that. You’re a healthy twelve-year-old with a healthy brain.”
I pause and stare at the floor to find my brave. I inhale the smell of meatball sub and say, “Then what’s wrong with me? What made my anger so big I didn’t know it could even fit inside my body?”
Before she answers, she peppers me with lots more questions about my stuff and my worries. She wants to know how long I’ve been saving. The first thing I put in my box. What my worry feels like when I think I may forget. Or when I think someone may throw something out. When I’m done answering, my mouth is dry and I have no more secrets.
“Maggie, I believe you have anxiety,” Dr. Sparrow says. “Many kids worry about all different kinds of things. Some are afraid of swimming or the dark or dogs. You’re afraid of forgetting.” She slides her chair closer to me. “Anxiety can be hereditary. Like height and freckles and red hair.”
“Who did I get it from?”
“Your mom shared that she worried a lot when she was a kid, even though she was never diagnosed. And she said your cousin Alec wrestles with anxiety, too.”
I remember Alec worrying about spiders and the poodle who lived next door the last time we visited him. “But why would anxiety about forgetting make me so mad?”
“The things you collect are tied to specific memories. And when you think someone might move or toss those items, you worry that the very memories associated with those things will vanish as well. And that worry makes you angry.”
“Wait! You think I’m like the people who can’t throw stuff away on those hoarding shows? The people who live between stacks of stuff? I’m not like them! My room isn’t full of lamps and mail and garbage.” My palms are wet with sweat.
Dr. Sparrow shakes her head. “I don’t think you’re like the adults on those shows. Hoarding in adults is often different than hoarding in kids. It can look different and be done for different reasons. But you do have a personal attachment to a lot of items that many may not consider worth saving. And you have anxiety and anger around letting go of those things.”
“So you do think I hoard, just not like a grown-up?”
“The label isn’t really helpful. Especially with the popularity of those shows. What is helpful is understanding that lots of kids worry. And your worry is tied to letting go. So that’s what we’re going to work on.”
My head nods, but my brain sticks on the idea that I’m a hoarder. A kid hoarder.
“The first thing I’m going to ask you to do is to give your worry a name,” Dr. Sparrow says.
“Like a person or a pet?” I ask.
“Exactly,” she says.
“That’s weird.”
She smiles. “Maybe. But I want you to name it, and when you feel the worry bubble up inside, you’re going to tell it to go away.”
“Then what?”
“Move on to something else. Your mom and dad told me that you love music and drawing. Doing those things will help you reroute your thoughts and keep your mind off the anxiety.”
I lean back in my chair. “If everyone with a healthy brain can remember everything they need in their head and heart, why are there scrapbooks and photo albums?”
“Some things are okay to save. And a scrapbook and photo album are healthy ways to do that.”
“So are boxes under your bed and in your closet,” I say.
“For some things, that may be okay, and for others, it may not. Let’s talk about how to tell the difference.”
We talk for a while about things to keep and things to toss. The okay things to keep: photos and photo albums and a gecko necklace from your nana. The not-okay things to keep: wrappers and used paper plates, sticks and rocks, old toothbrushes and bath mats, broken hairbrushes, and clothes that don’t fit. Mostly everything in my boxes falls into the not-okay-to-save category.
Then Dr. Sparrow tells me it’s going to be all right.
I’m going to be all right.
We can fix this.
Together.
I’m just not sure I believe her.
28
The Hole in My Heart
All night, I think about what to name my worry. Fred. Ralph. Jax. None of those feel right. Rae. Mac. Lucy. None of those work, either. I’m starting to wonder if I’ll even know when I find the right name. I lie on my back and listen to the rain and thunder outside. I wish I could call Ava and ask her what she thinks would be a good name for my worry. But I know I can’t. No sharing. Except with Batman and Bert. And Mom and Dad. They know. They always know. I can’t hide from them. Even if I wanted to.
I wonder about Dillon and Charlie. Charlie saw my ugly mad but doesn’t know the rest. And Dillon’s gone so much with basketball, I don’t think he’s even noticed. It doesn’t matter now. My stuff is safe. No one’s allowed to touch anything. Doctor’s orders.
I roll over, and the word cipher flashes across my brain. I remember it because I got the definition wrong on Litmus last week. I didn’t know what it meant. Dad said a cipher is a type of puzzle. An enigma. Like my anxiety, and how it makes me hold on to things. Something I don’t understand. I ask Batman if he thinks the word fits, and he licks my ear.
“Okay, Cipher, that’s your name. Now leave me alone!” I say to my worry. Then I listen to “Calling All Angels” by Train as I drift off to sleep.
On Monday at school, I’m quiet and keep to myself. Ava and Gracie and Sam ask if I’m okay. I tell them I think I might be getting sick. Truth is, I want to hide under my covers until my scary mad disappears forever. But my Gimme Day is used up, and when I get home, Charlie’s waiting for me. He wants to play. I don’t, but his brown eyes beg me to be the kind of big sister he needs.
I look outside and have an idea. I put Bert in his carrier and head out back with Charlie. His job: be sure Bert stays in his carrier on the lawn. My job: find the baby pool. Mom put it somewhere in the outgrown-it section of the garage with the boxes of our too-small clothes, the red tricycles, and the mini scooters she plans to sell at her annual Get-Rid-of-It Yard Sale. The yard sale where I secretly reclaim my stuff and put it in my boxes.
I find the blue pool with the pictures of ducks on it leaning against the wall behind the baby floaties, plastic shovels, and stackable buckets. Charlie smiles when he sees me dragging it across the lawn. I flop it down, grab the hose, spray off the left-behind dirt, and fill it with water. We open the turtle carrier and put Bert and a few rocks in the pool. The sun hits the water as he swims around. After a few laps, he finds the rock and basks.
“Did you know the world’s oldest living tortoise is named Jonathan?” Charlie says, digging up a few worms. He gives one to Batman—who smells it, ignores it, and runs after something under the bushes—and then puts the rest in the pool for Bert.
“I didn’t.”
“Did you know he got his first bath at 184?”
“Nope,” I say. “Glad you didn’t wait that long.”
Charlie laughs. “Me too. I’d be stinky, like a bombardier beetle.”
I stare at my little brother, wondering how he got the random-knowledge gene and I got the one filled with anxiety.
When the sun moves behind the clouds, Charlie, Bert, and I head inside. Batman stays in the yard, in search of the thing under the bushes.
I find Izzie in her bassinet, grab Shel Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends, and read her my favorite poem, “Hug o’ War.” Mom comes in on the last line: “And everyone wins.” She smiles.
“You’ve always loved that book,” she says, then kisses the top of my head. “I just heard from Rita. Izzie will be heading to her new family soon.”
“When’s soon?”
“I don’t have a specific date yet.”
My insides dip.
I should be happy
.
But I’m not.
Mom sits down next to me and shows me a page she has open on her computer. At the top it says:
Meet Maya and Asher.
“This is the couple who’s adopting Izzie,” Mom says. “I thought you’d want to know more about them.” She takes Izzie, and I take the computer. I read all about the new family our baby is going to be a part of.
About us:
We met during our first year of law school. Immediately, we knew there was something special, and got married soon after graduation. We run a nonprofit organization that helps protect children from unsafe products.
Qualities we see in each other:
Asher believes that Maya is the kindest person he knows. She is thoughtful, dedicated, intelligent, and hardworking in everything she does.
Maya believes that Asher is loving, smart, and considerate.
Hobbies:
We enjoy reading, travel, hiking, biking, puzzles, and time with family. We also love time spent at home watching old movies. We can’t wait to include our new baby in our life. We hope to get a puppy and watch them grow up together.
Our extended family:
Maya has two brothers who live in Louisiana, and they each have three boys. Asher’s sister and parents live nearby. Happily, our home is often filled with extended family. So there will be lots of cousins and family to love and welcome our new baby.
Our home and neighborhood:
Our home is warm and sunny. It has a fenced-in backyard, and we recently started a small vegetable garden. The town we live in has one of the best school districts in the state. It is a perfect place to raise a child. We look forward to raising our family here.
They sound like good people. Kind people. People who don’t have worries they need to name. People who will love Izzie.
But that doesn’t fill the bottomless hole in my heart.
29
Like Dominoes
All I want now is to be close to Izzie. I’m scared of forgetting her. Even if I believe Dr. Sparrow and do everything she says. Even if I tell Cipher to go away. I still worry if I forget one memory, the rest will leak out.
That’s what happened with Nana. I know Dr. Sparrow says that’s different. That I’m not like Nana. But what if she’s wrong? What if that’s just how memories work? What if they’re like dominoes? One memory falls. Then another. And another. Until there are none left.
I grab my favorite pen—and my Go On, Change the World! notebook, and open to a blank page. In big letters I write:
Don’t forget
what you love.
Don’t forget
who you love.
Don’t forget
anything.
Ever.
I tuck the book back into my desk. I hear Dad recording a new episode in the linen closet. Something about garbage. Lots of garbage. Reusing it and turning it into electricity. Charlie will love this.
I look over at Izzie. When her bright eyes pop open, I gently pick her up, and we walk to the kitchen to get her a bottle. The light above the sink hums. Mom offers to take my little bean, but I don’t want to let her go. Not yet. We sit on the overstuffed couch with the beat of the day playing around us. The birds chirp, and the squirrels chase one another up the tree in the backyard. I lean back and give Izzie her bottle. She slurps and sucks until there’s nothing left. I kiss her soft cheek and beg Mom to let me stay home from school today. So I can be close. To my sister.
Mom answers with a nonnegotiable no and takes our little human from me.
As the shower water sprays my hair, I think of Izzie and saying good-bye. I think of the things in my boxes that I have to toss. I know that Cipher will be mad to see them go. A chill worms into the warm water.
When I’m done, Dad’s waiting for me in the car. The ride to school is filled with talk about his new podcasts. “So what do you think about reusable trash?” he says.
“Who wouldn’t love someone else’s used, dirty stuff?” I say.
“Maggie, it’s amazing. Businesses are turning garbage into renewable energy. Isn’t that cool?”
I nod. His excitement is too big to disagree with.
“What do you think about cloning?” he asks.
“I’m a fan,” I say. No one would ever be forever gone.
Then there’s a long awkward pause, the kind where the silence feels loud. “Maggie, I know you’re going through a hard time. I’m not the best at this kind of thing, but I want you to know I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I’m here if you want to talk.”
“I know.”
He nods and gives my hand a squeeze.
School feels like I’m sleepwalking. I’m here, but not really. I spend most of English not listening to Ms. López and much of geometry yelling at Cipher in my head.
When Dad picks me up after school for trap practice, my brain is full of worry. I let him talk. He’s excited about some new technology that can sniff out disease. As we pull into the parking lot of Fish, Fur, and Fly, I’m starting to understand where Charlie gets his love of random information.
The colored leaves crunch under my feet as I walk to the squad meeting spot. I love the red ones best. They look like fire and my hair and the ripest tomatoes in Gramps’s garden.
I see Ava, Sam, and Gracie over by the hot cider and doughnuts. I splash on a fake smile and make sure the part of me that’s tied to my stuff and my doctor is hidden.
Dad calls everyone over. He runs down the safety rules and the list of additional practices and who’s attended. I’m surprised that Sam’s been to the last three of the four additional practices even though she already has the six needed to qualify for the state tournament.
“Where’s Mason?” Dad asks the squad, like that’s a question we’d know the answer to.
“I bet he quit,” Ava says.
“More doughnuts for me!” Gracie adds, holding a Boston cream in one hand and a chocolate glazed in the other.
“He can’t leave now. We need him to win,” Sam says, tugging on her Red Sox cap.
I take my spot at position one. But when I look down the line, my insides sink when I see the gap where Belle used to be. A hole in our squad. “If Mason quit, Belle can return,” I tell Dad. “You know, we can go back to the way things were. The Original Five.”
“I bet he couldn’t handle all the girl power,” Gracie says, pulling up her lucky purple socks.
Ava shoots, shattering a clay disc into tiny pieces. “Let’s face it. He’s a quitter,” she says.
“Missing one practice doesn’t mean he quit,” Dad says. “Maybe he’s sick. Or had a dentist appointment or a haircut or had some other ordinary reason for missing practice. For now, let’s just focus on the clay pigeons.”
But I can’t. I hear Mason’s dad’s voice in my head saying we’re not the best group of anything, and wonder if our team is truly broken.
30
They’re Me
Mom reads her students’ college essays in the waiting room while I meet with Dr. Sparrow. It’s been five days since I first walked into the office that smelled like meatball sub. Today, Dr. Sparrow’s wearing a bright-blue shirt with yellow stars. She pulls her chair out from behind her desk and sits across from me. I stare at her and decide I still don’t want to be here.
She explains that I need to list the items in my boxes and my locker, and rate them from zero to ten on a chart. Zero is something that’s easy to toss in the garbage, and ten is the stuff that feels impossible to throw away. “And each time you toss something, you get reward points,” she says. “The harder an item is to let go, the more points you’ll earn.”
She smiles when she talks, as if this will somehow make me like being here more. Or make throwing my stuff away easier. “What am I supposed to do with a bunch of points?” I ask, wondering if she earned her shirt on the point system.
“The points accrue, and when you reach different milestone markers, like thirty
-five, fifty, and a hundred points, you get a prize. You and your parents can decide what markers make the most sense, given the number of items you need to toss and how difficult it is to let go of them.”
“What kind of prize?”
“Often patients use them for something special they want to buy or something fun they want to do. It depends what matters most to you.”
I think of all the things in my boxes and my locker that matter. That I don’t want to let go. Dr. Sparrow says this is one step toward getting rid of the ugly mad that’s attached to all my stuff.
“I don’t want to do this,” I say, my voice cracking. “I don’t want to get rid of any of my things. They’re mine. They’re me.”
Dr. Sparrow leans in. “That’s just it, Maggie. The items you keep in your boxes and in your locker may feel important to you. But they are not you. They are just things.”
“They feel like so much more.”
“I know. No matter how much importance and feeling you attach to them, however, they’re still just objects. Tossing them will feel hard at first. But, I promise, it’ll get easier.”
When I return home, I go to my room, and tear out a sheet of paper from my notebook. I take a pencil and draw a big rectangular chart with lots of rows and columns. One by one, I add all the stuff in my newest box. Then I make ten more charts for the objects in each one of the other boxes and one for the things in my locker. I rate each thing. The rating is hard. And there’s a lot of erasing. But when I finish, I’ve made twelve charts and ranked every object. It feels like a big deal.
Now comes the hardest part. The tossing. Dr. Sparrow said I should start with the things I rate the lowest. I pick up the foil gum wrappers. They were from the first Original Five squad practice. I remember that day. It was the start of the season in sixth grade. It had just stopped raining, and my hair was still damp. Dad gathered Ava, Gracie, Belle, Sam, and me together for a meeting in the red cabin and told us that we were going to be the first-ever all-girl trap squad from Fish, Fur, and Fly. We cheered, and then Ava passed out pieces of Blue Bonnet bubble gum. By the time we reached the shooting range, our lips and tongues were bright blue. I kept the gum wrappers. They feel important in my palm. Special. Meaningful. I wonder how I’m going to remember this without them.
