But she hadn’t asked him for his opinion.
The very fact that she hadn’t talked with him about her choice to get tested felt like a betrayal. She loved him—nothing about that had changed. He should have been a part of her decision. But when they talked now, there was a space between their words, a space that both of them tried to fill with smiles and touches and small, daily jokes, a space that never quite got closed. Small talk was words thrown into the chasm between them—maybe someday they’d fill it up and be able to walk toward each other again.
The more you know, the better. That’s what he would have said if he were there in the waiting room with her and Nora, so she said it to herself. The more you know, the better.
Most important, her sister, Nora, needed to know if Mariana had the PS1 mutation.
Mariana’s stomach knotted, her guts tangled. This was why she didn’t go to doctors. This. A person could find out terrible things from someone who’d paid a lot to get a bunch of letters after his name. That wasn’t the real reason, she knew. She just hated facing the reality of doctors. They told you to eat right, to look to the future, to watch your cholesterol. Before Luke, she’d barely managed to remember to pay her electricity bill. She’d never had time to be too thoughtful about her triglycerides. Shit. Even if she did have EOAD, if she stepped in front of a Muni bus by accident, that’s how she would die, not from the complications of Alzheimer’s.
From the comfortable seat next to her (perhaps the designers had confused comfort with comforting), Nora said in that same soothing voice, “You don’t have it. You can’t have it. Besides, if you had it, you’d be showing signs. You’re not showing signs.” It had been Nora’s catchphrase for weeks. You’d be showing signs.
How did she know Mariana would be showing anything at all, though? They were different in so many ways. They were fraternal, not identical. Mariana had freckles on her forearms, while Nora didn’t have a single one. Mariana was half an inch taller. They hadn’t walked at the same time—their mother had told them Nora had lagged by two months, something Nora had always seemed a little ashamed of. They’d gotten their periods three months apart, with Nora in the lead that time. Sure, they’d been knitted together in the same womb at the same time. That just made them very close next-door neighbors. That was all.
Now, though, Mariana noticed their legs were jiggling in exactly the same way—silently jouncing up and down as if they were both trying to entertain invisible fractious babies.
“We’re just getting the facts, that’s all,” said Nora. If she’d had a baby on her knee, it would have flipped into the air with the bounce she gave the last word. “It’ll be negative. You don’t have it.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Mariana said. Then she caught herself. This was such a bad idea. Mariana had been so firmly against doing this that she hadn’t thought about what might happen next—what if she had the gene mutation? How was she supposed to react to the news? Would she scream? It didn’t seem appropriate, given that Nora was already dealing with it. And what if she didn’t have it? Should she celebrate? Again, that seemed wrong under the circumstances.
Mariana’s teeth ground together, and her left foot began to jiggle harder. Under the smooth orange carpet, she could feel a floorboard thump in answer. It was reassuring, feeling the bones of the old building. “You know,” she said, “they shouldn’t have fake plants.”
“What?”
She pointed at the fern behind the doctor’s desk. “Plastic. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Nora’s eyebrows flew so high they almost ducked under her hairline, and Mariana knew she’d succeeded. For half a second, she’d distracted her sister.
“You’re absolutely right.”
Mariana nodded. “I knew you’d think so.”
“This is a doctor’s office.”
“I know.”
“They take care of their patients, and part of that care is making us feel as if they’ll do a good job of it. What does it mean that they can’t trust themselves to have real plants?” Nora stood, shrugging her bag onto her shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“What?” It was supposed to be a distraction, not an out, though she wouldn’t look a gift horse in its genetic markers.
“Let’s go. We’ll find another doctor.”
“Are you sure? With all the tests they’ve run already?”
A sheen of tears brightened Nora’s eyes, and Mariana’s heart thumped in her chest. Instead of distracting her, she’d upset her. This was so much worse. She was an idiot. She knew better. No crying. If her sister cried, it would end her.
“You know what? I think I’m wrong. About the plant.”
Nora’s eyes were still frighteningly glassy. “Don’t patronize me.”
Mariana stood and moved behind the doctor’s desk. “Look. It’s real.”
“It isn’t. I can tell from here. Probably from Target.”
“It’s totally real. It’s in real dirt.”
“What else would they put fake plants in, Cheerios? It’s silk.”
Mariana ripped off a frond, and it came off the base stalk with a viscously wet crack. She held it up triumphantly. “It’s totally real.”
The doctor entered, a large white envelope in his hand.
“Oh, shit.” Mariana dropped the leaf. “Sorry.”
Nora started laughing.
Dr. Ghanjit frowned but didn’t say anything as Mariana scurried around the desk and back to her chair. She rubbed her hands discreetly on the sides of her pants, dusting off the dirt. Nora made a noise that was a choked giggle.
“Sorry,” Mariana said again.
The doctor, a man in his midsixties with bright hazel eyes, shrugged. “It happens. We replace that thing every year or two.”
Nora squeaked again and Mariana ignored her as hard as she could. She wouldn’t look at her. If they went into a giggle fit now—no, it would be terrible. No matter what he said, it wouldn’t be the kind of thing they should laugh at.
“Okay, you ready?” he asked, sliding the papers out of the envelope and onto his desk.
Mariana glanced at Nora, but her sister wouldn’t meet her gaze. She’d banished the giggle squeak and her face was straight now, her expression stern. “Yes,” said Nora. “We are.”
“Wait a minute,” said Mariana. She didn’t have the diagnosis yet, didn’t know what he’d say, but she felt all the air leave her lungs, as if she’d fallen from a great height onto her back. She leaned forward and tried to find where she stored that breath—breathe into your belly—but she couldn’t find it. Sucking a small sip of air, she said, “Just one second. I’m sorry.” Dizzy. She was dizzy. Fucking hell, was that a symptom?
Nora scooted her chair to the right and hooked a foot around hers. Her right leg tangled with Mariana’s left one. They used to sit like this in school when they could get away with it, stronger against the class that way, winners in their solo three-legged race.
“Look at me,” Nora said.
Her eyes were soft. Had Nora been this terrified when she’d learned her fate? Probably not. She hadn’t known at that point how devastating the diagnosis would be. She’d been alone when she’d heard, and Mariana hated that fact. She should have been there.
Nora smiled and jiggled her leg just the tiniest bit.
Mariana smiled back and then turned to face the doctor. “We’re ready.”
“Okay.” He looked down at the paperwork as if he were seeing it for the first time, which Mariana hoped to god he wasn’t. “You’re negative for the PS1 mutation.”
Chapter Twenty-six
“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.
&nbs
p; 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.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Nora wasn’t sure if it was the swing or Mariana’s diagnosis (the non-diagnosis) that was making her feel so queasy, but pushing with her legs was at least giving her something to do while she tried to get her thoughts to smooth. If she could iron them, put them on the board and hit them with the starch she loved so much, she could get them under control. It pleased her, thinking about getting the creases out of her thoughts, storing them in the linen cupboard next to the red (red!) Christmas tablecloth and the good hand towels she got out only for company. She wouldn’t need to put water in the iron—she could just cry over the top opening, filling it with tears. Her fingers twitched in her lap. She wanted to write that down before she forgot it, taking a sick pleasure in
how pathetic it was. She could make fun of herself later for having the thought, if she wrote it just right for a column. But she’d forgotten her purse upstairs when she ran, and she’d probably forget the thought itself before writing it down.
She should get used to it.
Her sister pushed her way through the glass door and into the garden. Her step was uncertain, as if she thought Nora might be mad at her.
Mad at her.
“I’m sorry,” said Nora. One hot tear dripped to her chin, and she swiped at it, as if it were a bug suddenly crawling on her skin. It was the most messed-up reaction ever. “I’m so sorry. It’s like I can’t control it, and I keep thinking, is this the way it starts? Is this when you watch me start to lose it? I can’t stop crying.” Fury lit her chest on fire—it felt like bronchitis made of anger.
“Oh, my love.” Mariana sat next to her on the swing, tangling her left leg with Nora’s right. Now they had only two feet touching the ground, one Nora’s, one Mariana’s. With those two feet, they began to push themselves back and forth, so slowly.
“How long do I keep trying to pretend I’m still normal? Because I don’t feel normal. I feel like I’m fighting my brain every second of the way, and the worst part is that I feel like it’s winning. That I’m losing myself, and with you”—Nora barked a thin laugh—“with you healthy, I’m losing you, too. I won’t be able to find you.” She took a long breath. They became still, so still, just their legs entwined, the swing barely moving.
Splinters of Light Page 15
