Not my family. No way could I talk to my dad. Cindy would tell me to talk to Mom, but Mom would be at a complete loss—and in such pain. I could never do that to her. My girlfriends would smile and give me pep talks and hugs, but behind my back they’d exchange sad looks. Telling them would only make things worse.

I could tell Sara. With her I can talk freely. But she has already worked out her solution: be an old maid and die young. It’s a dignified, and achievable, solution. But it doesn’t seem right, even for her. And it certainly isn’t right for me. I’m not one of Jerry’s kids; I’ll have a long life. And I don’t want a long life alone.

But tonight I am alone. No one can help.

It is closer to reveille than to taps when I am finally too tired to think. I turn over and the sheets knot themselves around my feet. My right hand draws up into a fist, and my thumb snags my hair. My face is mashed into the blue and white mattress ticking. I lie like I’ve fallen from some great height.

Day Eight

Day Eight

Equilibrium may be disturbed by the increase of one force or, equally, by the decrease of the countervailing force.

I am tired. I am so filled with tiredness that there’s no room inside me for anything else. Carole puts a plate in front of me. Two sausage patties, glistening with grease. A square of scrambled eggs as dense as the yellow sponge that sits on the ledge above my mom’s kitchen sink. I shake my head.

“You don’t feel like eating? Is it the wrong time of the month, maybe?” Carole whispers. “My stomach always gets queasy right before it starts. You want to try some toast, maybe?”

I take a bite. I’ve never felt this way before. Off balance. Not myself. What if I get stuck? What if I never go back to being my same old self? That would be horrible. Maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s time to change, time to face facts. The toast sticks in my throat going down.

Sara sips her coffee and tries to lure me into an argument about the Bible. I can’t rouse myself even to be annoyed.

“Sa-ra, I don’t feel too good. It’s the wrong time of the month.” My period is due in a little less than a week. It seems a useful excuse. Sara gives me a sympathetic look—and silence.

The sausage is too much, but I force down the toast and eggs. When the food hits bottom, I feel somewhat better. Not the same, but better. Maybe I can endure the day.

*   *   *