“I really wish you’d brought him in sooner,” Dr. Bhatti says to my mom in a hushed voice. “We could have been treating him properly, and this whole incident might not have happened. It’s really dangerous not to undergo proper treatment when—”

“I was complying with his wishes.” My mom’s face stiffens. “Besides, was it really so crazy then to think—I mean, couldn’t it be the accident?”

Dr. Bhatti touches my mom’s arm. “Mrs. Myles. Scott has Parkinson’s. I know you want to protect your husband, but the best way you can protect him is by giving him the proper care.”

My mom walks the doctor out and they talk in lower voices than before. Progressive… confusion… stiffened gait… hallucinations… trouble swallowing… I stuff my fingers in my ears so I don’t have to hear about the inevitable: how the disease will progress, which symptoms are likely to get worse, what will inevitably happen when it wins.

“Bye again,” the doctor calls before she leaves. “I hope to run into you at the Brain Degeneration Walk later this month!”

“Yes, you too,” my mom grumbles.

My dad opens his eyes and puts his hand up, then pushes the button to sit up in his bed.

“What walk?” I ask my mom when the door closes, pretending this is the first I’ve heard of it. She doesn’t seem to hear me.

“Let’s get out of here,” my dad says to my mom. “Please.”

“I know this was a lot,” my mom says, getting my dad’s shoes and clothes off the spare chair. “But we’re going home now, honey. Things are going to get better.”

“Much better,” I echo, but my mouth tastes like aspartame as soon as I say it.

“It’s not going to get better,” he says, ignoring the sweater my mom is holding out to him. “And neither am I.”

Dear Universe,

I would guesstimate that if the average human spirit weighs 13.8 pounds, mine is coming in around an ounce. There comes a point when you can’t operate from two separate worlds anymore. They have to line up, otherwise it’s impossible to function in either. Science dubs it an eclipse when the earth, moon, and sun form a line, casting shadows and obscuring each other, but there’s no specially named event for their collision. In other words, eclipses are cute. You can get special glasses for them. A collision, on the other hand, would be gruesome: no catchy phrase, no witnesses. You know the dinosaurs? No, you don’t. You know their fossils.

12

Days ’til prom: 49

“OH MY GOD, IS EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT?” ABIGAIL ANSWERS when I call her on Sunday after a long sleep. “I was so worried.”

“Yeah, everything’s okay.” Except that my dad hasn’t left his room, and anytime my mom or I bring him food, he says, “Get me out of this place. I want to go home.” His face is even angry when he sleeps. “I’m sorry I missed your show.”

“Aw, thanks. Don’t even worry about missing it. Just like, what happened? I know it couldn’t be good if you missed the whole night.”