Gabrielle d’Estrées and One of Her Sisters, 1594. Pinch, pinch. My daughter laughed, returned to it again and again, laughed at it again and again. Pinch, pinch.

The wisest know nothing.

Als sei kein Unglück die Nacht gescheh’n

The more I thought about what I had done in Paris, the more my action confused and upset me. To say that I hadn’t been thinking clearly was of course an understatement. It was more accurate to say that I had not thought at all, even with so much on my mind. But just what did that mean? To not think. I guess I was simply my animal self, not that an animal would have been so stupid. Something went through my mind, however rushed. Uncensored, certainly. Ill considered, obviously. My action at any other time might have caused major problems between Meg and me, but, given all else, the matter fell away.

Weeks passed. Christmas Day came and went. An annoyance, as always, but poignant this time, as the activity of counting Christmases occurred to me. The morning of gift opening was sweet enough, boring enough, sad enough. The same was true with the coming of the new year. And then the new semester began, distinctly marking time as they always did. Semesters came and went so quickly, so innocuously, that they felt like nothing until they were counted, and then the sum was decades. I never saw old coming.

Episodes of forgetfulness or spaciness were noted now and again. The seizures did not worsen; however, they occurred more frequently. We observed usually two a day, if in fact that was what they were. The fear of course was that there were others that we did not witness. For that reason, both consciously and un, we hardly ever left our daughter alone. This neither went unnoticed nor was it liked by the twelve-year-old. I imagined how I would have felt if my parents had loomed over me every second of every day, and so I managed to force myself to give her some space.

School began again for Sarah, and that presented new problems. We couldn’t keep her home, and though I didn’t want to tell her teachers, it was necessary. They had to not only be on the lookout for seizures and changes in them, but they also needed to understand that there might be a difference in her work and attention. I hated the teachers’ reactions. Pity and premature condolences.

Ms. Boone, Sarah’s sixth-grade teacher, was straight out of central casting. She was perfectly postured with her hair done up in a bun. She nodded a lot.

Meg briefly described Sarah’s disease.

“Oh my,” Ms. Boone said. “What can I do to help?”

“Just watch her,” I said. “She might space out from time to time, but we don’t even know if that’s a symptom. She might be merely daydreaming.”