My sister, though, never forgot. Even during the healthy times, the remissions, she was always there, watching, taking care of things, waiting for the relapse, when the symptoms would come back. Sometimes she seemed more like my mother’s mother. Which of course meant that she was acting like my mother…or my grandmother…or whatever. Anyway, instead of acting like a big sister, which would have been bad enough, she was more like a third parent.

After passing through the sliding doors and into the terminal, I stomped my feet to shake the snow and slush off my sneakers. Wet feet for a twenty-five-hour plane trip was not an appealing thing.

“That is always the coldest two minutes of the winter,” I said absently.

“Second coldest,” Beth said. “Coming back to the car at the end of the trip is worse.”

She had a point.

“Easy for you to say,” I told her. She looked all warm and snuggly in her ski jacket and leather boots and gloves.

“That’s the one and only tiny advantage of missing out on a tropical holiday with my family.”

“Hey, it was your choice, so you’re wasting your time if you think you can make me feel the least bit guilty.” I started to walk away.

“Sorry. Wait,” she said, and she grabbed me by the arm to slow me down. Mom and Dad were walking ahead. “Sam, I need you to help out Dad,” she said.

“What does Dad need help with?”

“Watching Mom, of course!”

While she hadn’t said, Watching Mom, of course, you idiot! that was clearly what she was actually saying.

“She’s doing okay,” I said. “She’s in remission again.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Dad says—”

“Dad can never be trusted about that. He sees what he wants to see, and he only tells us what he thinks will make us feel better. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”

“I think she’s in remission, too.”

“You’re not much better than him.”

“Thanks a lot.” I paused. “So, you don’t think she’s in remission?”

“I don’t know…maybe…yeah, I think probably.”

“Then why are you giving me a hard time?” I demanded.

“I just want you to watch. And help. Make sure she doesn’t have to carry anything heavy, or if you pour her a glass of water make sure it isn’t too full. Offer a hand going down stairs—”

“I understand,” I said. “I’ll help where I can.”

“Good. It’s not fair to Dad if he has to do everything.”

And maybe it wasn’t fair to ask a twelve-year-old to take care of his mother. But, then again, what was fair about MS?

We swiftly caught up to Mom and Dad in the lineup at the ticket counter. We really didn’t have to wait in line. My mother had a letter from her doctor explaining her condition, which would have allowed her—and her family, of course—to skip the lineup and pre-board the plane. But my mother wouldn’t have any of that. She insisted on never taking advantage of her situation. She said if she were in a wheelchair it would be different. I hoped it would never be different. At least not for a long, long time. I knew where the MS road could lead—unable to walk, confined to a wheelchair, not able even to hold a glass, or dress herself. I just hoped it would be a slow trip with lots of stops along the way, and plenty of times when the whole train would turn around and head back toward total health.