But Cessy is cackling at herself already, throwing her head back to expose the long slim line of her neck. I feel a sudden rush of affection for her. After everything that has happened over the past few years, with my mom dying, then my diagnosis, Cessy has been a constant through all of it. Her and her dumb sense of humor and fondness for trashy reality TV. Cessy and her endless well of dance department gossip, ready and waiting to salve any bad day.
“You love me,” Cessy says, still grinning. “Admit it.”
“You’re okay. I guess.”
“You looooove meeeeee!”
“Itolerateyou,” I say, jabbing a finger into her chest. “Barely.”
Cessy swoops in and presses a wet kiss to my temple. “Nope. You adore me. Almost as much as you adore Mr. Screw Daddy.”
I roll my eyes. “Listen, if we’re ranking besties, it goes Earl Grey tea, that one Japanese whiskey bar in the West Village, Screw Daddy, ‘trash the dress’ divorce photoshoots,thenyou. For now, anyway. You could probably bribe your way up the list with a few shots of mezcal.”
“Deal,” she says, and gives me another sloppy kiss. “Now tell me, are you staying in the city this winter or not?”
My dad is going to be gone all break touring with the Phil. He invited me to come with him, and I’ve spent the past month-plus angsting over whether to say yes. The lineup of countries he’ll be visiting is long and extremely envy-inducing, but it feels like a bad idea to travel in the final weeks leading up to the competition in Stockholm. Not that I won’t have access to pianos, considering the whole trip will center around concert halls with plenty of their own pianos and practice rooms. But I don’t want to worry about traveling to the next location or getting used to a new instrument every other day. And besides, I know myself—I’ll want to go to all my dad’s performances, and check out the cities we visit, and eat at allthe cute little cafés. The fewer obstacles, the better; I need to knuckle down and get this done, not try and cram some practice sessions in around vacation time.
And aside from all that, I’m nervous to leave the city right now. My neurologist told me that I can text him anytime, that he can always get me in next day if my symptoms get worse, so that we can adjust my meds. What happens if my hands die on me and I’m stuck in Lithuania or something? I need to be near New York-Presbyterian, just in case.
“Staying here,” I say. “I need to practice. It’ll be kind of nice having the whole apartment to myself, anyway.”
“Totally,” Cessy says. “I mean, it’s…how long until the competition, now?”
“My flight’s in three weeks.”
“Holy shit,” she says.
“Yep.”
Cessy picks up my stuffed bunny and props it up in her lap, fiddling with its long soft ears. “Well, you’re going to crush it, obviously. So don’t worry too much.”
I know she means well, but lately reassurances like this stick in my craw. My dad tries saying this kind of thing, too—You’ve got this, you’ve practiced so hard, you’ll be perfect.And maybe I’d have that kind of faith in myself, too, if my body were a little more trustworthy. As it is, three weeks until my flight—four until preliminaries begin—is far too long. Anything could happen.
“I guess,” I say eventually. “But I’m still a little worried something might…I mean, I’ve read stories online. Someone on Reddit was talking about how she got diagnosed and then everything progressed so quickly, she needed a cane three months later. What if that’s me?”
Cessy frowns. “I mean…is that common, though? Do things usually go that fast?”
“No. But if it can happen to her, it can happen to me. It would be just my luck.”
She sighs and hugs both arms around my bunny, sinking deeper into my bed pillows. “Sure. I guess. But you could also get hit by a train tomorrow. I don’t think it’s smart to let yourself chase after every horrible possibility. Especially the unlikely ones. What did your doctor say?”
I shrug. “Not much. He wasn’t exactly reassuring, either. He just said the course of the disease is hard to predict, and we’ll know more as time goes on.”
The exact words he’d used were that we had to wait for my MS todeclare itself.As if it were a sentient creature. Like any day now it might trot up and inform us of its intentions in triplicate.
“But he didn’t think you’re likely to get worse between now and then.”
“He didn’tnotthink that, either, to be fair.” I sigh. “But yeah. You’re probably right. It’ll probably be fine. I’m just…”
I just can’t help wondering how often my mom told herself that.It’ll probably be fine.No big deal if I forgot to pack my Plaquenil this weekend, it’ll probably be fine. My kidney labs are trending, but it’ll probably be fine. I’m on the transplant list, butit’ll probably be fine.
I remember sitting in her hospital room, staring out the window while she slept, watching strangers stream past on the sidewalk far below. All those people off living their stupid normal lives, going to work, visiting family, buying a stupid latte from the stupid chain coffee shop next door. Nurses who have to go to work and take care of people like my mom and hang another bag of morphine, but then they get to go home to their families and smile and laugh and sleep. Proud new fathers carrying car seats into the lobby of the women’s hospital, excited to meet their perfect purple-faced screeching offspring. None of them look up. None of themimagine how many of these windows overhead belong to people who will never leave. Men and women and tiny, fragile babies who will never get to go home.
Suddenly it’s hard to swallow. I have to force myself, my throat clenching in a series of tight, rhythmic gulps.
“Anyway,” I say, “it’s better to stay here. Gotta practice, like I said. And I can’t leave Bun-Bun all alone over the holidays.”
Cessy laughs and dips her head to press a loud, wet kiss to my stuffed rabbit’s head. “Damn right. Think of poor Bun-Bun. What would he do without you?”
