There, I said it. I can’t do it. I’ve got so much of my own shit going on. And it’s not like she ever expected me to become fluent. From the get-go, when I said I would learn, she gave an encouraging yet skeptical look, like she already knew I would disappoint her.
But with everything going on, I can’t ever live up to her expectations, now can I?
Unfortunately, my troubling thoughts go both ways.
Ellie can’t be expected to want to stay with someone like me, can she?
I don’t know what my diagnosis has in store. If someone I was dating had this, would I be able to stick around? Didn’t I used to make snap judgments whenever I saw someone using mobility aids or using the disabled parking spots? Wondering why they were using them—especially if, like me, by all appearances, they seemed “healthy.”
“Jackson!” My mom knocks on my bedroom door but walks in without waiting for an answer. “Sweetie, you have to get dressed. Your dad is almost back from picking up Nonno.”
“Okay.”
But I don’t move from my bed when she leaves. I reach for my phone to discover several texts from Ellie, even though I didn’t respond earlier.
ELLIE:
Hope I didn’t lose you at the poop joke.
I’m just gonna spam your texts cause I misssss you.
You’re busy with family today, but let me know if you want me to swing by later or tomorrow or whenever.
I don’t know if I added enough sugar to this applesauce, but everyone says it’s fine. Yikes.
My head swirls, getting a terrible headache that’s going to make today even more of a mess. I go wash my face, then put on the newsweater Mom got for me. It’s itchy. Fitting, since I’m already feeling generally uncomfortable.
I finally tuck the cane away in my bedroom closet. I haven’t been using it lately, so I’ll go without it. Taking the stairs carefully, I greet everyone who has arrived, giving my elderly grandfather a hug first. Nonno slaps my back twice and gives an approving nod. “Strong. Healthy.”
I quickly slip away toward the kitchen, hoping to snag a quick bite of something. My aunts are dashing around, taking foil off the dishes they prepared at home and helping my mom bake the hundreds of handmade raviolis they batched last weekend. Mom steps to another counter to quickly arrange a plate of appetizers, losing a battle against the tight lid of an olive jar.
I grab the jar to open it for her. I hold it in my right hand and twist the lid with my left, but nothing happens. I switch hands and hold the lid under the edge of my sweater.Less grip strength…
Before, this would’ve been incredibly easy, but I can’t manage it now. Mom takes back the olives and, with considerably less strain, twists it open with a pop. “You loosened it for me,” she offers.
“We both know that’s not it.”
I go sulk away on the living room couch. I barely have a moment of peace before Aunt Donna takes a seat beside me.
“So how arewedoing?” she asks, like I’m a five-year-old who needs coaxing to talk. “I’m sure it was a shock. My friend Lana recently found she has it, too. It was bad right after she had her last kid.” She puts a hand to her chin and chuckles. “Although, now that I think about it, it wasn’tthatrecently, since her daughter might be about your age. Maybe I could introduce you.”
I narrow my eyes skeptically. “To her daughter?”
“Oh, no, I meant Lana, if you have any questions. Though I could see if I could arrange an introduction to her daughter, as well…But I thought your mom said you had a little lady friend in your life already?”
“Well, I—”
“Yo, Jackson!” Darius walks in the front door, saving me from this conversation.
“I should go say hi,” I say, excusing myself.
“Is Anthony here already?” Darius asks.
“Probably outside. He wanted to set up bocce.”
“Sweet, let’s go.”
Anthony greets us in the yard, standing alongside his bundled-up girlfriend of three years, who’s making her first Thanksgiving appearance, though she isn’t as appreciative of the weather being in the fifties. A couple of our uncles are on the patio, hiding out from responsibilities they’d otherwise be tasked with inside.
