At school, I watched her constantly.
Eventually, she leaned toward me.
“Can you stop looking at me?”
“I’m checking on you.”
“
I’m checking on you.”
“You’re watching me breathe.”
That almost sounded ridiculous.
Then I saw her face.
An hour later, Alice went quiet.
Her color had faded.
“I am tired, Mom. But I’m not dying.”
She looked straight at me.
The room seemed to shrink.
Alice looked sorry immediately.
I didn’t make her apologize.
I just took her home.
She looked straight at me.
At her next appointment, I told Dr. Malcolm everything.
How quickly her energy disappeared.
He examined her and reminded me what symptoms should make me call.
Then I asked, “So you’d let her go back?”
I told Dr. Malcolm everything.
“I can tell you what her body can safely attempt.”
“I can’t tell you how much fear you’re supposed to feel while she does it.”
