The Memory Book(2)

Mrs. T: Excuse me, died?

Me: I’m not going to die.



I don’t think she heard the part about me not dying, which is probably for the best, because at this point it is a statement I can neither confirm nor deny. What I do know, which I forgot to tell Mrs. Townsend (sorry, Mrs. T), is that people my age who exhibit symptoms (without having it when they were younger) are extremely rare. Usually kids get it very young, and their bodies can’t handle the strain. So we’re looking at a “different timeline,” the doctor said. I asked if this was good or bad. “At the moment, I believe it’s good.”


Mrs. T (hand on forehead): Sammie, Sammie.

Me: I’m okay right now.

Mrs. T: Oh my god. Yes, but… are you seeing someone? How are your parents handling this? Do you need to go home?

Me: Yes. Fine. No.

Mrs. T: Tell them to call me.

Me: Okay.

Mrs. T (throwing up her hands): And you told me this by asking for an extension on your AP Lit paper? You don’t have to write it, for god’s sake. You don’t have to do anything. I can call Ms. Cigler right now.

Me: No, it’s okay. I’ll write it tonight.

Mrs. T: I’m happy to do it, Sammie. This is serious.



Yes, I guess it is serious. Niemann-Pick (there are three types—A, B, and C—and I have C, commonly called NPC, the only C I’ve ever gotten, ha ha ha) happens when the wrong kind of cholesterol builds up in the liver and spleen, and as a result, blockage collects in the brain. The buildup gets in the way of cognition, motor function, memory, metabolism—the works. I don’t have any of that yet, but I have been exhibiting symptoms for almost a year now, apparently. It’s interesting the names they put on stuff I thought were just weird tics. Sometimes I get this sleepy sensation after I laugh: That’s cataplexy. Sometimes when I reach for the saltshaker, I miss it: That’s ataxia.

But all of that is nothing compared to losing my memory. As you know (ever hopeful!), I’m a debater. Memory’s kind of my thing. I wasn’t always a debater, but if I hadn’t become one four years ago, no joke, I would probably be addicted to weed. Or erotic fan fiction. Or something like that. Let me tell you the story: Once upon a time, Future Sam, you were fourteen, and you were tremendously unpopular (still true) and felt alienated and like there was not a place for you in high school. Your parents wouldn’t buy you cool clothes, you were the first one out in dodgeball, you didn’t know you were supposed to say “Excuse me” after you burped, and you had become a human encyclopedia of mythical beasts and scientifically impossible space vehicles. Stated simply: You cared more for the fate of Middle Earth than actual Earth.

Then your mom forced you to join a club, and debate team was the first table at the club fair. (I wish it were more epic than that.) Anyway, everything changed. The brain you used to employ memorizing species of aliens you used instead to memorize human thought, events, ways of thinking that connected your tiny house tucked in the mountains to a huge timeline, one just as full of injustice and triumph and greed as the stories you craved, but one that was real.

Plus, you were good at it. After all those years of devouring books, you could glance at a passage and repeat it verbatim ten minutes later. Your lack of politeness was to your advantage, because politeness isn’t necessary in getting your point across. Debate made you realize you didn’t have to lose yourself in invented worlds to experience life outside the Upper Valley. It gave you hope that you could be yourself and still be part of the real world. It made you feel cool (despite still being unpopular). It made you want to do better in school, so that once you reached the real world, you’d be able to actually work on all the issues you debated.

So yeah, ever since then, I have counted myself proudly among the people who roam the halls of high schools on a weekend, talking to themselves at a million miles an hour about social justice issues. Yes, the weirdos who decide it might be a fun idea to read an entire Internet search yielding thousands of articles on Roe v. Wade and recite them in intervals at a podium across from another person in a battle to the rhetorical death. The ones who think they are teenage lawyers, the ones who wear business suits. I love it.

Which is why I haven’t quit, even though I’m now kind of stuttery at practice, and I make excuses when I miss research sessions for doctor’s appointments, and I have to, you know, psych myself up in the mirror at tournaments. Before this happened, my memory was my golden ticket. My ability to memorize things got me scholarships. My memory won me the Grafton County Spelling Bee when I was eleven. And now it’s gonna be gone. This is, like, inconceivable to me.

ANYWAY.


Back to the office, where I can hear people in the hallway, yelling at one another about stupid shit.


Me (over the noise): It’s fine. Anyway, can you give me the name of that NYU pre-law mentorship thing again? I know only college juniors are eligible, but I think I could— Mrs. T makes a choked sound.

Me: Mrs. T?

Mrs. Townsend pulls Kleenexes from her drawer and starts wiping her eyes.

Me: Are you okay?

Mrs. T: I just can’t believe this.

Me: Yeah. I have to go to ceramics now.

Mrs. T: I’m sorry. This is shocking. (clearing her throat) Will you have to miss more school?

Me: Not until May, right around finals. But it will be a quick trip to the specialist. Probably just a checkup.