The Memory Book(8)

On top of it, he reminded us: NPC is always fatal. The majority of children with NPC die before age twenty (many die before the age of ten).

(Let us pause to soak in how utterly and completely tragic all this is.) Okay, neat. What are people who are completely screwed supposed to do? Look forlornly out the window? I’m not good at the feelingsy things. Let’s move on.

So. So, here’s where it gets interesting. The specialist said: Late onset of symptoms can lead to longer life spans. It’s extremely rare for someone my age to have it. Or, at least, he hadn’t treated any cases yet. This means that because I’m older, my body can fight it better. Even the less-specialized doctors agreed with that. Jackpot. I mean, he had already told Mom and me the life span thing at the Mayo Clinic. I just wanted Dr. Clarkington to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.

Before we came back to the waiting room where the kids were, Mom and I hugged very tightly in the hallway. I squeezed her with all my muscles. And then, ironically enough, I threw up. Not because of NPC, I don’t think, probably because I was so nervous.

But anyway, we got the approval. We got the note. We’re back on track. Longer life span, baby! What now, huh? Whatcha got? BRING IT.

I’ve really got to pull through this thing until I get to NYU. If I’m the only one in my immediate household who believes I can recover, then I need to get away from their negativity. My parents are thinking small, Future Sam. Mom’s asking the doctor about “in-house nurse” options and prescription plans. They’re preparing for the worst. As Mr. Chomsky says, optimism yields responsibility. I’m not delusional: I know I’m sick. But I’m not going to set myself up for failure.

I’m going to ace everything, win the tournament, go to New York, and figure it out from there.

And you’ve got to help me.





THE REVENGE OF COOPER LIND


Our Lady of Perpetual Help is in Bradford, just a thirty-minute drive from Hanover, in one of the flatter parts of the Upper Valley. It’s angular and beautiful and white, like most of its parishioners. There, on this very night, Harry declared himself a soldier for Christ for the rest of his life, which makes a lot of sense for a thirteen-year-old to decide (not).

Especially a thirteen-year-old who chose Saint James (aka Santiago) as his patron saint because Santiago is the main character from Rainbow Six, a tactical shooter game. So Christlike.

Little Taylor Lind took her place next to him on the velvet kneeling-thing for the sacraments ceremony, her flaxen strands bundled into a delicate ponytail next to Harrison’s curls, side by side, on the fringes near the shelf full of Virgin Mary candles, just like her brother, Cooper, and me five years ago. As I watched Father Frank touch the ceremonial cheeks of all the tween St. Cecilias and St. Patricks, confirming their Catholichood, Mom reached for my hand and squeezed.

It made me think of my own confirmation—

I had worn one of Mom’s old dresses from when she was a teen in the ’90s, lime green, short, collared, and patterned with daisies. My hair was peeking out of several randomly placed metal clips. My old glasses sat low on my nose, the ones with the rectangular frames that were too small for my round face and made my eyeballs bulge.

Cooper had chosen St. Anthony of Padua because it was the first name of a list of suggested patron saints.

I had chosen St. Joan of Arc because duh.

I was beginning to wonder which saints Bette and Davy would pick when it became their turn, and suddenly the hymn version of “Bless Us, O Lord” sounded from the enormous pipe organ from the corner, and I could see my dad standing in the front row with all the other sponsors, a blazer over his City of Lebanon employee shirt, and all the what-ifs from the doctors began to float in my head, like what if something goes wrong before Bette and Davy even get to this point, and my throat released a tension I didn’t know it had, and the saltwater pooled in my glasses again. I had to bow my head to keep the crying quiet, but the tears just kept coming, so I excused myself to the bathroom, and there in the lobby, speak of the devil and St. Anthony of Padua, was Coop.

Cooper Lind (noun, person): was once practically my brother, but is now more like an estranged brother—no, more like just a regular neighbor. Adonis with a perpetual windburn. Find him on the other side of our mountain, in a cloud of weed smoke, or in bed with any given female age fifteen to nineteen. Coop is the only other person from Strafford who worked the system and goes to Hanover High, but only because they wanted him to play baseball.

I gave him a cursory nod and brushed past him to the bathroom, got rid of the last gut heaves, and washed my face.

When we first went to Hanover, Coop and I carpooled together, clean and prepared and nervous out of our goddamn minds, sitting side by side in his mom’s car, and I don’t know. Something happened, gradually, and all at once. Maybe we had nothing in common besides the imaginary games we used to make up about magic. Maybe we grew apart because Coop pushed out long, muscular legs from where his chubby Band-Aid-covered knees used to be, and broad shoulders came out of his Batman shirt, and cheekbones poked out of his cheeks, and none of that growing ever happened to me. I was too weird and ugly to be around him, a little scrub bush to his mighty oak. Coop became a star pitcher and made friends with the popular kids; I became a debater and made friends with no one. It was meant to be, probably. I used to read fantasy books during his Little League games.