Saving Meghan(2)

Her mother did not actually have a job. Her job was getting those notes from the doctors she had taught Becky to manipulate. She did not show Becky how to braid her hair or brush out the tangles. There were no lectures on healthy eating. “You ask around, you’ll figure it out,” her mother had said when Becky inquired where babies came from. Her mother’s love was dished out like food rations, given only in times of great need. And it seemed the only time that need arose was when Becky was with her mother at the doctor’s office or a hospital. Becky accompanied her mother on these frequent sojourns as nothing more than a prop—something cute and little to evoke sympathy and dispel suspicion from the doctors and nurses whom Cora had come to depend on for her disability checks.

Like an actress in a play, Becky had her lines down cold, coached by her mother, who was both the director and her harshest critic, which made her so believable when answering the doctors’ questions.

Yes, I’ve seen Mommy faint a bunch of times.

Sometimes Mommy’s headaches are so bad that she can’t see straight.

Not surprisingly, for all the trips they made to the doctors over the years, nobody could ever figure out what was wrong with Cora, because nothing was ever wrong.

Now Becky was off to say goodbye to this damaged and damaging woman, worried it would be to the detriment of the sick daughter she’d left behind.

Becky bit her lower lip as she stared forlornly at the squat gray buildings that appeared to be rolling past her portal window. Of course, it was an illusion. Becky was the one moving, not the buildings, which meant she was leaving, that this was really happening. She was going to fly, and there was still no word from Carl.

Becky’s seatmate sent her another sidelong glance. Perhaps he noticed some color drain from her complexion or her knuckles whiten as she gripped the armrest.

“Nervous to fly?” he asked.

Becky peeled her eyes from her phone, tried to relax and let it all go, but her heartbeat accelerated as the terminal vanished from view.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you,” she managed. Her soft voice lacked conviction.

“My wife hates to fly, too,” said the man. His capacity to ignore the “don’t talk to me” vibes Becky gave off annoyed her, but it was not surprising. Men often had blinders on in that regard—even the non-creepers. “A vodka tonic usually does the trick,” he continued. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ve heard that flying is far safer than driving.”

“I’m fine, really. Thank you for your concern.”

Becky took a sharper tone and, judging by her seatmate’s wounded expression, doubted there’d be any more idle chitchat. She returned her attention to her phone, feeling terrible for the way she’d dismissed the man. Thanks to her mother, Becky was remarkably in tune with other people’s feelings.

It made sense she’d be good at it—there had been no better way to get her mom’s attention than to show an aptitude for figuring out what people wanted to hear based on their appearance or mannerisms. To see her daughter plying the family trade had impressed Cora more than when Becky made the cheer squad in middle school or got into the National Honor Society her junior year in high school. At the feet of the grand master herself, Becky had learned what to say or do to ingratiate herself with most anyone. With these insights, she could make people happy, put them on edge, or keep the peace, whichever suited her needs. It was shameful in a way, but it was also what had made her such a successful real estate broker. It was all about knowing which levers to pull.

“I’m sorry,” Becky said to the man. “I’m traveling for the first time in a long time, and it’s hard for me to leave my daughter. She’s sick, and, well, I’m waiting to hear from my husband to let me know everything is all right.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the man said sincerely. “What’s the matter, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I wish I knew,” Becky said. “Nobody seems to know.”

Becky was a notoriously private person, except when it came to Meghan’s illness. For that, she blared the horns. She talked to anyone, stranger or friend, about the puzzling array of symptoms plaguing her daughter. She sought advice, doctors’ names, homeopathic remedies, experimental treatments, diagnoses from the expert and uninformed alike. She had filing cabinets in her office filled with papers, printouts from the web, doctors’ reports, lab tests—enough so that a friend once jokingly asked if she was opening up a health clinic.

While Becky avoided the specifics of Meghan’s confounding symptoms, she gave enough details to help her seatmate visualize a tense and uncertain situation back home. Muscle weakness. Fatigue. Blinding headaches. Achy joints. Weight loss. Decline in physical coordination. Trouble concentrating. Her daughter’s symptoms could change or worsen at any time, making a six-hour cross-country flight feel like an eternity.

“I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I’ll pray for you,” said the man after Becky had dispensed with the background.

It was a kind gesture, not at all unwelcome, and something Becky heard quite often these days. When there were no clear answers or well-defined next steps, prayers seemed to be the only thing people could offer.

Carl finally returned Becky’s many texts just as the captain came on the intercom to inform the passengers and crew that they were number six for takeoff. The buzz of the phone surged through her arm like an electric current. Carl’s reply was short and simple, four words that made Becky’s blood turn cold: