She pulls the book close to her bosom and holds it there and doesn't take her eyes off me.

"You be brave now, Madeline." I run into her arms. She drops her medical bag and the book and holds me tight.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper.

She squeezes me even tighter. "It's not your fault. Life is a gift. Don't forget to live it." Her voice is fierce.

"That's enough now," my mom snaps from the doorway. Her patience has run out. "I know this is very sad for you both. Believe it or not, it's sad for me as well. But it's time for you to go. Now."

Carla lets me go. "Be brave. Remember, life is a gift." She picks up her medical case.

We all walk downstairs together. Mom hands her a final check, and she's gone.

MADELINE'S DICTIONARY

as*ymp*tote (asm(p)tt) n. pl. -s. 1. A wish that continually approaches but never achieves fulfillment. [2015, Whittier]

Mirror Image

I pull the curtains aside as soon as I'm back in my room. Olly's standing at his window, his forehead pressed into his fist, his fist pressed into the gla.s.s. How long has he been waiting? It takes him a second to realize I'm there, but it's enough time for me to see his fear. Evidently my function in life is to strike fear into the hearts of those that love me.

Not that Olly loves me.

His eyes roam over my body, my face. He makes a typing gesture with his hands, but I shake my head. He frowns, makes the gesture again, but I shake my head again. He disappears from the window and returns with a marker.

I nod. Are you? I mouth.

I shake my head.

I nod.

I nod.

I shrug.

I pantomime excellent health, existential angst, regret, and an enormous sense of loss, all via a single nod.

We stare mutely at each other.

I shake my head. A gesture that says: No, don't be sorry. It's not your fault. It's not you. It's this life.

Schedule Change

More Than This

My mom wordlessly kneels to gather sc.r.a.ps of drawings from our game of Honor Pictionary and stacks them into a neat pile. She keeps the best (defined here as either really good or really bad) ones from each game. We sometimes look through our collection nostalgically, the way the other families look through old photos. Her fingers linger atop a particularly bad drawing of some sort of horned creature hovering above a circle with holes in it.

She holds the drawing up for me to see. "How did you guess 'nursery rhyme' from this?" She chuckles with effort, trying to break the ice.

"I don't know," I say, and laugh, wanting to meet her halfway. "You are a terrible drawer."

The creature was supposed to be a cow and the circle was supposed to be the moon. Truly, my guess was inspired, given how awful her drawing was.

She pauses stacking for a moment and sits back on her heels. "I really had a good time with you this week," she says.

I nod but don't say anything back. Her smile fades. Now that Olly and I can't see or talk to each other, my mom and I spend more time together. It's the only good thing to come out of this mess.

I reach out and grab her hand, squeeze it. "Me too."

She smiles again, but less fully now. "I hired one of the nurses."

I nod. She offered to let me interview Carla's potential replacements, but I declined. It doesn't matter who she hires. No one's ever going to be able to replace Carla.

"I have to go back to work tomorrow."

"I know."

"I wish I didn't have to leave you."

"I'll be OK."

She straightens the already perfectly straight stack of drawings. "You understand why I have to do the things I'm doing?" Besides firing Carla, she's also revoked my Internet privileges and canceled my in-person architecture lesson with Mr. Waterman.

We've mostly avoided talking about this all week. My lies. Carla. Olly. She took the week off from work and tended to me in Carla's absence. She took my vitals every hour instead of every two and slumped with relief each time the results were normal.

By day four she said we were out of the woods. We got lucky, she said.

"What are you thinking?" she asks.

"I miss Carla."

"I do, too, but I'd be a bad mother if I let her stay. Do you understand? She put your life in danger."

"She was my friend," I say quietly.

The anger that I'd been expecting from her all week finally sparks.

"But she wasn't just your friend. She was your nurse. She was supposed to keep you safe. She wasn't supposed to endanger your life or introduce you to teenage boys who are going to break your heart. Friends don't give you false hope."

I must look as stricken as I feel, because she suddenly stops and wipes her palms down the front of her thighs. "Oh, baby girl. I'm so sorry."

And that's when it really hits me and all at once. Carla's really gone. She won't be here tomorrow when my mom leaves for work. Instead, it will be someone new. Carla's gone, and it's my fault. And Olly's gone, too. I won't ever get a chance at kiss number two. I gasp against the pain of the thought, against the end of something barely even begun.

I'm sure my mom will eventually allow me access to the Internet and we'll be able to IM again, but it won't be enough. If I'm honest with myself, I'll admit that it was never going to be enough.

I'll never get to the end of all the ways I want to be with him.

She presses her hand against her own heart. I know we're feeling the same pain.

"Tell me about him," she says.

I've wanted to tell her about him for so long, but now I'm not sure where to begin. My heart is so full of him. So, I begin at the beginning. I tell her about seeing him for the first time, about the way he moves-light and fluid and certain. I tell her about his ocean eyes and callused fingers. I tell her how he's less cynical than he thinks he is. About his awful dad, about his dubious wardrobe choices.

I tell her that he thinks I'm funny and smart and beautiful in that order, and that the order matters. All the things I've wanted to say for weeks. She listens and holds my hand and cries along with me.

"He sounds wonderful. I see why you think so."

"He is."

"I'm sorry that you're sick."

"It's not your fault."

"I know, but I wish that I could give you more than this."

"Can I have my Internet privileges back?" I have to try.

She shakes her head. "Ask me for something else, honey."

"Please, Mom."

"It's better this way. I don't want you to have a broken heart."

"Love can't kill me," I say, parroting Carla's words.

"That's not true," she says. "Whoever told you that?"

Nurse Evil

My new nurse is an unsmiling despot with a nursing degree. Her name is Janet Pritchert. "You may call me Nurse Janet," she says. Her voice is unnaturally high, like an alarm.

She emphasizes the word Nurse so that I understand that simply calling her Janet will not do. Her handshake is too firm, as if she's more used to crushing things than caring for them.

It's possible that my view of her is biased.

All I see when I look at her is how much she's not Carla. She's thin where Carla was stout. Her speech is not peppered with Spanish words. She has no accent at all. Compared with Carla, she's altogether less.

By the afternoon I've decided to adjust my att.i.tude, but that's when the first of her notes appears stickied to my laptop.

My mom has reinstated my Internet access but only during the school day. She says I'm only supposed to be using it for schoolwork, but I'm sure the fact that Olly has started school and only gets home after 3 p.m. has something to do with it.

I check the time. It's 2:30 p.m. I decide not to adjust my att.i.tude. Nurse Janet could've at least given me a chance to break the rule before a.s.suming that I would be a rule breaker.

Things don't improve the next day: Over the next week, I give up any hope I had that she could be persuaded to my cause. Her mission is clear-monitor, contain, and control.

Olly and I settle into a new rhythm. We IM in short bursts during the day in between my Skype cla.s.ses. At 3 p.m., Nurse Evil turns off the router and our communication ends. At night, after dinner and after my mom and I spend time with each other, Olly and I stare at each other out the window.

I plead with my mom about the rule, but she refuses to budge. She says it's for my own protection.

The next day Nurse Evil finds another reason to leave me a note: I stare at the note, remembering that Carla had said the same thing as she was leaving: Life is a gift. Am I wasting mine?

Neighborhood Watch #2

Olly's schedule