"What does that mean?"

"We think it's possible that it's underdeveloped, like an infant's."

"An infant?"

"Your immune system hasn't been exposed to a lifetime of common viruses and bacterial infections. It hasn't had time to get experience with fighting these infections. It hasn't had time to get strong."

"So I'm still sick?"

He leans back in his chair. "I don't have a good answer for you. We're in uncharted territory here. I've never heard of a case like this. It may mean that you'll get sick more often than people with healthy immune systems. Or it may mean that when you do get sick, you'll get very severely sick."

"How will I know?"

"I don't think there's any way to know. I recommend caution."

We schedule weekly follow-up visits. He tells me that I should take it slowly as I start to see the world-no big crowds, no unfamiliar foods, no exhaustive physical activity.

"The world isn't going anywhere," he says as I leave.

After the Death of

I spend the next few days searching for more information, for anything that will explain what happened to me and what happened to my mother. I want a diary with her thoughts laid out in legible ink. I want her madness clearly delineated so that I can trace its history and my own. I want details and explanations. I want to know why and why and why. I need to know what happened, but she can't tell me. She's too damaged. And if she could? Would it make a difference? Would I understand? Would I understand the depth of grief and fear that could've led her to take my entire life away from me?

Dr. Chase tells me that he thinks she needs a therapist. He thinks it might be a long time before she's able to tell me exactly what happened, if ever. He guesses that she suffered some sort of a breakdown after my dad and brother died.

Carla uses all her persuasive powers trying to convince me not to leave home. Not just for my mom's sake, but for my own. My health is still an unknown.

I consider e-mailing Olly, but so much time has pa.s.sed. I lied to him. He's probably moved on. He's probably found someone else. I'm not sure I can endure any more heartbreak. And what would I say? I'm almost not sick?

In the end Carla convinces me to stay with my mom. She says I am a better person than that. I'm not so sure. Whoever I was before I found out the truth has died.

One Week A.D.

I have my first weekly visit with Dr. Chase. He urges caution.

I install a lock on my bedroom door.

Two Weeks A.D.

Three Weeks A.D.

My mom tries to enter my room, but the door is locked with me in it.

She goes away.

I draft more e-mails to Olly that I don't send.

Dr. Chase continues to urge caution.

Four Weeks A.D.

I paint each wall in my room a different color. The one by the window is a pale b.u.t.ter yellow. The shelves are sunset orange against a peac.o.c.k-blue wall. The wall by my headboard is lavender, and the final one is black with chalkboard paint.

My mom knocks on my door, but I pretend not to hear her.

She goes away.

Five Weeks A.D.

I order real plants for the sunroom. I deprogram the air filters and open the windows. I buy five goldfish and name them all Olly and let them loose in the fountain.

Six Weeks A.D.

Dr. Chase insists that it's too soon for me to attempt enrolling in high school. Too many kids with too many illnesses. Carla and I persuade him to let some of my tutors visit in person as long as they're well. He is reluctant, but he agrees.

Madeline's Mom

Flowers for Algernon

A week later Carla and I watch as Mr. Waterman makes his way across the lawn and to his car to leave. I hugged him before he left. He was surprised, but didn't question it, just hugged me back like it was perfectly natural.

I stay outside for a few minutes after he's left and Carla waits with me. She's trying to find a way to gently break my already broken heart.

"So-" she begins.

I know what she's going to say. She's been gearing up to say it all day. "Please don't leave me, Carla. I still need you."

Her eyes are on me but I can't bear to look at her.

She doesn't deny what I've said, just takes my hand in hers.

"If you really, truly need me to stay, I'll stay." She squeezes my fingers. "But you don't need me."

"I'll always need you." I don't try to stop the tears from coming.

"But not like before," she says gently.

Of course she's right. I don't need her to be here with me for eight hours a day. I don't need constant care. But what will I do without her?

My tears turn into enormous sobs and she holds me in her arms and lets me cry until I reach the end of them.

"What will you do?"

She wipes at my face with the sides of her hands. "I might go back to working in a hospital."

"Did you already tell my mom?"

"This morning."

"What did she say?"

"She thanked me for taking care of you."

I don't try to hide my scowl.

She holds my chin. "When are you going to find it in your heart to forgive her?"

"What she did is not forgivable."

"She was sick, honey. She's still sick."

I shake my head. "She took my whole life away from me." Even now, thinking about all the years I've lost makes me feel like I'm on the lip of an enormous chasm, like I could fall in and never come back out.

Carla nudges me back to the present. "Not your whole life," she says. "You still have a lot left."

We go back inside. I follow her around, watching her pack her things for the last time "Did you ever read Flowers for Algernon?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Did you like it?"

"No. Not my kind of book. Not enough hope in it."

"It made you cry, didn't it?

She shakes her head no, but then confesses, "OK, yes, like a baby."

We both laugh.

The Gift