Fated

second chance with Daire? Surely you’re joking—”
    While the words sound strong, Jennika doesn’t. And I can’t recall one single time in all of our lives when I’ve seen her looking so lost and defeated.
    “She’s been treated. Sedated. The first doctor in Morocco kept her heavily medicated, but it didn’t last. Nothing does. They just keep playing with the doses, trying to find something that clicks. They’re treating her like a guinea pig, and now they tell me they’re running out of choices. Claim they’re going to have to—” Her voice breaks as she covers her face with her hands. Taking a moment to steady herself before she straightens her spine and says, “They want to institutionalize her. Keep her under lock and key and heavy surveillance. And to be honest, I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t know what to do. I’ve taken some time off work, but soon enough I’ll have to return. I have bills to pay, a living to make, and it’s not like I can drag her along like I used to. She can’t fly, and even if she could, it’s not like I can keep her constantly drugged and restrained. And now you call. The last person I ever expected to hear from. Just out of the blue. How’s that for coincidence?” She laughs, but it’s not a real one, it’s more like a longing for one.
    Her shoulders slump as she returns to heavy listening mode, her silence broken by occasional comments like “Herbs? Seriously? You think that’ll work?”
    Followed by, “Paloma, with all due respect, you haven’t seen what I’ve seen—you have no idea what she’s capable of!”
    And then, “So those are my choices? Really? Sixteen years of parenting and that’s what I’m left with? And excuse me for asking, but how can you be so sure? I hate to say it, but Django was just seventeen when you lost him!”
    When she goes quiet again, I’m just about to bust in—just about to let her know I’ve heard every word—or at least Jennika’s part—and I’m not the least bit happy about it. They’re deciding my future without my consent. Not stopping to think that I might want a vote.
    My arm outstretched, about to grab hold of her shoulder, really let her have it, when she turns, her smeary, red-rimmed eyes meeting mine, not the least bit surprised to find me lurking behind.
    The phone dangling between long skinny fingers with bitten-down nails, her smile defeated, voice gone hoarse with unspent tears, as she says, “Daire, it’s your grandmother. She really needs to speak with you.”

four
    “Close your window so I can crank up the heat—it’s cold out there.”
    I glance over my shoulder long enough to shoot Jennika a scathing look, but I’ve been shooting her so many of them over the last few days it washes right over her. She’s grown as immune to my scowls as she has to my protests.
    I bring my knees to my chest, allowing my heels to hang off the edge of the seat as my index finger prods the small square switch next to my armrest.
    Pushing, then letting it go.
    Pushing until it’s almost there—then lifting my finger and watching it pause.
    The window rising and halting in annoyingly short little spurts, but she ignores that as well. Preferring to divert her attention to more pleasant things like driving within the lines and fiddling with the rental car’s radio—correctly assuming her refusal to acknowledge my game will bore me into obeying.
    I force the window all the way up and shift toward the door until I can no longer see her. My shoulders hunched, arms hugging my knees, trying to make myself smaller, more distant, pretending that I’m not really here.
    I wish I wasn’t here.
    My forehead pressed flush to the window, I blow a small patch of foggy circles onto the glass as I say, “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”
    It’s about the hundredth time that I’ve said it. The hundredth time I’ve shot her a disparaging look to go with it. But to her credit, she just looks at me sideways and says, “Trust me, I can’t believe I am either. But since neither of us could come up with a better solution, this is the solution that stuck.”
    “You realize you’re abandoning me?” I gnash my teeth together, fight to get a grip on my temper—the fear I can’t shake no matter how many times we rehash it. “You do get that, right?” I twist in my seat, stare hard at her profile, but she just keeps her hands on the ten and two position, and her eyes on the long stretch of road that