Interim May and June, 2018

When Wilhelmina was sixteen, her family took a trip to Pennsylvania together on a weekend in May.

It was an unusual thing for them to do, especially a few weeks before school was ending. Usually the family drove to Pennsylvania in June, to bring Wilhelmina.

"Can I go?" Delia had started asking that year, as spring began to turn toward summer. Delia was eight. "I want to go to the aunts for the summer too! Wilhelmina, how old were you when you started to go?"

"Oh, sweetie," Cleo would say. "You're right, when Wilhelmina was your age, she was spending her summers with the aunts. But they're older now, and Frankie is very sick."

One day, while Wilhelmina was putting her boots on in the living room, she heard Cleo and Delia in the kitchen, having this familiar conversation.

"If Frankie is sick, I can help!" said Delia.

"It's true you're very helpful," said Cleo. "But Frankie is so sick right now that I'm afraid even Wilhelmina is unlikely to have her summer."

"What?" said Wilhelmina sharply. She was on her way out to a driving lesson with Julie and Julie's mom. She could hear their voices outside, and the car doors closing.

"Oh, hon," Cleo said, coming to stand in the short hallway that connected the living room with the rest of the apartment. "I thought you'd left. We'll talk about this later, okay?"

"Whatever," said Wilhelmina, stepping into the vestibule and shutting the door hard behind her. Cleo had had that compassionate, understanding expression on her face again, even though she had absolutely no understanding of what it was like to be Wilhelmina right now, constantly overhearing Cleo and Theo speak about how extremely sick Frankie was, in a manner designed for overhearing. Seriously, how many times did they need to loudly agree that she was very, very sick? They were doing it deliberately, because Wilhelmina kept rebuffing their attempts to talk to her about it. This conversation Cleo wanted to have later was for the purpose of imprinting information upon Wilhelmina's soul that she didn't want. Anyway, she knew. She knew, okay? She knew, and she was keeping the knowledge spread out thin, like a lotion that only barely sank in.

When Theo knocked gently on her bedroom door later that day and stuck his head in, she said, "Dad, I know, okay? I'm begging you, don't make me sit here listening to you telling me something awful that I already know."

Theo had tucked his chin to his chest, then studied her for a moment. "Okay, hon," he said. "Would you like to talk to a therapist?"

Wilhelmina had zero interest in talking to a stranger who would stare at her with her mother's compassionate expression, acting like she understood what Wilhelmina was going through. So she said, "Maybe that's a good idea. Let me think about it," because that was the answer most likely to cause Theo to leave her alone about it for the longest stretch of time.

Then came the unexpected weekend trip to Pennsylvania. In the car, sitting in the back seat, pressed against Delia, Wilhelmina considered how much her pain had increased lately. She pretended to sleep, trying to find a position for her head that stretched her neck and stopped the sharp shooting heat in her palms. Delia, who was fidgety and bored in the middle seat, kept exhorting Philip to improve his pronunciation of all the words he knew. Philip was nearing two, and his pronunciations were adorable. He called Wilhelmina "Weenwuh." He wasn't a car puker, and she wished she wasn't blocked from his car seat by Delia.

"Now, when we get there," Theo said, "we'll have to reduce our volume. Frankie will be resting, and we must take care not to disturb her. Do you understand that, Delia?"

"Of course I do!" said Delia. "That's why I'm teaching Philip now!"

By the time they reached the aunts' house, Wilhelmina's pain was worse, pounding into her head and down her arms.

"You go lie down, bubeleh," Esther told her. "We have plenty of helping hands. We'll bring you a cold compress."

"I don't want anyone to have to climb all the steps to my room," said Wilhelmina.

"I'll bring it!" said Delia.

"Delia, you are a treasure," said Aunt Margaret. "You go and rest, Wilhelmina."

Wilhelmina took the stairs to the second floor and walked down the corridor. The house was quiet here, and cool; all the noise and activity were below, Esther and Aunt Margaret and her parents chatting, unpacking the casseroles Theo had made, deciding which should go in the fridge and which in the freezer. Philip was bursting explosively back and forth from kitchen to living room, Delia chasing after him making shushing noises. Everyone was downstairs except for Frankie. Frankie was in her bedroom. Through her own thumping pain, Wilhelmina could feel her, burning bright behind her half-closed door.

"Wilhelmina?" came Frankie's voice.

"Frankie?"

"Come in, dear," said Frankie.

In Frankie's room, Wilhelmina found a bird version of Frankie lying in bed. Tiny, with dark, luminous eyes and a bony, beaky nose, and wispy white hair like feathers. Her body hardly made an impression under the blankets. But she smiled at Wilhelmina, and her smile was the same.

"I'm so happy to see you, dear," she said. "Are you in pain?"

"Yes," said Wilhelmina. "My exercises haven't been working so much lately. Esther told me to go lie down. Are you in pain?"

"Yes," said Frankie simply. "But it's not too bad right now. Go upstairs if that's more comfortable, but you're also welcome to lie down here. I don't take up much of the bed."

Wilhelmina climbed onto the bed and lay down next to Frankie, on top of the covers. It was amazing to stretch out flat and let all the muscles of her neck and scalp release. "Ahhh," she said.

"Tell me, love," said Frankie. "How are you coping with all your pressures?"

As it had in the cemetery the summer before, this question brought tears springing to Wilhelmina's eyes. "My pressures aren't much compared to what you're dealing with, Frankie."

"Nonsense," said Frankie. "What I'm dealing with has become fairly straightforward. I mean," she said, nodding, "I acknowledge it's one of the hard ones to accept. It's hard to accept that we don't win every fight. But it is reality. My reality has become fairly uncomplicated. Your reality, sweetheart, is much more complex. You're coming of age in a time of great political difficulty. You're learning to drive. You're figuring out what to do about your attractions. People are probably prodding you about college. And I know this is very hard for you," she said, with a glance down at the tiny lump under the covers that was her own body. "I want to hear all about you, Wilhelmina."

"Probably someone is going to come up soon and tell me to let you rest," said Wilhelmina.

"They most certainly will not," said Frankie, "or if they do, I'll banish them. I can decide for myself when I need rest. You stay right there until you want to leave or I kick you out."

During that visit, Wilhelmina stayed with Frankie as much as she was permitted. Avoiding all thoughts about it; just being with her when she could. If she could be in the room with Frankie, then she was fine. Often they weren't even talking. Frankie would doze, or maybe they'd listen to a podcast. Sometimes they listened to LeVar Burton telling a story, and Delia would join them on the bed, listening too. Wilhelmina would text with Julie and Bee. Hey elephants.

Hey elephants,they would respond, one after the other. On Saturday, they reported that they each won their soccer games. On Sunday, they reported getting doughnuts at Alfie Fang's together. It was weird to be with Frankie on a May weekend. This is weird, she kept texting to Julie and Bee. But fine.

Frankie slept a lot, or maybe she wasn't sleeping. She came awake with a start once, saw Wilhelmina beside her, and said, "Oh, Wilhelmina, it's you. Was my father just here?"

"No," said Wilhelmina, confused enough by the question that she added, "At least, I didn't see him."

"I talked to my father before he died," said Frankie, who still seemed half-asleep. "I think he understood, in the end, that I did what I had to do. I never talked to my mother. She hurt me too much. But I loved her. I hope she knew." Then Frankie stirred. She looked over at Wilhelmina with eyes that burned. "It is a skill to love people well, Wilhelmina. No one's born knowing. We learn, over and over."

Wilhelmina thought of the Wheel of Fortune. Of Frankie as the Fool, moving through the world, gaining wisdom and experience. Claiming her tools the way the Magician did. Meeting helpers, such as the Empress. Confronting the Devil. Her heart breaking, like the Tower. Then moving through the confusion cast by the Moon, until she reached the clarity of the Sun. Finally, containing the entire World, then starting over again. Starting over again. The wheel wasn't supposed to stop.

When it was time to go, Wilhelmina's pain returned. It happened all at once, dramatically, as if the pain gods had thrown a switch. As her family drove out of Pennsylvania, she felt like she was being dragged away from some inner part of her body, a long red tether of muscle or viscera pulling tighter and tighter until it snapped and she cried out, "Pull over!" and emptied her stomach on the grass at the side of a New York interstate.

At home, over the course of the following days, her pain became unmanageable. Her appetite also plummeted. Her appetite, Wilhelmina began to realize, had been poor for some time. Her clothes weren't fitting right, which she hated. When a girl at school praised her for it, Wilhelmina didn't know whether to cry or scream.

In the middle of finals week, her worried mother brought her to her doctor—or rather, to the doctor who'd been assigned to Wilhelmina ever since her lifelong doctor had retired.

"Do you want me to come in with you, honey?" Cleo asked.

"No," said Wilhelmina, glad to be certain about something.

The new doctor looked Wilhelmina up and down. She barely asked her any questions or glanced at her chart, then told her that her pain was probably getting worse because she needed to lose weight. "Doing so will release some of the pressure in your thoracic outlet," the doctor said.

Wilhelmina recognized what was happening. Theo had warned her about doctors like this. "You come to us if anyone dismisses you like that," he'd told her. But now a doctor was dismissing her, and Wilhelmina was so shaken that she wasn't sure what to do.

She went out to her skinny mother, who was in the waiting room, bent over some papers in her hands and mouthing words to herself. Cleo was writing a speech about the unique work of the conspiracy theory therapist, whose job was not, as most people thought, to walk conspiracy theorists back from their false convictions, usually an impossible task. It was possible, though, to help with the shattered relationships. Cleo helped people to coexist, people who loved each other but had developed opposite and unbridgeable beliefs. Often she worked with the loved ones of the conspiracy theorist, to help them accept their new reality and grieve the person they'd lost.

"Mom?" said Wilhelmina, confused by her own nervousness.

"Honey!" said Cleo, looking up, startled, then narrowing her eyes. "Is everything okay?"

"She told me the problem is that I need to lose weight."

Cleo's mouth went hard and thin, and instantly Wilhelmina felt steadier.

"Did she, now?" said Cleo, her voice going deep. "Despite the fact that your increase in pain has coincided with a loss of weight?"

"Yeah," said Wilhelmina. "But she would've had to learn things about me in order to realize that. She knew what was wrong just by looking at me. She didn't even need to examine me. She's like a miracle doctor!"

Cleo shoved her papers into her bag and stood, hefting the bag onto her shoulder. "All right," she said. "I will be calling this office with my thoughts, and we will be finding you a doctor whose head isn't up her ass."

Wilhelmina's new doctor, Dr. Taft, talked with her for a long time.

"Tell me about your appetite loss, Wilhelmina," she said. "Do you remember when it started?"

"April, maybe?" said Wilhelmina. "May?"

"Are you under a lot of pressure at home or at school?"

"No," said Wilhelmina, then hesitated. Dr. Taft was kind, but also efficient, matter-of-fact. She reminded Wilhelmina a little of her mother. "Not at home or at school."

"Somewhere else?" said Dr. Taft. "Maybe among your friends?"

"No," said Wilhelmina. Then she touched the area around her collarbone with the flat of her hand. "Here," she said, then her voice cracked. "My—my aunt is really sick," she said. "I feel so much pressure here."

"I see," said Dr. Taft. "May I?"

Dr. Taft spent a while pressing different parts of Wilhelmina's neck, collarbone area, and shoulders with firm but gentle hands, while asking her more questions. "Well, no wonder you're in pain," she said. "These muscles are a wall of rock. Tell me, do you clench your teeth?"

"I—don't know," said Wilhelmina.

"Do you ever wake with an aching jaw," she said, "or notice that your teeth hurt when you're eating? Especially in the morning?"

"Yes!"

Dr. Taft nodded, then touched her fingers gently to the sides of Wilhelmina's face. "I think the muscle tension in your jaw and your entire thoracic area may be exacerbating your syndrome," she said. "And I suspect anxiety and stress are contributing to your muscle tension. Possibly also to your appetite loss. Anxiety, stress, and maybe grief. Does that ring true to you, Wilhelmina?"

Wilhelmina's parents were always talking about anxiety and stress: hers, their own, Cleo's clients', Theo's boss's. But this was the first time anyone had suggested to Wilhelmina that she might be experiencing grief. The word found a crack and stole into her, squeezing her throat so that she couldn't speak. But she could nod. So she did.

Dr. Taft advised her to make an appointment with her dentist, who could fit her for a nightguard for teeth clenching. She also prescribed her some new physical therapy, during which the therapist was supposed to teach her stretches and exercises, but also give her neck and shoulder massages. Wilhelmina had never been so motivated to go to physical therapy.

Dr. Taft also wanted her to see a therapist.

"All right," Wilhelmina finally said, after repeated nudges from Cleo. "But no one you know personally."

Cleo found Wilhelmina a therapist named Eileen whom Cleo didn't know personally. But even though Cleo didn't know Eileen, Wilhelmina rode the bus to the first appointment feeling like she, Wilhelmina, knew her, she knew what Eileen's goals were, she knew how she was supposed to answer every stupid leading question. She also knew that Bee was helped enormously by his own therapist, but still, some part of her couldn't believe that anyone was ever really okay with this. That anxious, grieving people would come to Eileen, or go to her mother, and tell them, total strangers, things they wouldn't even admit to themselves. Wilhelmina knew what she was supposed to say. She knew it, okay? How would it help to say it to this human? And who was Eileen anyway, to deserve such precious words? She went three times, to prove that she'd tried. Then she stopped going.

On a morning late in June, the call came. When Theo and Cleo appeared at Wilhelmina's door together very early, she knew.

"Honey," said Theo. "Frankie died in her sleep last night."

Wilhelmina pulled her covers up and turned away from them. "Okay," she said.

"Aunt Margaret said she went peacefully," said Theo.

"Okay."

"Honey," said Cleo, "would you like me to tell the Dunstables why you can't come today?"

A protest was planned in Boston that day, and in cities all across the nation, in response to the president's immigration policy that was separating children from their parents at the Mexican border. Wilhelmina had seen photos of children in cages. "I want to be the one to tell them, and I want to go," she said.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Wilhelmina," said Cleo, after a short pause. "Frankie's death is a lot to process."

"Frankie would want me to go," said Wilhelmina. "I want to do it for Frankie." It was a lie. If Frankie had known what was happening inside Wilhelmina at that moment, she would never have sent her into a crowd of emotional people on a hot summer day. Nor was Wilhelmina doing it for Frankie. She was doing it for herself. But it was the statement most likely to shut down her parents' objections. They went away and talked about it. Then they let her go.

On the bus to the train, Julie and Bee kept shooting concerned glances at each other, and asking Wilhelmina what was wrong. She wanted to tell them. She couldn't. She kept opening her mouth to say it but her throat would close up. At least she was with them; she wanted so badly to be here with her friends. It was the only bearable thing; it halted her disintegration. While Bee and Julie were in earshot, talking and joking in their dear, familiar voices with their dear, familiar energy, Wilhelmina could pull herself together and build herself up, barricade herself in with rock that was impenetrable, and be normal. Go to the protest and feel powerful, like they could win this fight with their passion and resolve. Stop feeling like nothing good was possible. "I'm fine," she croaked. "Just tired."

But when they got to City Hall and the march began, there were too many people. Too many signs with too many words; too much noise. People were shouting, "No kids in cages!" People were shouting, "Love, not hate!" It was too hot. Wilhelmina was crowded and jostled on every side, and her barricade wasn't working. Her heart began to flap in her chest, too fast to be alive. She couldn't catch her breath. She was dying like Frankie; Wilhelmina was dying. She dropped to her knees in the middle of the flow of protesters, and Julie and Bee cried her name, dropped down with her and took hold of her while people around them started calling for EMTs. A woman, a fellow protester, appeared who knelt with her and took her pulse, told her how to breathe. "I'm an ER doctor," the woman said. "You're having a panic attack. I know it feels terrible, but you're going to be okay." The crowd was still moving around them, parting respectfully like a stream around a boulder. As the terrible dying feeling receded, Wilhelmina began to cry. She tried to speak and began to sob; the words forced themselves out.

"Frankie died," she said. "Frankie died."

"What?" Julie cried. Julie's face was wet with tears. Julie was hugging her.

"Oh, Wil!" said Bee, in a voice younger than his deep, fifteen-year-old voice. Bee was crying too, and hugging her too. "You idiot! Why didn't you tell us? Why are we even here?"

"I thought it would make me feel better," said Wilhelmina. "I wanted to be with you guys."

"We could've hung out at home," said Bee. "Let's go home."

"But you wanted to hear Elizabeth Warren!"

"She would understand!" said Bee. "Fuck the speeches! Come on. Let's go."

As Julie and Bee helped her up, the crowd was still moving around them, slowly parting. "Will you both come with me?" Wilhelmina said. "When I have to…" She couldn't say the word "funeral." "…go there?"

"Of course we will," said Julie. "Right, Bee?"

"Of course," said Bee.

"Don't leave me, okay?" said Wilhelmina.

"Elephant," said Bee. "What are you afraid of? Do you think we're going to abandon you in this mob of liberals?"

It felt strange to smile, but she did, because she knew it would help Julie and Bee look a little less worried about her. She didn't want to tell them that even with one of them on each side of her, their hands clamped to her arms, their bodies close, and Bee's giant height cutting a path to the edge of the crowd for them, she felt like she wasn't really there. She was nowhere, in a cold, dark place, and it was too late. She was already alone.