ound eyes ringed in dark shadows. Limp, tangled hair. Face a shade paler than white.

 

Get that blush and highlighter away from me.

 

I want to look like death himself has swallowed me whole.

 

My husband’s black T-shirt. Wrinkled cargo pants, fished out of the bottom drawer of Her dresser where they’ve hibernated for months under a pile of leggings, waiting for this moment.

 

She wouldn’t be caught dead in cargo pants. She keeps them for me for days like today.

 

The fear seeps into my head again –- what if the doctor doesn’t believe me? –- but I bat it away. This doctor is different. Every time, she has believed me. Never has she not listened when I describe the fatigue that presses my body into the mattress, the forgetfulness and constant misplacing of my keys, the piles of hair on the carpet.

 

This is why a shoe-loving, mascara-wearing girl owns cargo pants. If I look too much like Her, no one will ever believe that I’m not.

 

Proof of Her existence is scattered around the house. Clues that a detective would study with a magnifying glass, snap photos of, scribble in a notebook. Rows of bright color-blocked dresses crowding my husband’s slacks and collared shirts, forcing them to cower in the back of the closet. A thin film of dust coating a desk littered with violin strings, sheet music, etude books. The bulletin board on the wall full of smiling students clutching violins. A viola, waiting in its velvet lined case like a coffin. A three-legged shelter dog with scars etched into his back who had just learned not to pee on the couch, and who has now lost all progress. Piles of books on the shelf over the bed, a bookmark delineating not just a page, but the moment before reality splintered.

 

A shrine to a woman whose legs were strong enough to carry her, whose words slipped from her tongue in perfect order –-  who knew what food she liked and could pick out her own clothes in the morning.

 

“We have to go,” my husband says. His voice is flat, tired. He leans against the doorframe of our bedroom. His thumb traces the outline of his car key, as if to smooth the jagged edge.

 

I stare at him, then glance at the mirror. The circles under his eyes are almost as dark as mine.

 

Water bottle, check. Coffee, check. Backup coffee, check. Phone, check.

 

My mother-in-law slips a carton of yogurt and a plastic spoon into a purse she has woven out of plastic Kroger’s bags. She tucks it into the passenger seat beside me. The soft fabric of her knit blouse brushes against me. She grins, and I can see a smear of red lipstick on her tooth.

 

Should I tell her? Is it polite? What would She do?

 

“Mom!” I call out as she walks away from the car.

 

“Yes?” her shrill voice bores into my forehead and ricochets around the inside of my skull.

 

“I forgot…” I mumble.

 

Where is my phone?

 

When the inflammation first seeped into my brain, when delusions and stubbornness conspired to trick me into believing I could still teach, a student’s parent had knocked on my door.

 

“Here!” she’d said brightly, thrusting a casserole in my direction.

 

I’d smiled and nodded, then stared at her blankly.

 

What would She do?

 

“Thank you,” I mumbled.

 

“My aunt had a stroke. She said it made her feel like her mind is her enemy,” she said, then looked at me expectantly.

 

I nodded, then stared at the floor.

 

My mind is my friend, not my enemy. I just need to get it back.

 

I lean back against the passenger seat and reach into the bag. My fingers fumble with the yogurt.

 

I can't remember if I’ve ever liked yogurt or not. I can't remember my social security number or any of my passwords. I banged on the keys and slammed the laptop shut yesterday, locked out of my account. I can’t remember my students’ names when their faces float above me at night before sleep comes to whisk me away. I remember my favorite color –- red –- but feel nothing when I see it. No burst of pleasure, only maddening apathy.

 

I peel the foil off the top of the yogurt. I have tremors again, my hands shaking like a drug addict’s. My tongue stretches out to lick the pink goop from the crinkled foil.

 

Meh.

 

The spoon shakes in my hand. I steer it towards the opening of the yogurt container. One spoonful, the berry sweetness filling my mouth. Another, then another.

 

I don’t like yogurt. I don’t think I’ve ever liked yogurt.

 

Another spoonful. Creamy with chunks of strawberries that the carton insists are real.

 

Maybe yogurt isn’t so bad.

 

I lift the spoon to my lips, a strawberry lump jiggling on the end.

 

It’s the aftertaste, I think. The slap of dairy and richness.

 

I don’t think I like yogurt, although I’m not completely sure.

 

Maybe if I try it again...

 

Stop it. Stop it now.

 

I drop the half eaten container into the plastic trash bag near my feet.

 

“Wasting food!” my husband chides, shaking his head.

 

His words are slow, disjointed, spaced out like water droplets escaping from a leaky faucet. If I reach out a hand, I could catch them as they float in the air between us. By the time the last word has handed in my palm, I’ve forgotten the first one and the sentence is lost.

 

“Why are you holding your hand out like that?” My husband raises an eyebrow.

 

I grab my phone. Swipe wildly through page after page of apps. Go back. Go forward. There it is: Google Drive.

 

What day is it today? Past, present, future. A meaningless stack of nothings.

 

ISSUES WITH TIME AND SPACE, I type under the dozen other entries today in the file labeled Daily Log. NOISE SENSITIVITY. VERBAL SKILLS ON HIATUS. LEFT ARM NUMB. BALANCE POOR..

 

Cognition stew again. I must remember to show this to Dr. Wollaston. I can feel the reminder disappearing into the quicksand of my memory even as I struggle to hang onto it.

 

My hand plunges into my bag again, fishing a prescription bottle from its depths. I struggle to push, then twist, finally handing the bottle to my husband. He flips the lid open in two deft notions, his eyes never leaving the road.

 

Child proof and patient proof.

 

I turn to my husband to share my joke.

 

“So–-”

 

“What?” he asks.

 

“Nothing,” I mumble as my thoughts scatter like dead leaves after a gust of wind.

 

One, two, three white pills to swish around in my stomach with the three from this morning. Soon I will feel the rush of energy chased by sleepiness, the eddy of thoughts burst through the dam, irritation simmering into fury, then the river of heartburn searing my throat.  

 

I may not remember what it was to be Her, but I remember enough to be afraid.

 

Never get sick of those little white pills before you get sick of the disease breathing down your neck. That’s the trick. That’s how you’ll survive.

 

Vibrations shoot from the car engine through my body until the road, the tires, my husband and I, we are all one machine hurtling through time and space. Fatigue presses my body into the seat.

 

She’ll come back. She always does.