Me at 25's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

The doctor's words still sit in her chest a week later. Congenital chorea. The same thing she carries in her own body, now passed to the small girl sleeping against her shoulder. She stands at the kitchen window and counts what they have in the bank, then counts it again. The number does not change. Her husband will be home at six. Until then, she holds the baby and waits. At six-fifteen, he sits across from her at the table. She lays out the bills, the specialist's quote, the medication schedule. He does not flinch. He says they will sell the second car and keep the orange hatchback running as long as it holds. He says he will pick up the night shift. She watches his hands flatten the papers. No speech. Just a plan. The next Tuesday, they drive the rattling hatchback to the specialist. The office sits in an old Victorian house, brick and trim, a small sign above the door. She carries her daughter up the steps. Inside, the doctor writes a new prescription and waives the consultation fee for follow-ups. It is not charity. It is a quiet arrangement between people who keep showing up. She folds the paper into her purse. That night, she sets a small pink playhouse on the floor beside the crib. It was three dollars at the thrift shop, scuffed but whole. Her daughter will grow into hands that shake, into legs that argue with her. She will need something that is hers alone. The bank account is still thin. The car still rattles. But there is a plan now, and a man who came home at six, and a small pink roof waiting in the dark.