He had to come back down to earth eventually.
He didn't feel it for a while, the kind of numb sadness that colored most of his days.
Really, it was easy to be happy. He had skated. Barely, but it was something.
And he knew he was sick, but he didn't have to think about it.
He didn't feel like it was getting worse anymore.
The October checkup was easy. No new meds, no new therapists. Dr. Jones said his charts looked good. Cholesterol levels were still high, but stable enough not to have triggered any major changes.
So September had been a normal month.
Logan even went on not one, not two, but several dates with Camille. She told him all about her show. Her castmates, from Camille's stories, seemed nice. Camille showed him her script.
He didn't even have to ask before she gave a small performance.
It felt so familiar, to see her possess a character with spectacular intensity. Hannah Hollowbrook wasn't as intense (seductive) as some other roles (Mila) and Camille still embodied this totally fictional girl with a realism that caused Logan to close his eyes.
He just listened to her speak in character.
She was so talented.
He was so proud.
So, of course, October couldn't be normal at all.
Well, shouting at his mother over a dinner he didn't touch seemed to be another new normal, but nowhere near as good as his normal with Camille.
To be fair, his mom started it.
"I've started going to church with Sylvia again," she said over a plate of nondescript, inedible food.
"Okay."
Logan did not want to think about the why behind his mother's church attendance, but it was glaringly obvious: it was him.
But, he reasoned, September had been normal. It had even been enjoyable. So he wasn't going to yell at his mother because it didn't really matter what she did on Sunday mornings as long as she didn't make him go with her. Which he knew she wouldn't do.
She would pray to God to heal him or something, to get some miracle when Logan knew miracles weren't real and fatal fatal fatal rang in hs head now like his mother's beloved church bells.
Logan exhales. He will not yell, because then she'll get all concerned. And really, this didn't matter.
He takes a bite of this nondescript inedible food.
It wasn't the disease overpowering his every cell that made him spit it out, but that's what he blamed it on.
"If you're going to go to church with Sylvia, can you at least pick up leftovers from her house on the way home? Because no healthy person can eat whatever you made, either."
His mother looks up at him over her plate. "Sure, honey."
"Or you could just not go to church and steal food from your open houses."
That might have been snarky and bitter. Just a bit.
She looks at him again, sitting up straighter. "I'm going to continue to go to church, Logan."
He sits up too. Ready for a battle, a war he didn't start. Not this time. "Why not? You think you can pray my disease away."
Bang bang bang. Rapid fire machine gun warfare. He can't stop now, he's already reloading for another round.
"You can't do that, Mom. That doesn't do anything!"
Shots keep firing, and he can tell they;re striking his mom right in her chest. He can tell, but a sour, malicious force inside him keeps the bullets soaring.
"That doesn't fix anything!"
Voice raised, ready for the next shot. Target in place, malice coarsing through his veins.
He knows this is going to hurt, but he's hurting too.
"It is a neurodegenerative disease. It will kill me. Praying to God, who by the way, if He's so powerful. whatever, gave me this, won't do anything."
He sets the gun down.
His mother rises from the table. "You're going to stop yelling at me, okay?"
She takes both plates and carries them to the sink.
Maybe he shouldn't have done it, but it's not like he actually shot her.
He's the one really dying here.
The good days don't mean anything.
— —
Joanna scrapes the plates off into the garbage can, loading the dishes into the dishwasher. She shuts it, and starts it.
Logan has gotten up and gone somewhere, probably upstairs to his room.
She lets him be.
She can't let herself cry right now and scream about how unfair this is when the walls and ceilings are so thin. He'll hear her.
So she leans against the dishwasher and prays a mental prayer she has been praying ever since Logan's diagnosis.
Lord, if You are the Prince of Peace, God of Mercy, be merciful, bring me peace. Take me away from here, don't let him suffer too much without me.
But it won't work, it doesn't work, because she knows she has to watch him suffer, and she doesn't want to.
It might be her cross, but it's heavy. And even Jesus had someone to carry His with Him.
Joanna has no one. She has nothing. No peace.
No joy.
Soon, she'll have no son.
It's not fair, and she knows life was never supposed to be fair, but why does it have to be so awful right now?
How can this be right? How can this be what God wants?
Of course, she tells herself, of course God wants her beautiful son in heaven with Him.
But she's only had him eighteen years (four of which hardly count—-Jennifer had Logan then).
What's eighteen years compared to eternity?
She knows she is doing the wrong thing.
But she does it anyway, she pulls on her coat, too thin to fight the October chill in the air.
She opens the door and shuts it so it slams.
She starts her car and drives off.
She's just going to get a glass of wine. She's going to relax. She's going to be fine.
And right before she steps into the bar, she is overcome with sobs.
And right as she leaves, the wine has been drank, and she is numb. She will not cry anymore.
She drives back home.