This Is How I Find Her by Sara Polsky Read Free Book Online Page B

feeling completely wiped out. But I’m still watching my mother, fascinated by how silent and motionless she is. After how quickly she’s been moving and talking for the last week, I’m surprised to see her just sleeping. Like a completely normal person except for the hospital room around us. Mom , I want to say, as if the nightmare is actually over, you scared me .
    I wonder if, whenever she wakes up, she’ll be depressed, her voice slow and dull, instead of manic, as if the mysterious inner switch that controls her moods tips when she’s asleep. How else could it happen?
    At home, I can tell whether my mother is depressed just by looking over to her side of the room when I wake up in the morning. She’ll be lying there flat on her back, one arm or maybe a pillow thrown up over her face. She won’t whisper to me about breakfast. She won’t move, but she’ll still radiate something, some kind of invisible Sophie-frequency wave that tells me what kind of day she’s about to have: not a good one.
    â€œMom?” I’ll call softly from the doorway on those days. “I’m going to leave for school in a minute. Here’s your medicine.”
    I’ll set the glass of water and the plate of pills on her bedside table, following another of the instructions she gave me when I was eleven: Help me make sure I take my pills, Sophie. I’m going to take them, but just in case I forget sometimes, or tell you I don’t need them, I want you to remind me. Okay?
    Okay.
    â€œDo you want anything for breakfast before I go?” I’ll ask. She won’t answer. I’ll try to keep my voice from sounding impatient, exasperated, even on the days when that’s how I feel. I end up sounding the same way I do when I babysit our neighbors’ kids, like I’m in charge and pleading with them at the same time. “Mom?”
    Sometimes, when I remind her, she’ll sit up and take the medicine. Other times, nothing I say gets her to move. I tell her what I just ate and ask her if she’d like some. “If you eat now, you can go back to sleep as soon as you’re finished,” I say. “I promise when I get home I won’t make you tell me what you did all day.”
    Or I try to joke with her. “My name is Sophie and I’ll be your server today. Can I tell you about our specials?”
    I offer eggs, toast, cereal, orange juice. Smoothies made from frozen fruit or store-bought waffles warmed in the toaster and covered with syrup. Ice cream with chocolate sprinkles, to see if she’s actually paying attention. (I always make sure we have sprinkles, just in case one morning she actually wants some.)
    But she never cracks a smile. Sometimes she shakes her head, a slight movement that I catch only because I’m looking for it.
    Most of the time, she just lies there. Her arm hangs off the bed as if it’s too heavy for her to lift those last few inches. I can’t see whatever’s weighing her down, but I can almost feel it, a solid presence in the air. Standing there, waiting for her to respond, I start to wonder whether someday I’ll be lying there instead.
    After a few minutes of trying to get her up, make her laugh, I move over to my side of the room, pick up my bag from the foot of my bed, and swing it on.
    â€œRemember to take your medicine, Mom,” I tell her. “I have to leave for school now, or I’ll be late. Have a good day.”
    Please , I think as if I’m praying. Please take your medicine. Please, please try to have a good day.
    Some of those mornings, she’ll finally speak just as I’m leaving the room, her voice coming out gravelly and slow. She’ll murmur, “Close the blinds, Sophie, would you.” It’s a question, but she never manages to bring her voice up at the end.
    I ask her if I can leave them open this time. “Maybe the sunlight will make you feel like getting