You're Not You Read Online Free

said, in a much lighter, faster tone, “God, this is a heavy-duty way to kick off an interview. Really, Bec, don’t worry. It’s the kind of thing you need to have on the table and then forget about. It’ll probably never come up. If it does, she just needs to sign off on it is all.”
    I looked to Kate to follow up on this, but she said nothing this time. Her lips were taut. She didn’t seem to like something about what he’d said, but I didn’t know what. She felt me looking at her and let her expression relax.
    “Sure,” I agreed. I paused, then decided to be honest. “I think it might be tough to remember that in an emergency, but I’d do my best.” That was straightforward. I was feeling almost reckless now. I could be perfectly honest, I could be myself, because I could see now that I ran almost no risk of getting the job. They wanted someone with cooking skills, makeup skills, actual life skills, not just the ability to trounce one’s best friend in handstand contests.
    “I bet that way you don’t risk creating an emergency if there isn’tone,” I suggested. They looked at each other but nodded. “I didn’t even know they had anything like this,” I said conversationally, tapping the cord. “Did it just come out?”
    Kate said something with a tilt of her head, her eyes cast briefly heavenward. Evan repeated: “A few years back. But she was fine without it up till a couple months ago.”
    “Lou Gehrig’s moves that fast?” I asked. So maybe even in January, for example, she had been moving well enough to reach a phone, speaking clearly enough to be understood? Looking at her now, her body carefully held in place in her chair, it seemed impossibly recent.
    I thought someone in Kate’s condition would have become immobilized through either one quick trauma or else years and years of slow deterioration, the sort that gave you time to prepare for each new loss. A year ago, she was probably in a wheelchair but didn’t need Evan to translate. Maybe not long before that she only used a walker.
    Kate spoke, and Evan waited and then said, “It depends on the person. Some people are fine for years. Kate’s has moved faster than we’d like. We’d hoped she would just have tremors, or maybe use a walker for a few years, but she needed the chair after a few months. Lately she’s been losing a bit more ground.”
    “I see,” I said. I liked that measured way of talking about it, as though it were a burned cake or a vacation over too soon. Their calm seemed brave. I tried to imagine Kate walking into a doctor’s office in a dress and sandals—no, a suit, high heels—nodding at the receptionist, sitting in a straight-backed orange chair with her purse in her lap while a doctor held up brightly colored charts.
    I stood there, fingering the embroidered edge of a pillowcase. They were bright people, literally so: their blond hair and the vivid colors in their clothes, the light shining on their picture frames and paintings. I found them admirable, maybe for no other reason than that they had said nothing overtly angry or weepy.
    “Well,” I said. Suddenly we were all smiling shiny interview smiles again. Kate nodded at Evan and he said, “Thank you for coming, Bec. We have a few more people to meet to see who’s the best fit with us, but we’ll be in touch.”
    “Sounds good,” I said heartily. “Of course.” I shook Evan’s profferedhand. Looking for a way to do something similar with Kate, I let my hand hover a foot above her shoulder, then thought better of it and lifted it into a wave. “Thanks. Thank you.” I started to leave but then turned back and said, “Listen, can you recommend a book on this for me? On the disease? Either way, I might want to read up a little.”
    Kate’s expression sharpened, her eyes focusing more tightly on me, and a faint smile touched the corners of her mouth. She wheeled the chair over to the bookcase, indicating with her head for me to follow, and