Page 23 of Rest In Peace

"Did I do good?" Victoria's eyes fluttered open, a glimmer of her usual spark buried beneath the weariness.

"The best," Sarah smiled, the lie tasting sweet because it was for her.

"Can I sleep now?"

"Of course, sweetheart," Steven assured her, his arm secure beneath her head.

Sarah rose with them, her legs stiff, her mind whirring. Should they have adjusted her medication? Was there a specialist they hadn't consulted, a stone left unturned?

"Steven, should we?—?"

"Let's get her comfortable first," he interjected, understanding the unsaid. "We'll talk after."

Sarah nodded, biting back the torrent of questions. She watched them go, Steven's strength carrying their daughter with ease she envied. The room felt emptier and quieter, leaving Sarah with nothing but the echoes of her own racing thoughts.

The door clicked shut, a soft seal on the silence that flooded the living room. Sarah's fingers twitched at her sides as she began to pace, each step a silent drumbeat in time with her heart. The scent of lavender from Victoria's clothes still lingered, a bittersweet note in the air.

Her mind careened from one possibility to another—genetics, diet, environmental factors? What demon had lodged itself into her daughter's life, turning bright days dark with its shadow? It was the treatments, Steven had said—the chemo that she was getting. But was there really nothing they could do to make it easier on her?

"Could be anything," she muttered, her voice barely a whisper against the stillness. "But there has to be something."

She halted, eyes drawn to the laptop perched on the coffee table like a beacon. With a decisive stride, she claimed her seat before it, the keys cool beneath her fingertips as she snapped the device to life.

"Okay, let's see what you've got," she whispered, her gaze fixed on the glowing screen.

"Seizures in children… cancer… chemo, how to treat…." She typed, her hands steady despite the tremor in her resolve. Links bloomed across the page, a garden of information and potential solutions.

"Come on; come on," she urged, clicking through medical journals filled with jargon that twisted her tongue, forums where other parents spilled their fears and findings. Sarah soaked up every word, every theory. Lots of children with cancer were getting chemo, but none of them spoke of seizures.

That’s odd.

"Nothing?" she questioned the screen, frustration simmering. "There has to be more…."

She looked up seizures in children.

"Metabolic disorders, neurological conditions…" she read aloud, trying to find a foothold in the landslide of possibilities.

"Talk to me, Victoria," she whispered into the quiet, imagining her daughter's bright eyes and eager nod. "Tell me what's wrong."

The cursor blinked back at her, patient and unyielding, as she navigated the labyrinth of symptoms and syndromes, a digital detective hunting for the clue that would unlock this mystery.

"Genetic markers? No, that's not it." Her fingers churned through pages and pages, the click of the mouse a staccato against the silence. "Epilepsy? But the tests were inconclusive, Steven said."

She leaned closer to the screen as if proximity could wring clarity from chaos. "Environmental factors?" she murmured, squinting at a study on toxins. "But we live so clean."

"Contradictions everywhere," Sarah spat out, the words like acid. She pushed her hair back, a gesture of exasperation.

"Medication side effects?" Her voice rose, tinged with hope, then faltered.

"Damn it!" The laptop shook under the slam of her palm, a physical echo of her inner turmoil.

"Someone must know something." Her plea fell flat in the room, no one there to catch it.

"Could it be diet-related?" Her eyes darted through forums, each parent's account more varied than the last. "No gluten, dairy-free, sugarless… We've tried all that!"

"Useless!" She pushed away from the table, her chair grating on the floor. "It's like searching for a needle in a haystack made of needles."

"Victoria…" Her eyes welled up as she stared at the little girl's picture on the wall. "I'm trying, baby, I'm trying."

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