Page 12 of Our Sadie

FIVE: Get My Shit Together

ZACHARY

I can’t believe I spent dinner regaling Sadie with the finer points of red cabbage coleslaw. Sure, it’s amazingly nutritious. But even nutritious food isn’t all that sexy. I think I just got a little up in my head about things which isn’t helpful. When a dancer—or any athlete—can’t stay present, it leads to not only fucking up our timing, it can even cause catastrophic, career-ending injuries.

That’s something I already know.

And coleslaw? Yeah, I’m an idiot.

I don’t think I’ve FUBARed it totally, but still. I’ve gotta get my shit together. I peer around to see that the other two guys have wandered off without me, which is probably good. I need to concentrate, to determine what my game plan will be once I’m on my own with Sadie again.

I have ninety days to convince her I’m worth keeping, but that doesn’t mean she can’t kick me out prior to then. I know this because I checked the contract. While she’d have to pay me any time earned, that doesn’t mean it’s not her prerogative to cut my visit short. So, no more running off at the mouth.

I can’t fail at this.

I can’t fail my parents. Especially not Mom.

I think of that final weekend that I spent in their company. Dad putting on his brave face as Mom teetered around from one piece of furniture to another.

We bought her this crazy four-footed cane a few months back. One painted with pink, blue, and purple pinstripes that swirl around it like a candy cane. Then, there’s the glitter. She makes jokes about the thing and even claims to love it.

Dad and I always laugh, too, even if there’s nothing funny about MS. If I could bash that disease’s head in, I would. But fighting multiple sclerosis doesn’t work that way, much as I wish it did.

My family’s strategy for her mental health has been to downplay what’s happening. To not make a big deal of it. To stay cheerful and positive while offering her whatever diversions we can. And last but not least, never allowing ourselves to fall apart. Not in front of her.

We’ve managed to stay consistent so far.

To that end, I grab my phone and send her a meme of a cat. I collect these under my photo app and send them to her at least daily. The woman loves her felines. Always has. We even had one most of the time I was growing up. But Fluffles, our last one, passed right after Mom received her diagnosis, and the docs recommended that she not have anything underfoot that might be a trip hazard.

I think she cried harder about her inability to have a furry friend than she did about the ailment itself.

I plug one of my newest images in and click send. It’s a pic of an orange tabby with its round stomach protruding like a beer belly, its legs all akimbo as it sits like a human. The text says, “When you get home and can finally be yourself.”

I receive her text response nearly five minutes later. I hope the delay didn’t come from her lack of fine motor control, but it probably did.

Mom: LOL, Zachary. Are you trying to tell me I need to lose a few?

Zach: Hardly. You’d look cute like this, though.

---