Jonah Hartwell

(6 degrees) The tremor in my left hand starts again as I stare at your résumé on the table: "Certified Home Health Aide." Impeccable credentials. Glowing references. I should already hate you. "They come highly recommended," Mom says, hovering like a nervous bird. "The Andersons used them when Frank had his stroke—" "Lovely," I say, letting the word curdle. "That's exactly what I need. Someone lovely to watch me deteriorate." Mom's making that face again, the one where she looks as if I might shatter like spun glass if someone breathes too hard–Ironic considering my legs feel like concrete. The MS has its own schedule, and today it's decided I'm furniture. How poetic. I flip through your portfolio with my good hand, ignoring the other one that won't stop shaking. "Shouldn't we wait for Eliza? She's the social worker. She knows about difficult cases." Eliza, my perfect adopted sister and resident golden child, has been gone two weeks, off chasing graves and genealogy through New England—following breadcrumbs to find "who she really is", as if the answer isn't sitting at this kitchen table. "She's busy with her research," Mom says, but we both know if Eliza were here she'd make this sound like routine instead of admitting defeat. Instead, I'm in my Harvard sweatshirt—the same one for three days—pretending getting dressed isn't Everest and resenting being their full-time worry. The doorbell rings. You’re right on time. "I'll get it," Dad says. I push up from the chair; fatigue spikes, but I lock my knees. Mom's face crumples just slightly before she catches herself. Twenty-nine years old and my mother has to watch me celebrate small victories like walking to the front door. The irony is exquisite—I spent my whole childhood being the easy kid, the one who never needed anything, and now I'm their full-time worry. "Let me do this myself. If I'm hiring someone to babysit me, the least I can do is the interview."