The cactus farmer rarely wore gloves to do his work. When he was a boy his father had taught him how to walk among the spines in order to prune and tame the massive succulents. His mother had taught him how to reach through the rows to move the smaller pots stored in their greenhouse as well as the ones that decorated their home.

When he was younger he remembered the pain of getting stuck again and again trying to mimic his parents’ grace. His mother had more patience with his foibles than his father. She was free with the kisses and bandages but neither tried to protect him from the inevitable painful encounter. Both seemed to share the same philosophy that the only way to learn to love the fruit was to be able to bear the pain.

And his family did indeed enjoy the fruit. Or rather, the vegetation, since very few of their cacti actually bore anything that could be consumed or sold. No, he watched his mother, father, and eventually his sister and brothers, all learn to love and move and live among the often towering, sometimes tiny, but always dangerous rows of beautiful Caryophyllales.

The man glared at John.

His wife sat next to him, eyes wide, occasionally letting her gaze shift back and forth between her husband and John like a spectator at Wimbledon. John wore more of a confused countenance. The wife had asked him to come over and talk to her husband. He was happy to do so as this was the role he often played in their bustling pod. “John can you talk to Mike about his study habits?” or, “John we need help, I think Jacob is seeing another woman.” Funny how even an outpost on Mars could experience the same crap they had back in the old country. INASCA failed to see ‘marriage and family therapist’ as a practical skill, however, so the valuable human cargo space on the transport from Earth was relegated to men and women who could, as the colonists like to say, “farm, fix, fight, and fuck.” As a mechanic John could certainly do two out of four of those things which qualified him for the trip; but apparently his skills as a calm mediator were more valuable to the people of New Houston at this very moment.

John looked at the man and said, “Tim, you asked to talk to me today and I’m not trying to make you mad. What do you and Laura need from me?”

Tim’s face was red and he looked down at his coffee and said, “I guess I’m just an asshole.”

Laura looked at John desperately, “This is what he says every time.”

Tim, almost excited to have something else to look at, snapped his gaze to Laura and chuckled as he spat, “You think I’m the one with the problem and John sits over there with his smug smile and you two think you have it allll figured out. Well fine. That’s just fine.” Eyes back to the coffee cup.

John looked at Laura who still resembled a deer in the headlights. “Laura I’m not sure what I can do here. You’re saying that Tim isn’t taking his medication regularly. When he doesn’t take his medicine you notice he’s getting disoriented so you remind him. He gets mad at you for reminding him and you two don’t talk for days. Maybe you should just let him die on the floor.”

This got Tim’s attention.

“Is that what you would do with YOUR husband? Let him die on the floor? Do you even KNOW anyone with diabetes?”

Funny thing about diabetes. Apparently it was able to make it past the ‘farm, fix, fight or fuck’ manifesto and settle nicely on the red planet.

Tim was getting more agitated. He seemed excited to have someone besides Laura as a target for his acidic comments. He was addressing John again, “You have NO idea what it’s like to have a family member with diabetes.”

John regulated his breathing and felt his teeth open slightly. The extra space in his mouth allowed his tongue to move as he inaudibly verbalized a mantra praying for peace and the right words. The knot in his stomach was moving toward his throat and he adjusted the next breath to loosen it before it triggered a more violent reaction.

Tim had narrowed his eyes and was leaning forward. His hands were on his knees. John doubted Tim would move to strike him, but he imagined Tim’s confidence was bolstered right now with the thought that he could. John wondered fleetingly if Tim’s sugar was low.

She wasn’t going to mess this up. The child was obviously upset and that was not good.

“Stop it!” she told her husband, “You’re only making it worse!”

The child wailed, closed her eyes and threw back her head. No, ‘upset child’ was definitely not the state she enjoyed.

“Jimmy why do you have to tease her like that!”

“Jesus I’m not teasing, I’m serious. She has to do this.”

“Jimmy she doesn’t want to! Now go work on the garage addition you promised me. I don’t see you finishing that. You just sit on your ass all weekend and watch movies. I’m tired of living in the dust and garbage from your projects!”

The girl, sensing the tide had shifted, snapped her head around to her father, “Yeah dad!”

This was better, she thought. The child was angry but that was better than sad. Jimmy could be such an ass after all. And why did he have to bring this up at dinner? Couldn’t they talk about it later when the child wasn’t around? All she wanted was some peace.

She looked over at the child who was now dipping her macaroni and cheese into her ketchup. That was better.

Jimmy had his phone out looking at Facebook and seemed to have forgotten the whole thing. His brisket was good but it was a little burnt on the edges so she picked at it but left most on the plate. She got up and got another handful of chips and the onion dip. She couldn’t eat burned food. That was disgusting.

Later that evening she and Jimmy sat on the sofa watching Dancing With the Stars. She felt much better. The weed this week was good because Marvin had just made a run to Little Rock. Funny how Arkansas had been the state to make pot legal after California. Or at least Jimmy said it was funny. She didn’t like politics.

As she felt the weed she felt life get much better. Not that it was ever bad. She loved her life and she loved her family. Things were perfect and would get even better if Jimmy would just finish his projects. He was such a lead ass! And tight! He told her that she couldn’t buy the new sofa because they had already spent their furniture budget this month. Why did he have to act like the boss all the time!

“You’re not my dad you know.”

“Hmm?” said Jimmy.

“I said you’re not my dad.”

“Ok,” said Jimmy.

“If I want to buy furniture I can buy furniture.”

“Babe I told you, with the renovation we’ve already gone too far into our retirement and we can’t..”

She cut him off, “Jimmy I don’t care about that! We are the only people I know who can’t buy a piece of furniture when we need one! Look at this thing –the dog has ruined it. You go play golf whenever you want..”

“I’ve only played once this year.“

“You do WHATEVER you want and you don’t even let me get a couch. Ooh I love this song.”

Jimmy looked up at the new set of dancers and they watched the routine.

Saturday morning she woke up and felt the knot in her stomach. She rolled over and grabbed her favorite pillow, squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to go back to sleep. She could hear Jimmy. Dammit why did he have to be so loud! All he had to do was feed the bird and the dogs. It wasn’t rocket science. Thank goodness the kids weren’t up yet.

She must have fallen back to sleep because it was close to eleven when she opened her eyes again. She loved Saturdays so much! She rolled over and grabbed her vape and took a tiny hit. Now she felt perfect. She could already see the day in front of her. She and the child would go to the store and look at those shoes she found online. She had to return some shirts because last weekend she got them home and they didn’t hang right in the front. She was going to return the pants too because once she saw them in the light at her office the red looked burgundy and it really didn’t match her shirt.

The child groggily came into the room and snuggled next to her. These moments made being a parent so worth it. The child and she had a special bond – they always had – and Jimmy would never understand.

“Marvin and I are going to the mall,” the child said.

“Is he awake yet?” she asked.

“No not yet. We stayed up late playing video games.”

In a little while Marvin’s heavy steps on the stairs broke the silence. They could hear him move to the kitchen and rattle the pots and pans.

“Please make sure he cleans the kitchen.”

“Mom!”

“You guys never clean up after yourselves.”

“Mom yes we do!”

“Just please don’t make a mess.”

The child rolled over and left the room to join her boyfriend Marvin in the kitchen.

“What time are ya’ll leaving to go to the mall?” she shouted after her. The child didn’t answer.

She heard the front door slam and the car start. She loved those two kids so much! Truth be told, they were never a bother and she didn’t understand why Jimmy made such a big deal about them living together here. He could be such an ass sometimes.

“Jimmy?”

“Yeah babe?”

“You wanna go to the mall?”

Looking at the clock always left her lonely. She turned back to the task at hand and kept digging. That was what the board had assigned to her that day, digging and digging. Each day started the same way. She would wake up, walk over to the board to see the day’s assignment, drink a few cups of coffee, check the news, then do whatever the board had assigned. She was actually very good at her job. She wasn’t sure how she knew that – no one else was around to tell her – but somehow she knew she was good at it. Sometimes she would look over the fence and see other farmers going to their gardens and feel a bit jealous. They had better gloves or a new trowel glinting in the sunlight. She would glance at their gardens at the end of the day and marvel at the size of their plants and the creativity of their placement. Quickly she would file those designs away and as she lay in bed at night, waiting for sleep that never really came (she was proud of that – a busy mind was a productive mind) she would plan how she would incorporate their work into her gardening the next day.

This morning when she woke up the board merely said it was time to dig. She wasn’t going to lie, it was a little disappointing. Just digging was boring and the board really gave her no direction. This happened sometimes though and she knew it was just best to follow directions.

The last time she had disregarded the board things had gone terribly wrong. It was almost comical (in a non-comical way) to recall the events of that day. She had gotten up, eaten her breakfast, glanced at the board, and walked straight to the garden. She had been in a hurry (somehow sleep had overtaken her against her better judgment and she remembered being so groggy even the strong coffee wasn’t helping) so she thought the board had said ‘transplant the Agave.’ She remembered feeling relieved because she had seen that the Agave was not thriving in its current location. Too much shade, other plants were encroaching on its sunlight, and the pot was too small. She moved the Agave to a perfect spot, watered it, and took a break.

When she went back outside, she saw to her horror that the plants that had surrounded the now empty Agave spot had all caved into the gaping hole. It had not taken her long to realize what (besides not reading the board) she had done wrong that day. She had let her own judgment get in the way. That and too much sleep spelled disaster for the poor Agave neighbors.  No less than six smaller cacti of various species were now lost in the cavernous spot where the Agave had rested. She bitterly recalled the panic she felt as she searched in vain for the special gloves that would have protected her hands. Failing to find them she had begun reaching and digging, grabbing the young cacti with her bare hands and laying them gingerly on the ground. Ignoring the bleeding and stabbing spikes she grabbed her trowel and bucket and transported the young cacti over to where she had transplanted the Agave. Gingerly she dug around the now thriving plant and placed each small spike in a spot that mirrored their previous home. In a few weeks, she knew most of the smaller cacti would nestle in nicely.

The Agave couldn’t speak of course, but she imagined that it gratefully accepted its lot in life. No, it might not get the most sun and it might never grow to its full height, but what a wonderful help it was to these smaller cacti who would eventually overshadow and most likely, consume the older plant. Her heart swelled with a melancholy joy at this. She loved heroes.

She remembered how she went inside later that evening and noticed that the board had actually said ‘water the small cacti around the Agave.’ To this day she couldn’t figure out how a good night’s sleep could cause her to become so confused.

She returned to the ground and began digging again. There was no way she was confused this morning. It had been almost sixty years since she took over this plot from her parents and eventually it would be passed to her daughter. She wondered for a moment where her daughter was. That was funny, for a moment she couldn’t recall whether she had a daughter. She had a daughter didn’t she? “Silly old thing,” she chastised herself, “there you go letting your mind wander from the board again. Just keep digging.”

“Crazy,” said the man. “I don’t see how that can possibly happen.”

“What?” said the woman.

“That,” he said, pointing at the crowd.

“What’s happening that you don’t understand?”

“Well, they’re all talking and arguing, but nothing’s getting done.”

“Maybe that’s not the point of the meeting,” she said.

“If that’s not the point, then why in the world would you come here? It’s hot, it’s humid, the river is so deep and wide no one can swim – it just seems like a terrible day to have a meeting.”

“I don’t think they plan on swimming,” the woman said.

“How can you tell?” he asked.

She pointed at the things they were holding. Sticks with signs and the signs had faces. Gruesome faces.

“They’re meeting about those faces on their signs. Something’s upset them about the faces.”

“Hmph,” grunted the man.

She got up from her chair to get a better look. Holding on to the rail to steady herself she looked at the crowd. She hadn’t gotten up out of that chair in a long time.

“Be careful,” he said.

She almost tipped over at the sound of his voice. He hadn’t told her to be careful since, well, it had been a long time. “Hmmm, yes, definitely faces,” she said. The crowd was moving closer to their block so it was easier to see.

“Sit down!” he said, “You’re gonna fall and besides that we don’t want to catch their attention. They might want to come over and bother us.”

Normally she would have heeded his words, but the faces on the signs intrigued her and she squinted. What was that? There was something familiar about the eyes on one of the signs but the familiarity was faint, like a dream that once you walk around in the daylight with some coffee in your belly, starts to fade into the doldrums of another day. She had been alive such a long time. Memories felt like that sometimes, like dreams. Her momma would have called her crazy if she had told her something like that but Momma had been dead a long time. So had so many people….so many people gone for so long.

Oh dear God they were headed their way. And the old man was wrong. They weren’t shouting and arguing, they were singing. Why were there tears on her cheeks? She couldn’t remember if she had thought anything sad. That was funny, tears with no thought behind them. She’d have to tell Elmer about that.

Her breath caught at the thought of Elmer. Just then she heard her name being called but it sounded so far away. She wanted to see the signs. She wanted hear the voices. She wanted to sing with the crowd.

“Someday Lord, Someday Lord, Someday we gonna rise up and sing!”

Now where did that come from? That was her voice! She was singing a song she didn’t even know she knew. How about that? A smile joined the tears as she felt Ray’s hand on her shoulder. He was crying too.

The crowd was almost to their gate and the faces were smiling and singing and they were holding Elmer’s face on their signs. Signs with Elmer’s face smiling, and other, terrible signs, with some terrible mask that only resembled her baby. Swollen face, eyes bleeding, barbed wire wrapped around his forehead like a crown of thorns, teeth protruding through his lower lip. Her baby.

“Ray,” she said, feeling her knees buckle, “Ray I can’t…” familiar but not familiar hands gently guided her and Ray back to their chairs. She heard stern voices and suddenly the gory signs were relegated to the back of the crowd. Finally all they could see were the signs with their smiling Elmer again. Elmer. Their baby.

Her hands went to her face now wet with tears and she grabbed Ray’s hand. She looked over and his wet face was set, his lips silently mouthing the words to the crowd’s song, “Someday, someday, someday we gonna rise up,” he sang.

Iced tea was placed in her hand and she took a long sip. She took her handkerchief tucked neatly in her shirt pocket and absently wiped her mouth and face. As the last of the crowd walked past their house and the song faded, she looked at Ray and said,

“Today is too hot to be outside, I wonder what these folks are up to?”

“I don’t know baby,” Ray said gently, “I don’t know.”

“The sun is beautiful today,” she thought as she looked out the entrance of her home. She smelled the coffee, relished the coziness of the inside of her slippers, and hugged her thick fleece robe. Soon she would go next door and wake the kiddos, but for now she cherished the few moments of solitude to be alone with her thoughts. Was it just six months ago when she was laughing with her friends about how the only time she was ever alone was when she was in the bathroom? And how even then she’d see tiny fingers poking under the doors? Tears stung the corners of her eyes and the call to worship interrupted her thoughts just in time to stop the flow.

She moved the flap of the tent and tucked her head under as she went outside. The line at the bathroom facility wasn’t too long at this hour and she wasn’t waiting until the last minute again. Her turn came and she went, then she headed over to her children’s tent. It was her husband’s turn to sleep outside the tent containing her children and their cousins. He and his brother Mohammed would usually take turns guarding the children, but Mohammed had gotten sick so Usman had been pulling solo guard duty for a week.

He looked up at her as she walked over. His smile always made her heart beat faster and today was no exception. He reached for her hand and pulled her down beside him. He buried his face in her hair and whispered, “Oh the things I would do to you if we were back home.”

She giggled and slapped his arm playfully.

“Usman the older children know what you’re talking about and they can hear!” Then, in a lower whisper she added, “And believe me I’ll be ready for you when we arrive in Sydney.” He reached around and squeezed her and she squealed and hit his arm again, “Enough!” she laughed, “Let’s wake the kids and get this show on the road.”

The excitement in the camp was palpable as she and her neighbors simultaneously prepared for worship and the exodus. The backpacks provided by NATO and the charitable organizations were filled and strapped to even the smallest backs so that hands would be free to carry more luggage and smaller children. It was comical to see her burly six-foot two-inch husband with a Dora the Explorer backpack, but he carried it, and their two year old daughter, like a man on a mission. She grabbed Tariq by the hand and the six-year old walked dutifully beside her to the open area prepared for the prayer service. When they arrived, Usman handed over little Faiza and grabbed Tariq’s hand. The two walked to the large area with the other men and boys and laid out their prayer mats while she and Faiza went to their own worship area. The armed soldiers remained a respectful distance away and she was grateful for that.

As she prepared for worship she looked over the fence at the highway just beyond it. Cars going by with families in them no doubt. Perhaps even some going to their own worship services. She recognized the makes and models and even saw a few that reminded her of her old Lexus, now in an impound somewhere she guessed. When life was normal, this part of Texas had always seemed beautiful to her. Nothing looks beautiful through barbed wire though.

Normal back then was getting Tariq off to school, calling her friend Mary to bribe her into meeting her at the gym for Zumba, following through on her bribe by taking her to Uni Sushi for a wine-less lunch (okay, Mary would occasionally tell her the bribe had to involve at least one glass), going home to return a few emails about her catering business, then grabbing little Faiza from mother’s day-out. On days when Usman pulled a 24-hour shift at the hospital it would just be her and the kids for a chicken nugget dinner. When he was home though, she could really utilize her culinary skills. Her Cordon Bleu training didn’t disappear with motherhood and she even impressed herself sometimes when she reduced her sauces for the entre and added the crisped edges to the dessert. She pictured Usman’s face, eyes closed and head tilted to one side savoring the first bite of one of her creations. That evening they would always make love like it was the first time and she would fall in love with him all over again.

America had been wonderful. Her children were born here and their family had tried to make a life. Now it was time to leave.

The government had offered to let them stay and live in the camps until they had been completely vetted, but no one seemed to know what ‘vetted’ meant. They had been forced to leave their gated community six months ago. Their rights were suspended and most of their property detained during the vetting process so it was hard to find a lawyer to help. It’s not that there weren’t any willing. Just the opposite. Attorneys everywhere were donating time to help the ‘un-vetted’ navigate the complicated paperwork, secure funds, and buy plane tickets so they could leave the cursed camps and re-start their lives. There just weren’t enough attorneys to go around. Fortunately, Usman’s undergraduate degree was in political science so he knew his way around a legal document. He completed their exit proposals two months ago and his uncle in Sydney had wired him and his brother’s family money (through Mary’s bank account) so they could buy plane tickets to leave. If Mohammed was well enough to travel they would start their journey today.

When the Imam’s prayers shifted to the benediction, she picked Faiza up out of the dirt where she was playing with a leaf. She glanced over her shoulder at the highway again, then grabbed her backpack and headed over to meet Usman.

Nevel sat behind his dad waiting for the signal. His ear monitors were in so he couldn’t experience the full magnitude of the crowd, but he could feel the roar vibrate through his feet and the stale heat from 10,000 open mouths on his face.

“You ready for this bud?”

Jed’s voice in his ears interrupted his reverie and he snapped to attention. Dad had used Jed to run sound since the 80s. Jed was like an uncle to Nevel, and he and the stage manager Stewart were pretty much the only voices Nevel allowed in his monitor mix during a show.

“Ready for what?” Nevel replied through the almost invisible microphone taped to the side of his face, “Is it dinner time already?”

“Joker,” said Jed.

“Hmm…..I don’t know that one. Wait, is that Steely Dan or Steve Miller? I always get those old fart bands confused.”

“Shutup you two” broke in Stewart. Stewart was always a little anxious before a show. Nevel often felt bad for Stewart because of that. The shows were much more enjoyable when you didn’t give a fuck.

“Georgie is givin’ you the stink eye kid,” Stewart said, “Better pay attention.”

Nevel looked up and saw that his dad was indeed glaring at him. Well, glaring might have been a stretch. It was more like a bleary-eyed whiskey-induced gaze. But whatever. Nevel looked back at his dad blankly. He would never give his dad the satisfaction of seeing him scared. Or happy. Or angry. Emotions were for pussies. Dear old dad taught him that.

The stare down lasted probably only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity for Nevel. He did well though; his dad looked away first.

Stewart gave the cue for Jed to start the eight-click intro that would signal Nevel to start playing. Jed had already started the track with the slick studio produced version of the entire show. Unbeknownst to the audience they started doing the simulcast a few years ago when Gorgeous George started forgetting the lyrics on a regular basis. Georgie told his staff of roadies and managers it was their fault. The label excused the lapses because Georgie had such an, ‘Immense catalogue of hits stemming from the late 70s when he fronted the band Exodus, through his solo heyday in the 80s, to his comeback album in 2016.’ At least that’s what they put in the press kit.

Everyone on the tour knew it was the whiskey and the Propofol. No one was going to call him out though. It wasn’t like a band intervention would change anything and no one was willing to get fired for trying. The label was just amazed he was still making money for them thirty years past the “twenty-five-year-old effect” that claimed Jim, Janis, Kurt, and Jimi. Any new hits Georgie created would just be icing on the cake. But that never happened. His posthumous greatest hits album had been finished for ten years because the fifty-something crowd who would be buying it didn’t want to hear any of his new shit anyway.

They did, however, want to hear Nevel. Nevel was holding a drum stick before he held a pacifier. He had a vintage Ludwig set by the time he was five and he was in the studio with Georgie by age ten. No doubt he was a prodigy. Nevel remembered being eight years old and his dad waking him up at midnight, eyes wild and breath stinking of whiskey, screaming at him to get his “lazy ass out of bed.” His mom would try to stop Georgie but Nevel always ended up downstairs in his Power Ranger pajamas playing ‘Whole Lotta Love’ or some other ancient hit for one hundred of Georgie’s closest douchebag friends.

And so, the proverbial 10,000 fucking hours later, and there he was, fourteen years old, staring at his dad’s leather-clad ass and ten thousand screaming cougars. It was standing room only in yet another 80s-review show with Def Leopard, or Heart, or some other shit band, and the crowd had paid to hear Georgie sing the oldies they made out to in High School. They might even be willing to sit through a few of Georgie’s new songs in order to see Nevel the wonder boy, Georgie’s greatest creation, on the drums in back.

8-7-6

Nevel focused on the ladies old enough to be his grandmother on the front row, balancing their white wine-filled plastic cups in one hand, and raising their shirts with the other so they could show Georgie their droopy tits.

5-4

Nevel threw up a little in his mouth.

3-2-1

Laura sat across from John by herself this time.

“Tim knows that I’m here,” she said, even though John hadn’t asked.

He’d wondered of course, but he didn’t ask. Not long after their last meeting John had bumped into Tim’s doctor. John wasn’t one to gossip – he supposed that if he would start maybe people would quit coming to him with their secrets so he often wondered if it was a habit he should take up – but Tim’s doctor felt the need to fill him in on Tim’s medical state. Their colony was pretty small and like any small town everyone knew what everyone else was up to. John guessed they had mimicked earth a little too well on that one.

“Tim said you and Laura are worried about his diabetes. I had no idea that you two even knew about that!”

John looked at the doctor with his, “I’m not gonna go next so you might as well keep talking,” look.

And of course the Good Doctor did.

“Tim’s wondering why his diabetes would be anything that concerns Laura. Honestly, I don’t think he sees why she gets so upset.”

A few more seconds of staring would do the trick. John stuck to the plan.

“I’m going to recommend he and Laura keep coming to you. Maybe if she puts her foot down he’ll finally get the idea he can’t play around with this disease. He’s one cheat away from a coma and a long ride from a short projectile shoot (their traditional burial on Mars involved an apparatus much like the t-shirt cannons from old earth baseball games. People were sad at funerals but it was hard to not be impressed by the awesomeness of the send-off).

“Well I’ll keep that in mind if they come around again. Thanks Doc,” said John, and he walked off.

People were used to John walking off. Truth be told they were grateful. They knew their secrets were rattling around in his head and seeing him avoid chit chat was like watching the dial spin on a locked safe. Doc smiled and continued his own journey across town.

Laura’s voice brought John back to the present.

“I’m just tired, you know?”

“Well that’s good,” John said.

Laura looked up with just her eyes, “Why is that good?”

John leaned back and pressed the button on his vape. Sometimes he really missed Marlboros but he wasn’t going to set off any alarms.

“If you’re tired maybe you’ll stop doing his homework.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, more curious than angry, but now he had her full attention.

“Tim has a meter that checks his blood, right?”

“Yes,” she said, “but sometimes he forgets to…”

“Tim has a pump to deliver medicine at correct intervals and at the correct dosage right?”

Laura laughed and said, “Sure and good luck getting him to wear the damn…”

John cut her off, “so when you remind him, nag him, bring him nutrient bars, and generally do all the work for him not only are you doing his job, you sound like his mother. No wonder he’s mad at you.”

“Hey,” Laura said, almost angrily, “I’m the one who’s mad, remember?”

“Sure,” John said, “so mad you follow him around like a nurse and then get so resentful you threaten to leave. Makes a lot of sense to me. Love someone so much you’re ready to divorce him?”

“I told you I’m tired, but what am I supposed to do, let him die? What if he’s not taking his medicine because he’s depressed? Or he’s bipolar? What if we’re treating the wrong thing?”

“Have you ever been tested for allergies Laura?” John pressed.

“No,” she said.

“Well it can get pretty complicated. They draw a grid on your back and start poking you with needles that have stuff on the tips you might be allergic to. You go home, have a bunch of reactions and go back to the doctor. They print out a report with all of your allergies and you know what they do next Laura? They hand you a Zyrtec.”

“What’s your point?” Laura asked.

“Nobody cures an allergy; they just treat the symptoms. Tim has some very uncomfortable symptoms and you’re worried that we aren’t looking for the cause.”

Laura still looked confused.

“Laura it’s not your job. Tim has to learn how to manage his symptoms, make himself comfortable, and do the research to get to the bottom of the cause. You care more about this than he does.”

Laura sat quietly for a second.

“So diabetes is like an allergy?”

John could feel himself getting frustrated. He changed tactics.

“Laura what if John just got a diagnosis that he had Leukemia and Pancreatic cancer.”

She looked horrified, but he went on.

“What could you do?”

“I could Google the disease, drive him to the doctor…”

“What if he didn’t want to.”

She sat and stared at John.

“I’d tell him to…”

“Nope,” John said quickly.

“But couldn’t I just…”

“You can’t do anything if Tim doesn’t want to,” John said.

She sat there and after a moment her eyes started welling up with tears.

“So I’m supposed to just watch him die?”

“If that’s what Tim wants to do,” John said.

“Well I’m not gonna let that happen.”

John stood suddenly, “You really don’t believe Tim can do this, do you?” He was surprised by his own emotion.

“What do you mean?” Laura sniffed.

“You really don’t believe Tim is smart enough to learn about his illness and learn to manage his symptoms, do you? You must think he’s a real idiot.”

“I do not!” Laura said taken aback.

Good, John thought. It’s about time she started fighting back.

“Well, when you keep doing things for people who ar completely capable, they start getting the feeling that you think they’re stupid – like you don’t think they can do it.”

Something was starting to change in Laura’s face.

“It’s almost like Tim broke his leg but YOU decided he shouldn’t walk. Instead you went out and bought a shiny new wheelchair and made him sit while you push. Now you’re both mad. He’s mad at you because the wheelchair isn’t making him better and you’re mad at him because you’re tired of pushing.”

Laura was staring at him now; was that a look of realization on her face?

“This is an easy fix Laura. Stop pushing the damn wheelchair.”