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PROOF OF LIFE<br />
ALL I HAVE to do is go to sleep—quiet my mind, relax my body, and go to sleep. But no<br />
matter how I will it, sleep just will not come. My brain is an unfamiliar room and<br />
trapdoors are everywhere. Carla’s voice loops in my head. Maybe she never recovered<br />
from what happened. What does that even mean? I look at the clock. 1:00 A.M. Seven<br />
hours until Carla comes back. We’re going to do some blood tests and send them off to a<br />
SCID specialist that I found. Seven hours. I close my eyes. I open them again. 1:01 A.M.<br />
I can’t wait for answers to come to me. I have to find them.<br />
It takes all my effort to walk instead of run to my mom’s office. I’m sure she’s asleep,<br />
but I can’t risk waking her. I grab the handle and for one horrible moment I think the<br />
door will be locked and I will have to wait and I cannot wait. But the handle turns and the<br />
room lets me right in like it’s been waiting for me, like it’s been expecting me.<br />
Her office is perfectly normal, not too neat, not too messy. There are no obvious signs<br />
of an unwell mind. Crazy, jumbled, chaotic writings don’t cover every inch of the wall.<br />
I walk over to the big desk at the center of the room. It has a built-in file cabinet, so I<br />
start there. My hands are shaking, not a tremor, but actual shaking, like an earthquake<br />
that only I feel.<br />
My mom is meticulous and extravagant in her record keeping. She’s kept everything<br />
and it takes me over an hour to get through just a handful of files. There are receipts for<br />
big and small purchases, lease agreements, tax documents, warranties, and instruction<br />
manuals. She’s even kept movie ticket stubs.<br />
Finally, toward the back I find what I’m looking for: a thick red folder labeled Madeline.<br />
I pull it out carefully and make myself a space on the floor.<br />
The record of my life starts with her pregnancy. I find prenatal vitamin<br />
recommendations, sonograms, and photocopies of each visit to the doctor. I find a<br />
handwritten index card with two check boxes—one for boy and the other for girl. Girl is<br />
checked. My birth certificate is here.<br />
As I search through, it doesn’t take me long to realize that I was a sickly baby. I find<br />
pediatric sick-visit reports for rashes, allergies, eczema, colds, fevers, and two ear<br />
infections, all before I was four months old. I find receipts for lactation and infant-sleep<br />
consultants.<br />
When I’m about six months old, just one month after my dad and brother have died,<br />
I’m checked into a hospital with Respiratory Syncytial Virus (RSV). I don’t know what<br />
that is and I make a mental note to google it. It was severe enough to keep me in the<br />
hospital for three days.<br />
And then her record keeping becomes less meticulous. I find a printout about RSV from