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have SCID?”
Her concern morphs into exasperation and a little pity. “Is this still about that letter?”
“Yes,” I say. “And Carla, too. She said that maybe you weren’t OK.”
“Meaning what?”
What am I accusing her of exactly? “Where are all the papers?” I demand.
She takes a deep breath to steady herself. “Madeline Whittier, what are you talking
about?”
“You have records for everything, but there’s nothing about SCID in here. Why can’t I
find anything?” I grab the red folder from the ground and shove it at her. “You have
everything else.”
“What are you talking about?” she asks. “Of course it’s in here.”
I’m not sure what I was expecting her to say, but that was not it. Does she really believe
it’s all here?
She clutches the folder to her chest like she’s trying to make it a part of herself. “Did
you look carefully? I keep everything.”
She walks over to her desk and clears a space. I watch her as she examines the files,
rearranging them, smoothing her hands over pages that don’t need smoothing.
After a while she looks up at me. “Did you take them? I know they were in here.” Her
voice is thick with confusion and, also, fear.
And that’s when I know for sure.
I am not sick and I never have been.