NOW AGAIN

            Mary makes sure she wakes up in plenty of time for work. Her mother also calls to make sure she is up. Little ways her mother is able to support Mary are all she can do, the best that can be done as known treatments go.

            Mary puts on a yellow terrycloth pullover with a tiny tomato sauce stain from last week’s pizza. She notices it in the mirror. “That don’t matter,” she mutters to herself. “They’ll think it’s a button. Oh, we’re so late. Very late.”

            She prepares two greeting cards, signing and addressing them in unexpectedly graceful handwriting, then puts on the postage.

            Finally, she leaves her tiny apartment arranged and provided for by the State Department of Housing for the Disabled, and she walks three blocks to the busy News Dealer’s office, arriving a half-hour late.

            She is brooding as she goes inside to pick up her stack of thirty newspapers. She avoids any conversation or eye contact with Mr. McCracken, who also looks down while she walks by.

            “Good morning, Mary,” says Mr. McCracken.

            “Good morning,” she replies coldly.

            “How are you feeling today?” he asks.

            “Lousy. I’m try-ing. I had this big huge panic attack. I had all these scary thoughts about running in front of buses. I have a terrible headache.” She is close to sobbing, unable to glance at her boss.

             “Oh, Mary,” says a woman walking by with a kind voice. “Your blouse, I think it has a little spot—”

            Mary’s face whips around. “I know! I didn’t have any time to clean it! Or, I would have cleaned it!” She turns back to Mr. McCracken. “And you told me that I had to wear something bright. And, then, I also had to write a birthday card for my old counselor, too...” she says like he should know something important happened. “Plus, a get-well card for my mother’s friend, she went in for a cataract, you know.”

            After a moment’s pause, he smiles. “No problem. Good luck.”

            “Yes, good luck, Mary,” says the woman with the kind voice.

            “Good luck today, Mary...” another person speaks up.

            “Go get ‘em,” says someone else nearby.

            Holding the heavy stack of papers up against her hip, Mary lifts her head around to see the faces are all friendly and sincere. She begins crying in an unusual way for her, quietly mixing tears of gratitude with shame at her own behavior. She gets a few pats on the back on leaving. A final suggestion crosses Mr. McCracken’s mind—that she wipe the foam from the corner of her mouth. He keeps it to himself.

***