WHEN I WAS ELEVEN, we learned that my condition is permanent. Doctors at a hospital on Park Avenue showed my parents thin squares of plastic that proved it. We were all disappointed. And even though my body was no different, it felt different, as though part of me had died; a part of me strangled by a sentence of bad news. Then we left the hospital and went to Sant Ambroeus on Madison Avenue. The waiter brought gelato. But I couldn’t eat. It would take time for hope to melt. Finally, my father said we were happy before, and that nothing had actually changed. I could tell he didn’t believe it and I wanted to scream. I was wearing a velvet blazer. One of the doctors had said I looked elegant. I told him I was named after Amelia Earhart. When he didn’t answer, I knew it was bad news. I could tell everyone in Sant Ambroeus was looking at me. I needed the restroom, and my legs were cold. It was raining.
What do You think about The Illusion Of Separateness?
