Free Five Minutes More by Darlene Ryan Page A

Marissa and Andie explode with laughter, shaking, sputtering, grabbing their stomachs. I make myself laugh too. I catch sight of our reflection in the glass front of a picture of the class of 1976 up on the wall. I look just like they do. I look normal even though I’m not.

sixteen
    It was a mistake to come here. I’m standing in the front entrance of the seniors’ center. I guess if you’re not old, you’re pretty much invisible in here, because I’ve been standing around for about ten minutes and no one’s even noticed me.
    This was a bad idea. I looked it up online: ALS Support Group. I carried the address around for four days and now it’s Wednesday, which is when they have their meeting. And I’m here, but I can’t seem to go any farther and I can’t seem to leave.
    I don’t even know why I came except...except I want to see what it looks like when you have ALS. I want to know what about it made my father think being dead was better.
    There’s a bulletin board on the wall in front of me with colored cardboard strips tacked to it that say what’s going on where. A purple strip says there’s seniors’ tai chi in room 4.There’s a conversational French class in room 12, according to a green strip. And in room 21, ALS Support Group.
    I can’t do this. What was I thinking? That I could just go in and stare at them like they’re some kind of circus. What would I say? “Hi. My dad had what you have so he killed himself, and I just came here to see if it’s really that bad.”
    I turn from the bulletin board and bang into the side of a wheelchair. I grab the back to keep from falling into the lap of the man in the chair. “I’m sorry,” I say.
    â€œMy fault,” he says, smiling up at me. He has blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and kind brown eyes. “I was over the posted speed limit for the hallway.” He glances at the bulletin board and then back at me. “Could I help you find something?”
    â€œUmm...” Something catches in my throat and I have to cough before I can answer him. “Uh, no,” I say. “I...I’m in the wrong place.” I give him a quick smile and start to move past him.
    â€œIt’s okay to be scared,” he says.
    â€œWhat?” I stop and look back over my shoulder at him.
    He’s still smiling. “You came for the ALS meeting, the support group, didn’t you?”
    How did he know?
    He dips his head toward the bulletin board as though he knows what I’m thinking. “You had your finger on that strip. It was either the group or seniors’ tai chi, and you seem a little young for that.”
    â€œI changed...I changed my mind,” I say, staring at my shoes because I’m too embarrassed to look at him.
    â€œWe don’t bite,” he says. “Some of us drool sometimes, but that’s about it.”
    They drool? “That’s all right,” I say. I can feel my face burning.
    â€œThat was a joke,” he says, looking at me over the top of his glasses. “I guess that career in stand-up isn’t going to pan out.” He glances down at the wheelchair. “When you’re in a wheelchair, can you even be a stand-up comedian?” He shrugs and holds out his hand. “I’m Andrew.”
    â€œI’m D’Arcy,” I say. We shake hands. Andrew’s wearing leather gloves without fingers, and he barely squeezes my hand. His left hand is in a brace.
    â€œLook, why don’t you walk down with me,” he says. “And if you don’t want to stay, you don’t have to.”
    I like his smile. Maybe I could go down the hall with him and—I don’t know—just look in the door. That wouldn’t be so bad. I nod. “Okay.”
    Andrew leads the way, steering his chair with what looks like a little joystick. We follow the hall to the end and turn left. Andrew stops at the