“Mami is not doing well,” Baba’s words send a cold shiver down my spine. “The Healers are having difficulty discerning what is wrong. They are having trouble diagnosing her.”
I sit in the darkness of the kitchen in my parent’s house. I feel as if some unseen hand has jerked my chair from beneath me. I look at Baba’s hands through the shadows of the room. He grips his sturdy Oriental tea cup with a hold that would shatter a delicate English tea cup. He is fighting to control his emotions. He does not wish to break in front of his daughter.
“Have they discovered anything at all about what is ailing her?” I ask, tamping down the panic I know could seize me at any moment. With both hands, I tilt my own thick-rimmed cup to my lips and sip the hot liquid from it. I swallow back more than just the hot green tea.
“They have discovered a mass, a growth, inside of her brain, near the center,” he does not expand upon his words, I believe for fear that his voice may catch, or that he may cause me to cry.
A mass...a growth...
Inside her brain. Even those of us fortunate enough to benefit from magical medicine know the meaning of a diagnosis such as this. For it to be lodged in the center of her brain bears negative implications on treatment and recovery; even I know this.
“It is becoming increasingly difficult to keep her comfortable while the Healers are working to find what is wrong,” when my father speaks I reach across the table and take his hand. “She is too young for this and we are Wizards. Things like this only happen to very old people and Muggles.”
We sit in silence...