After eight years of living with ALS, her voice comes out in spurts. Her enunciation is careful, and imperfect. She scares me, not because her body is a battlefield, but because she is my new employer, and I can't figure out just where I stand.

I saw fire yesterday. I saw rage, and I was the cause of it. I keep replaying the scene in my head. All I can really remember is the anger in her eyes. Around her eyes. The skin contracted and expanded; she shook.

My job description is as follows:

-Nanny to a six year old girl, who was adopted by her great aunt after her mother was deemed unfit.
-Chauffeur
-Disciplinarian
-Surrogate older sister
-Extra set of hands for Megan, who is dying.

Dying.

Today, I can't remember why I took this job.

Sarah, my girl, was away for a few days with her dad. While she was gone, Megan asked me to drive to the community center to sign her up for camp. Are you with me? See if you can spot what I did wrong. I couldn't.

When she returned from camp, I crushed her in my arms. "Guess what I did while you were gone?" She shrugged. "I got you all signed up for camp this summer."

That was our exchange. I have that sort of exchange a hundred times a day. Question and answer. Call and response. Can I get an Amen?

Yesterday, as Sarah climbed into the car, she found the free t-shirt I had been given at registration for her. I explained where it came from, and that was that. I was unaware, and blissful and had already screwed up.

Later, Sarah misbehaved, as six-almost-seven year olds are wont to do. As Megan wrapped up the disciplinary procedures (Sarah was found guilty, sentenced to a time-out), she asked where the t-shirt came from.

Are you bored yet? I am. It's not much of a story. Not worth remembering. I don't really remember. Don't remember what any of us was wearing, or if the sun was out. Not that the state of the sun has anything to do with anything. If it did, then Seattle would be in a permanent state of hiberation, and the plot of our lives would stand still.

"I got the t-shirt when I signed her up for camp."

And that was it. That is what hurt Megan so much that I felt waves of white heat coming off her body. She sent Sarah upstairs, and turned to look at me in disgust.

"Let me clarify something. You have now taken credit for camp twice."

She was right.

"And I'm the mom here."

Right again.

I'm the girl that parents like. I'm polite, I'm hard-working. I say please and thank you. I only get trashed occassionally, and I'm very careful to fill up the gas tank when it's getting low.

I don't know how I screwed up.

Last night, I apologized. I looked into those eyes and apologized, over and over. Most nights that end with apologies yield mornings that seem bright. Today, I woke up confused.

I wonder what dying is like. I wonder if Sarah wonders what dying is like. I bet she does. I think about how much it must weigh on you when you realize that you need to hire someone to help you be a mom. I wonder what the expiration date is for her resentment. I pray that she sees that my heart is in the right place, and that place is my throat.