boat, plane.

Gosh, I was watching the water. I watched the water from the bow of a sailboat while my aunt Lora took my Lizzy to get an MRI.

Lizzy's in the hospital now, getting a series of tests. And I'm on a plane out to Seattle to see her. Mom is on another plane, right now, in the same sky. Our planes are probably within miles of each other, up here in the ether–and we can't talk together.

Man. Worlds earlier, I was sailing, swathing my knees with sunscreen.

I took a cab to the marina this morning to be there by 10. $40, and that was a cheap cab from Evanston to Hyde Park. I could have gone another time, saved the money and avoided the hurry. But I had to go sailing. I needed water. My head had been pounding since I woke, and I didn't know why. I don't get headaches.

Now, I think I know why.

We launched the Vivace, and I spent most of our two-hour sail on the bow, or sprawled on the front body of the boat, under the sail. Propped up on the metal rails of the bow, I dangled my feet off. I watched the sun-rippled water of Lake Michigan glide below my toes. I watched the Chicago skyline bobbing away across the water. I thought about the dull pain in my head that wouldn't go away.

When we'd parked the boat, mom said Lizzy's condition had taken a sudden turn. My head pounded hard. They didn't know what happened. Mom planned to get on the next available plane. I'm going, too.

I can think of nowhere else to be.