How much can you grow up in seven days? How can your imagination change in an instant - from a constant source of entertainment, to a tormentor, to something that saves your life?

When you grow up in a family with congenital heart defects, you are taught to call 911 around the time you are taught to say "Dada." But what happens when that phone call turns from something you can wish away, to your reality? When your favorite aunt, who is also your favorite teacher, goes from giving you M&Ms and hugs and telling you to go to class, to fighting for her life? If suddenly there is a very real possibility that you will have to go on without her? If it starts to hurt just to be inside your own head? What are you supposed to do?

Sasha's first two nights in the hospital, the last thing I remember before falling asleep in her room is the first light of morning crawling in the blinds. My brain spent most of the night frantically trying to pull back every single memory I have with Sasha, from drinking hot chocolate together on her planning periods, to the time I was five and fell asleep on her lap during a staff meeting, only to wake up and announce that I had dreamed about "teacher drama," to things that happened before I was old enough to make memories.

I know that after I fall asleep, I have nightmares, but morning - breakfast with my dad, new nurses, louder road noise outside the windows - ends my sleep too fast for me to make any sense of them or even remember them.
It is night three when I realize that what I thought were nightmares were and are far less simple than that.

There have been one or two days that, needing extra help, Sasha excused me from class so I could work with her kids. That's how, among my memories of Sasha, are memories of students. And it's how, woven between my flashbacks, there are flashforwards.

They are simple. Once, I see Auntie Sasha circulating through her fourth period class as they do group work. Waking up a kid who is asleep, answering a question, redirecting an off-task conversation, mediating an argument. But at some point, Auntie Sasha looks at me - and something is wrong. This person has the same tangerine hair, long and spider-webbing over the same style of hand-knit sweaters. Same staff badge ending with 'Sheridan.' But she is not Sasha.

She is me.

No.

I want to run up to myself, the fake Sasha, and yell at her to stop, to leave the sacred space that is Sasha Sheridan's classroom. But all I can do is watch, as she - me? - pulls the class back together, debriefs with them, smiles with them. As, when the period ends, she falls asleep on her desk because kids take up so much energy, but fifty minutes later, she wakes up, excited to teach another class. Because even though she has lost someone, she still knows how to feel happiness. And I wake up feeling so guilty I can't even cry, or even turn and look at Sasha.

My dad makes me go back to school. "You love school," he says. "Isn't it good for you to go back?" He doesn't understand that Auntie Sasha was my connection to all of this. I can barely remember times when I have been greeted by staff who aren't my teachers as "Frankie" - it has always been, "Sheridans!" Plural. Because there were always two of us.

I go to a few classes, but some days, I get through one or two and know I have had enough. A handful of teachers are aware when I start hiding in the staff lounge bathroom instead of going to class, but they do nothing to stop me. They don't because for one, I am Sasha Sheridan's niece and they seem to confuse that with being an angel. And the other reason: I am Sasha Sheridan's niece. Sasha who is in the ICU for an indefinite amount of time. Sasha whom we hope...makes it through the night.

And I don't blame them for it. I wonder if they are thinking what I am thinking, which is that Aunt Sasha's the emotional intuitive, the listener, the brilliant problem solver and the one who knows what to do with absolutely anything anyone is going through, the one who can talk about anything, and, ironically, she is the one who may never be able to do any of that again. Our school will not have it again. And it's the one thing we need most.

So nobody touches me.

But that changes the day that Ms. Nielsen sees me. We cry, we yell at each other, but at some point, she takes a deep, shaky breath. "Frankie, I know things aren't ever going to be the same. Especially in Sasha's classroom. I know that."

I just nod.

"Do you remember, a few weeks ago, when Sasha let you out of fourth period so you could spend it in her class? You and I ran into each other in the hallway that day, after you had finished, and you were glowing, you were so excited. But do you remember why you were excited?"

I give her an appalled eyebrow-raise. "It was because of her and you know it."

"Do you remember what you said to me in the hallway?"

"Somewhat."

"Tell me what it was."

"Just regular stuff. I probably cried tears of joy over getting an extra fifty minutes with my favorite person in the world. I probably told you how that class is full of insane, troublesome sixth graders but Sasha always knows how to keep them together and keep the peace and have fun with them and get work done. Like, Jesse - he gets really mad if you don't let him do what he wants, and what he wants is stuff like ripping other kids' papers, but sometimes you can ask him math questions and that will help him refocus. And there's also Kylie, who plugs her ears and hides her face sometimes when teachers are talking, but she's still listening even though she doesn't look like it. And she will look up and talk to you, you just have to help her feel comfortable because she gets overwhelmed really easily. And I probably told you..." My voice trails off as I realize that she has just gotten me to say the stuff I have been accidentally seeing, and working so hard to shove away.

"You are a goofball, you are the leader of teacher fan clubs, you shamelessly follow your aunt everywhere, even to places you aren't supposed to be, but listen to what you just said and tell me this decision is all about carefree fun with your aunt. Tell me you don't have a connection to all the students you've worked with. Tell me you aren't patient, you aren't an emotional intuitive, you aren't dedicated to helping people learn, to teaching, explaining - listen to yourself and tell me Sasha's classroom is the only classroom you belong in."

"I-" I cannot tell her any of that, because...she is right.

And I want my aunt to wake up. I want it more than anything. I want hugs and M&Ms - not because M&Ms taste good, but because they are from her and that makes them precious. I have my family's heart condition too. If sadness can weaken your heart, I am about to go as well.

And I don't want to.

"Everything that is happening right now is impossibly hard on you. I know it hurts to think, and if she dies, it will probably be even worse. But I just want you to know that your mind is your own. I don't want you feeling guilty, I don't want you worrying that you're not supposed to go on, I don't want you punishing yourself for what you are still able to enjoy. I know you're scared to face life without Sasha. But Frankie – Francesca - you are a beautiful, empathetic, capable person. Please do not be afraid to keep thinking Francesca-thoughts and dreaming up your Francesca-life."

On Auntie Sasha's seventh night in the hospital, everybody knows that she will not be able to hold out for a transplant. Even if one were to miraculously become available right now, she is no longer healthy enough to survive it.

This is the last night.

I crawl into her bed and curl up next to her, the same way we have done at every sleepover since I was born. I tell her how much I love her, and why, and I narrate some of my favorite memories. And I confess my flash-forwards. I tell her I don't like my life without her, but for some reason, if there is a classroom involved, I can picture it. I tell her that I think I need to be a teacher, and I ask her if she thinks I am right. I ask her what I should do after she's gone, looking for directions, for approval.

Nurses, along with my dad, have already explained to me how this works. Her brain is oxygen-deprived and it's shutting down. When I talk, I am not looking for an answer, because I know she cannot give one. It's just that this is the closest I'll ever again be to talking with her. I promise myself not to fall asleep, because this is the end; I have to be awake for every part of it. A few times, I accidentally do drift off, but it doesn't really matter because nightmares wake me up.

In one of these nightmares, I am trying to help a group of sixth graders, and they are being mean to me. "You smell like poop." "You look stupid." They use the kind of insults that you only use if you're a kindergartener, and you're only scared of if you are an exhausted fourteen-year-old on the worst night of your life.

I wake up panting and crying.

But a few minutes later, for the first time in days, my face is dry and I am breathing almost steadily. "Kids can be mean," Auntie Sasha says. "It's the worst. It feels like crap, but all it really does is make you more of a hero. For doing what you do."

"You shouldn't need rude kids to tell you you're a superhero," I think in response, although I don't ever say it out loud. In my head I say it as though I am comforting her after one of her bad days of teaching, because suddenly, I am eight years old, she is crying, I am asking why; she is explaining to me the side of teaching that isn't fun, and I am trying to understand.

"Sweetheart. I was talking about you. It's you now. Not me. It's all you now." I feel a kiss on my forehead, and I look up from the hospital blanket, drifting in and out of focus from tears and drifting attention, but Auntie Sasha's face is not facing me, and the breathing tube is still in her mouth; she could not have talked to me.

Technically.

“…You are an empathetic, capable person. Please do not be afraid to keep thinking Francesca-thoughts…”

Whether Sasha’s words were real mental telepathy, or just a hallucination of mine, doesn’t matter; I heard them.
At 12:04am, one of her monitors starts beeping, then another. Doctors come in, but they are not running. One of them flips a switch that makes the beeping stop. My dad stands up from the couch, kisses his sister's forehead, and carries me out of the room.

I will never stop missing Sasha. I never stop hearing her voice, through the rest of my days of school, then teacher school, and finally teaching.

Even though my head can be a sad place, I have learned to feel comfortable there, with the help of another voice. A voice I can still hear in real life. Someone I am still good friends with – Ms. Nielsen.