“Just come. Please. I can’t do this on the phone.”
The line went dead.
I stood there with the phone still pressed to my ear, my mind already racing through every version of what could have gone wrong in a hospital room. I grabbed my car keys without my coat.
The whole drive over, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking against the steering wheel.
***
The automatic doors of the hospital slid open, and I walked in too fast, my car keys still clenched in my fist.
Diane was already waiting in the corridor, her arms crossed tightly against her chest, when I arrived. She didn’t smile or even say hello.
“Rachel. Come with me.”
I followed her down the hallway, past the nurses’ station, past a cart of folded blankets.
My mouth was dry.
“Diane, please, just tell me. Is Lily okay? Did Aaron say something? What happened?”
“He crossed a line,” she said, not slowing down.
“A line? Diane, my son shaved his head for your daughter. He did it out of love.”
My friend stopped so suddenly that I almost walked into her. Her eyes were red, but her jaw was set.
“It isn’t just the shaving thing, Rachel. It’s what he did next.”
“Aaron has barely slept in months. He brings her soup. He sits in waiting rooms doing his homework on his lap.”
“Lily is a private girl,” she snapped, her voice low so it wouldn’t carry. “Now the entire oncology floor is talking. Everyone has an opinion. Everyone has a story about my daughter.”
I felt my own temper start to rise, hot and unfamiliar between us.
“You called me as if something terrible had happened. I drove here thinking she was… I don’t even want to say what I was thinking.”
I stepped back, stunned.
“Don’t do that, Diane. Don’t put this on him. He’s a kid trying to love your daughter through the worst thing that’s ever happened to her.”
She looked away, blinking fast.
A cart rattled past. A doctor’s pager beeped somewhere down the hall.
“You don’t understand,” my best friend said, quieter now. “It’s easier if you just see it. I can’t explain it standing here. I tried on the phone, and I sounded insane.”
“Then help me understand on the way. Because I’ve known you for 20 years, and I don’t recognize you right now.”
Diane’s shoulders dropped, just a little.
“For weeks, Rachel. For weeks, I’ve watched him walk in here and make her laugh, eat, and sit up. And I stand at the foot of her bed, and I can’t get her to drink water.”
I stared at her.
“Diane…”
“Aaron shows up with snacks, and my daughter lights up. I show up with her favorite blanket from when she was six, and she just rolls over.”
“That isn’t his fault,” I said, defending my son.
“I know that,” my friend whispered. “I know that. But knowing it doesn’t make it stop hurting.”
She wiped her face quickly with the back of her hand, as if she were angry at her own tears for showing up.
“And today, today he did something, and I couldn’t even… I couldn’t find the words on the phone.”
Diane started walking again, faster now, her shoes squeaking on the polished floor. I kept pace.
“I’ve been jealous of a 17-year-old boy,” she said, almost to herself. “I’ve been jealous of him for being able to do something I can’t. Do you know how that feels? To resent the person who is keeping your child afloat?”
I didn’t know what to say. I reached for her elbow, and she let me hold it for one second before pulling away.
“It’s who I’ve been,” she said, sighing. “And I hate it.”
We stopped outside Room 412.
There was laughter inside, real, surprised, gasping laughter! Lily’s laughter was the kind I hadn’t heard in months!
Diane put her hand on the door. She finally looked at me, her eyes wet.
“I tried to convince myself that he was turning her into a spectacle,” she whispered.
“But listen to her, Diane. He’s giving her back to herself,” I replied.
Her voice cracked.
“I can hear it now.”
She pushed the door open, and I held my breath as I stepped through.
I stepped inside and froze.
