“But there was a kid in there. A little girl, about Lily’s age. She was alone. Coloring by herself. I sat down and asked if she wanted to play cars.”
“She said yes. And that was it. I’ve been coming back ever since.”
“Three years,” I said.
“Three years. I’ve played with maybe fifteen, twenty kids on this ward. Some of them got better. Went home. Some of them didn’t.”
His jaw tightened.
“The ones who didn’t make it. That’s the hardest part. But I stay until the end. I don’t leave. I don’t disappear. Because Lily taught me that the worst thing isn’t dying. The worst thing is dying and feeling like nobody cares.”
I was crying now. Couldn’t stop.
“Eli is special,” Wade said. “He reminds me of her. The way he laughs. The way he always picks the red car. Lily always picked red too.”
“I know,” I said. “I saw her name on the bottom.”
Wade looked at me. His eyes were full.
“She wrote her name on all of them. Every single car. I’ve never been able to wash it off. Don’t want to.”
“Don’t ever wash it off,” I said.
We sat there on the hospital floor. Two parents. One whose child was fighting. One whose child had lost the fight. Connected by a ward, a room, a bag of toy cars.
“Thank you,” I said. “For being here. For Eli. For all the kids.”
“Don’t thank me,” Wade said. “This is the only thing keeping me alive.”
Two months later, Eli went into remission.
The day the doctor told us, I collapsed in the hallway. Sobbing. Shaking. Couldn’t stand up. A year and a half of terror finally releasing.
Wade was there. Of course he was. He picked me up off the floor. Held me while I cried.
“He’s gonna be okay,” I kept saying. “He’s gonna be okay.”
“Yeah he is,” Wade said. “Tough kid. Told you.”
When we told Eli he could go home soon, his first question wasn’t about his room or his toys or his dog.
“Is Mr. Wade coming too?”
I looked at Wade. He was standing in the doorway. His eyes were wet but he was smiling.
“Mr. Wade has to stay here,” I said. “Other kids need him.”
Eli’s face fell. “But he’s my friend.”
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