Wade crouched down next to the bed. “Hey buddy. I’m always your friend. That doesn’t change just because you leave this place.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Can I keep the red car?”
Wade reached into the bag. Pulled out the red car. Turned it over. Lily’s name on the bottom in faded marker.
He looked at it for a long moment. Then he put it in Eli’s hand.
“Lily would want you to have it,” he said.
“Who’s Lily?” Eli asked.
Wade smiled. A real smile. Sad and beautiful at the same time.
“She was my daughter. She was brave, like you. She loved that car. And I think she’d be really happy knowing it found a good home.”
Eli held the car against his chest. “I’ll take care of it. I promise.”
“I know you will, buddy.”
We brought Eli home on a Thursday. The whole family was there. Balloons, signs, the works.
Wade wasn’t there. He was at the hospital. Playing cars with a six-year-old named Marcus who’d just started chemo.
But that evening, there was a knock on our door. Wade stood on the porch in his leather jacket. He had something in his hands.
A small wooden box.
“I made this,” he said. “For Eli. Took me a while.”
I opened it. Inside, on a velvet lining, were five toy cars. Each one had a name written on the bottom in Wade’s handwriting.
Eli. Lily. Brave. Strong. Home.
I couldn’t speak.
“The first two are for remembering,” Wade said. “The last three are for believing.”
I hugged him. Right there on the porch. This big tattooed biker with his patched jacket and his broken heart and his bag of toy cars.
“You saved us,” I said.
“Nah,” he said. “Eli saved himself. I just played cars.”
That was two years ago.
Eli is six now. Cancer free. Healthy. Starting first grade.
He keeps the red car on his nightstand. Lily’s car. Sleeps with it every night. He tells people it belonged to a brave girl named Lily who watches over him.
Wade still volunteers at the hospital. Every single day. He’s on his sixth year now. The nurses say he’s played with over forty children. Some went home. Some didn’t.
He shows up regardless.
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