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Steph grabs my hand. Her tiny fingers wrap around three of my giant ones and can barely hold on. “Aunt Lana says that we’re throwing a huge birthday party for me next month. She said I could eat anything I want!”
“Anything?” I heft her up into my arms with a groan. “We have to talk to your doctor about that first.”
“Aw, come on, Uncle Brogan. It’s my birthday. My eleventh birthday. I wasn’t even supposed to be living this long, you know. They said I was supposed to die when I was four.” She holds up the correct amount of fingers.
A lump forms in my throat.
My chatty girl doesn’t notice. “I already talked to Nurse Ina. She has a friend who owns a bakery. It’s called Brew Drop Coffee Shop. Isn’t that a great name?”
“It sure is.”
“Her friend, Zania—isn’t Zania a beautiful name?”
I walk with her into another hallway. “It is, Pumpkin.”
“Well, Zania is a pastry chef. Nurse Ina says that Zania makes all these amazing cakes. She even did one that’s shaped like a mermaid. And Nurse Ina said Zania’s brownies are amazing. And so are Zania’s velvet cupcakes.”
“Nurse Ina sure talks about a lot of food that you can’t eat,” I say, tickling her side.
Steph shrieks with laughter.
The nurses that pass by slant her affectionate smiles. She’s only been in this hospital for a few months, but she’s already got the staff wrapped around her little finger.
Steph is like that. She’s bright, smart, funny and kind. Not even her heart can slow her down.
“Uncle Brogan, you can’t be mad at Nurse Ina.”
“Who says I’m mad?”
She touches my cheek. “You’re frowning.”
I relax my face. “No I’m not. I just don’t know if hearing about something you can’t have is helpful.”
Steph stares seriously at me. “It’s not her fault. I asked her to tell me about the bakery.”
“Why?”
“If I can’t eat what I want, I might as well imagine it. If I can’t go into the world, I might as well hear about it. I have a great imagination. And sometimes, it’s better to have a glimpse of something sweet than to not know about it at all. Right?”
My eyelashes flutter.
Emotions clog my throat.
She’s a kid.
She shouldn’t be having glimpses of something sweet.
She should be stuffing her face with sweetness.
With joy.
Laughter.
Friendship with kids her own age.
Promises of tomorrow.
Not medicine.
