Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Nancy laughs. “I did. Sorry, buddy. Sometimes I cuss in a crisis.”
“Same,” I assure her. “No worries at all. I’m so thankful you were there with her when I couldn’t be.”
“Me, too,” Mimi assures her. “I’m sorry I told on you. My brain is fuzzy. You’re still my favorite babysitter.”
“No worries, honey,” Nancy says, blowing her a kiss as she gathers her purse. “But I’m going to head home if that’s okay?” she says to me. “My roommate’s been texting about drama with her boyfriend, and I could use a snack, myself. We didn’t get to eat much pizza before Mimi started feeling pretty bad.”
“Totally. Nancy, I can’t even begin to thank you.” I stand up to give her a quick hug. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Of course, El. Always have your back,” she says firmly. “That’s what friends are for. Besides, this one is my girl.” She winks at Mimi, who beams. “See you soon, sweets. Hope you feel so much better.”
“Thanks, Nancy,” Mimi says, yawning as I settle back on the mattress beside her. She yawns again as she takes my hand, threading her little fingers through mine. “I’m tired, Mama.”
“You can sleep if you want, baby,” I assure her.
“But wake me up if the nurse says I can have juice and chips?”
I smooth her hair from her forehead with my free hand, so grateful for the cool skin beneath my fingers. “Absolutely. The second they say I’m free to hit the vending machines, I’ll get Doritos and Cheetos and Fritos. All the crunchy O’s. Just for you, and you don’t even have to share.”
Her lips quirk at the edges as her lids grow heavy. “I’ll share. I know you love Cheetos, Mama.”
“Not as much as I love you,” I whisper, my throat tight.
God, what wouldn’t I give for this to be the last time I spend the night at the hospital with this kid? I hate feeling so helpless to make being alive in her little body easier for her. I can’t even tell her stories about our relatives who had arthritis like this and thrived despite it because I don’t know who they are. My father and mother abandoned me so thoroughly, they might as well be ghosts.
But I can tell her the stories of us.
Of her.
Of how much I love her and admire her and will always be by her side, no matter what.
“Want me to tell you the story of brave baby Mimi to help you go to sleep?” I ask, tucking her stuffed unicorn under the covers with her, so glad Nancy remembered to grab Miss Sparklehorn. She always comes with us to the hospital, our little rainbow-maned good luck charm.
“Yes,” she whispers as she snuggles into the pillow. “I love that one.”
“Me, too,” I say. It’s half true. I love that she’s always been so brave. I just hate that she has to be. “Once upon a time, there was a very brave little girl named Mimi with shiny black curls like a fairy-tale princess and magical art skills in her fingers, who had to go to the hospital for the first time when she was only two years old and barely bigger than a possum.”
Mimi giggles. “Not a possum. A raccoon. I was barely bigger than a raccoon.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I say, pretending this isn’t part of the ritual. But it is. I always mix up the animals at first. “You’re right, she was barely bigger than a raccoon, so tiny the paramedic couldn’t figure out how to strap her onto the stretcher.”
“So, they strapped Mama on and told her to hold baby Mimi extra tight.”
“They sure did,” I say. “And Mama and Mimi took a ride all the way down four flights of stairs in their old apartment because the lights were out in the whole city from a big storm and the elevator wasn’t working.”
“And Mama was scared,” Mimi murmurs as her eyes begin to close.
“I was, but Mimi giggled the whole way down, even though she had a fever and a cough and the paramedics had to keep stopping to put a portable nebulizer over her little nose and mouth to help her breathe,” I say, finding myself comforted by the old story, too.
It’s a tale of survival, evidence that we can get through hard times to the other side.
“When we got to the ambulance, she barely cried at all,” I continue, soft and low as she drifts away from me, into a sleep I hope is peaceful and pain-free. “Even though the siren was loud and scary. And at the hospital, she held Mama’s hand while she got three big shots and the doctors said they’d never seen a little girl so strong…or beautiful.”
My voice cracks on the last word, and I have to take a beat to swallow. To regain control. To remind myself that this fear and rage at the unfairness of life is part of love, too.