A chuckle escapes because I expected her to say the opposite.
Cilla meets my eyes, insisting, “He was awful. He would text me, and I would reply. Then he wouldn’t reply, sometimes not for a couple days. Just leave the conversation after he was the one who’d asked me something. It was like he was checking up on me, or just wanting to keep me hanging. But you know what? If I ever took more than a minute to return his text, he’d get mad, send me a slew of question marks. He used to show up an hour late for our dates, and because he was cute, he thought I wouldn’t care. I cared, but I didn’t say anything. He was broke all the time, totally happy for me to pay for things though.” She rolls her eyes, staring out the window. “He never wanted to go anywhere so he’d come over and we’d have sex and then he wouldn’t spend the night most times. There was this girl hanging around the coffee shop he worked at, and I had this feeling they were seeing each other, too. He denied it.”
After a moment of silence I fill in the blank. “Your instincts were right.”
Sadness shimmers in her eyes as she nods. “And I kept seeing him anyway. Because I was afraid of being alone. Or maybe being left behind for her. We were together four years.” Glancing back to the stars she whispers. “I only call him ‘this guy I dated’ now. I spent too much time thinking about him that he doesn’t deserve a name anymore. Why did I waste so much time on that jerk? I’ve been thinking about it since I have so much time lately and you know what it was? Fear. That’s all. If I’d have enjoyed living more I wouldn’t have stayed with someone who made me that unhappy.” Meeting my eyes, hers are earnest. “I think we’re supposed to be happy. I finally see it now.”
Releasing my arms I ask, “Can I give you a hug?”
A smile spreads. “Yes, please.”
Sitting, I gather her in my arms and feel hers drifting around my shoulders as she relaxes into the crook of my neck. It feels like hugging a feather, so light it could float away.
I reach for the pillow and fluff it while she watches. “Have to get back. I’ll check in on you later.”
“There’s something else I’m not afraid of,” she offers as I arrive at the door.
“What?”
“Telling you I have a crush on you.” The feather burrows under her covers with a smile.
I return it, and tap the door on the way out.
In the corridor outside, my shoulders straighten as a woman walks up, coffee in hand. There’s a dramatic enough family resemblance that I guess, “Are you Cilla’s mother?”
“Yes,” she answers, curious, “Have we met? I know all of her doctors.”
“Oncology isn’t my department, but I make the rounds sometimes to help out where I can. I’m Dr. Cocker.” My hand extends to shake hers and recognition lights her eyes.
“Oh, you’re the one who brought those chocolates! I hoped I would meet you. Cilla couldn’t say enough good things about you. I’m Kathy Lu.”
“Cilla’s a special girl, Ms. Lu.”
Her breath hitches with emotion. “Yes.”
“You have everything you need? I assume you’re staying with her tonight?”
“I’ll stay until she falls asleep, then I have to be at work in the morning.”
I take a step to leave. “It was nice meeting you.”
“You, too.”
As I head away I hear the door opening, and glance back as Kathy disappears.
Frowning to myself I make note of how similar in age she is to my mom. Of course this gets me thinking of Lexi and Sam, and I send a quick prayer out to keep them safe, just in case anyone up there is listening.
CHAPTER 19
ELIZABETH
I n the resident’s locker room I’m gathering keys from my purse, dressed in red denim pants and a white sweater, long hair freed from the cumbersome stranglehold it was in. We had a pipe burst above ours so all the doctors are having to cozy up in these close quarters.
Janet Gilroy shuts her metal locker in the next row, calling out with her usual lack of emotion, “That was exciting, wasn’t it?”
Even though I know what she’s referring to, my mind somersaults to the Seventh Floor and I hum a casual, “Mmhmm.”
“Never saw a man screaming at his family like that, have you?”
“I’ve seen a lot of things I’d rather not have,” I mutter.
“The lack of respect was shocking.”
I pause. “To him, you mean?”
“When he lost it, I was secretly glad.”
Sliding my purse-strap over my shoulder, I agree, “Those people would have gotten on my nerves, too.”
“His kids were so controlling, and there was something off about them, didn’t you think?”
“He has money and they want it when he’s gone.”
Janet blankly stares at me. “Oh.” Her gaze drops to the bench where she left her light jacket. Tugging it on, she thinks about this.
I could be leaving, but the sudden awareness of how little natural instinct Janet has for behavioral psychology gives me greater pause. Perhaps her youth and lack of life experience is the cause. That man’s middle-aged children could not have been more transparent to me if their skulls were made of cellophane. They have no love for the man, although they faked it with insincerely concerned questions.
Her eyes flit up as she asks, “Why?”
“Why?” I repeat, and take a moment to consider how to explain it best. “Some people believe that their parents are banks, not people. What they’ve earned, their children think they have a right to it, as if it was them who spent
