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A flash of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but not enough to bring out his dimple. “You’ve thought about this.”
“Of course. And...” She swallowed again, then stepped closer, closing the last bit of space between them, laying her forehead against his chest and looping her arms around his back. “I don’t know how to do this, but I think I want to try.”
His arms came around her shoulders, pulling her in. “Good. Me, too.”
Thirteen
ABBY DUCKED INTO an empty room, cleaned and sanitized and waiting for its next patient. Locking the door, she leaned against it, teeth gritted. She still had three rooms to visit, and her wet and bloodshot eyes would reassure neither the children nor the parents. Sinking to her knees, she wrapped her arms around Gen, pressing her face into the dog’s fur, letting the silky softness absorb the tears on her cheeks.
Death never surprised her anymore; there were always signs near the end. Doctors didn’t lie to parents, but they did try to remain optimistic. Parents would never believe the worst, anyway. But sometimes, you know. And sometimes the fight lasts longer than others.
Anna’s battle had been swift and brutal, only a few weeks. Diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia, even aggressive treatment had failed. The once bright-eyed little girl withered, hair falling out in handfuls from the chemotherapy, cheeks sinking, skin stretching, corpse-like, over her brittle bones as the disease ravaged her from within.
Only the fact that she had passed painlessly consoled Abby, one hand in her mother’s and one arm wrapped around Gen’s neck, her breath ruffling the dog’s long fur. Then, in a moment, it wasn’t.
Abby understood the long, relentless journey toward a single moment. There... and then not, but no amount of knowledge or experience could ease the moment of stark realization; all the futuresomedaysswallowed by one overwhelmingnever again.
And it didn’t get any easier. In some ways, her pain reassured her: easier meant calloused, apathetic, indifferent. The white-hot knife’s edge of grief cut both ways, reminding her it hurt to care so much, but also reassuring her she’d done her job, had loved these children well, and had brought them some measure of solace in their last hours.
The door bumped the frame behind her as someone tried the handle, and Abby wiped one hand across her face before glancing around for a tissue.
“Abby, it’s Cara. Let me in.”
Finding a scrap of paper towel, Abby dabbed her eyes before flicking the lock, letting Cara tumble inside, as well.
Throwing herself into Abby’s arms, Cara sobbed, shattering Abby’s fragile control. They cried together, another devastating rite that had become heartbreakingly familiar working in this department. Sharing the grief eased the terrible burden. The family would have each other, but those who cared for the patient found no closure when the end came. Those at the hospital became a family of their own, then, supporting one another as they each worked through the pain of loss, magnified dozens of times over. A number, fortunately, dwarfed by those who were able to return home, treatment successful, happy and healthy, their whole lives ahead of them.
Could she change those statistics? With another dog, or a team of them, could she do for the staff what she did for the kids and their parents? Help with the pain? Bring some consolation and solace on the most difficult of days?
Maybe, but for now, they cried together, Gen curled between them, doing for her handler what she had done for one little girl, broken by the battle she couldn’t win.
By the time she made it home, Abby’s tears had dried, but the tell-tale burn of too much crying and her bloodshot eyes in the mirror were plenty to keep the burden of the day fresh in her mind and heart. She remembered too many nights like this one, grief shared between herself and Will, but devastating all the same. Then, they had cuddled up together on the couch, ordered pizza, and found some horrid rom-com or ridiculous action film, laughing until the wetness leaking from the corners of their eyes could as easily be mirth as misery. Abby wrapped her arms around her torso, too spent to cry any more, but still fragile and shattered, nonetheless.
The tinkling notes of her phone distracted her, and Scott’s picture on the screen reminded her that, although the face had changed, she didn’t have to be alone anymore.
“Hey.” Her voice quavered but it didn’t break.
“Hey, yourself. You going running? We could meet you at the park.”
“No, not today,” she managed to reply, then paused. She cleared her throat, weighing her words before saying them aloud.
Life had happened to her again today. She couldn’t control the outcome for every child she helped, but she could control her own actions, her own responses.
“Listen, umm, I had a crappy day at... at the hospital.” Her voice broke, but she fought on. “We lost one of our kids, and it always sucks so much.”
Scott didn’t speak, didn’t try to fill the silence with empty platitudes. Too many people would be quick to jump in, thinking they could share in her grief, or alleviate it with their words. Scott waited, as he always had, for her to let him know what she needed. She couldn’t even verbalize how much she appreciated that about him in this moment.
She sniffled, then continued. “We used to do this thing, you know, when we lost one of our kids. We’d order pizza and watch crappy movies, and pretend the tears were from laughing...”
This time the silence quivered with anticipation. Then, “I can be there in twenty minutes. Pepperoni or veggie?”
Abby let out the breath she’d been holding. It had been too much to ask. Too much to expect him to fill in for a ghost—especially for one he already worried he’d never be able to compete with. But it was a step forward, too: Abby learning to ask for help and believing it would come. Deciding which traditions were important to her, which ones actually helped her get through the rough times and finding the person who could stand beside her as she did it. And she’d taken it on her own, without prodding from Cara or pressing from Scott. Her choice, to ask.
“Whatever. I don’t even care. I... I want you here.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Here, Dylan, like this.” Abby helped Dylan rearrange his fingers in the leather leash until it wrapped around his hand and looped over his thumb. “Now, tell her to heel and walk five steps. Then, mark it with her word if she’s still in position. You remember?”