Page 113 of Wish Upon A Star

I findmyself alone with her. It feels like the middle of the night, but the blinds are shut and the fluorescent lights are always the same—dimmed.

I kneel beside her. Hold her hand.

She’s intubated. Not breathing on her own.

Shutting down.

“Jo?” I whisper. The first words I’ve said since I woke up with her sick beside me. “Can you hear me?”

She doesn’t move.

But I feel…it’s not her, physically; she doesn’t move, or stir, or twitch.

What I feel is…her.

Her spirit. Watching from somewhere. Feeling me. Hearing me.

I know it’s hokey, stupid—

But I feel her listening to me.

“I’m not ready to let you go,” I whisper. “I know it’s selfish of me, Jo. I know you’ve fought this your whole life, and you’re probably tired. And…if you’re ready to go, I understand. I do. But…I guess I…I don’twantyou to. I want you to stay. Please. For me.” I choke. “I want more time with you. More magic. More everything, and nothing at all. Just you and me.”

My voice cracks, and I hear myself break. I don’t remember the last time I cried like this.

But it’s just her and me, I know she won’t judge me.

“Please,” I whisper.

Is that a prayer? Or a plea whispered to her?

I don’t know.

“Please,” I repeat. “Please.”

I rest my head on the edge of the bed, near her hand.

How long I’m there, I don’t know.

A Sacred Silence

Westley

Hands grasp my shoulders. “Westley, come on.” Grandma.

I blink awake—I’m in the chair in her room, slumped forward onto the bed, my arms across her legs.

Beep…beep…beep…

Whirrrrr-hisssss—whirrrrrr-hisssss…

Reassuring sounds, because they mean she’s still alive.

I look at her: she’s the same. Thin and pale and small.

Grandma pulls at me. “Westley, dear, come with me, please.”

I stare at her—shock-white hair in a rather chic cut, slacks with a cardigan. Reading glasses. “Where? Why?”