Angie hops onto the bed with ease, pulling the hot-pink comforter back to reveal floral sheets tucked with military precision, like Trevor’s bed at the apartment. Trevor gestures for me to take the chair by the window, while he parks himself on the edge of her bed.
He asks about her day, how she’s feeling, whether her mom came by yet, and if they’ll be doing anything special for New Year’s Day tomorrow. He doesn’t ask about her dad, who I’m assuming is his younger and only sibling, Logan. He’s mentioned Logan just once, during a conversation about childhood TV shows, describing how he and his brother used to watch Are You Afraid of the Dark? religiously on Nickelodeon. I make a mental note to confirm the family dynamics later.
The drab wall across from the foot of Angie’s bed is proudly covered with what appears to be her own artwork. Most of the paintings depict cozy houses, blue skies with bright-yellow suns, and big-petaled flowers.
Trevor extends his arms over his head in a labored stretch before standing. “I’m gonna go grab a coffee. Want something from the cafeteria, kid?”
“I’ll take the usual,” she responds with the confidence of a forty-year-old.
Before heading out, he glances at me over his shoulder. “Can I grab anything for you? More cookies?”
“If I eat another cookie, I might hurl,” I admit, offering a weak smile.
I’m a jumble of nerves under the weight of Angie’s Mafia-boss stare when Trevor peaces out, footsteps growing faint. It’s like I’m back in middle school at the height of puberty. There’s no logical reason to be anxious. Angie is a child. And I’m at work, in my own element, technically.
“You’re a nurse?” Angie inquires, breaking the silence.
I nod, gesturing to my scrubs. “I am.”
She gives me a comically skeptical squint. “Why haven’t I seen you around? I know all the nurses.” For a moment, her confidence shakes me, and I almost question my own identity.
“I don’t work on this floor. I work with very sick newborns, actually, in the NICU a couple of floors down.”
I anticipate a sass-filled response, but she gives me a silent nod, like she understands.
“What kind of stuff do you like to do, Angie?” I immediately cringe at my own question. What can she really do while in the hospital? “I mean, when you’re not . . .” Oh God. I’m not prepared for this. No wonder I work with babies. They don’t talk. I inwardly curse Trevor for springing this on me.
A coy smile tugs at her lips. “When I’m not in the hospital?”
I meet her smile and relax my posture ever so slightly. “Can I ask what you have?”
She reaches for the Disney coloring book atop the side table. “DORV.” I’m only vaguely aware of the acronym. I know the D stands for Double and the V is Ventricle. But I can’t recall the middle letters. At the risk of sounding like a fool and losing all credibility in front of Angie, I make a note to Google it.
She continues. “I got a new heart when I was a baby. But now Dr. Lam says I need a new one,” she explains matter-of-factly.
“You’re very brave” is all I can think to say without being patronizing. She’s too mature for the bullshit.
She watches me for a beat before settling on a fresh page in the coloring book. It’s Snow White’s enchanted forest. “I watch a lot of princess movies.”
I perk up. “Who’s your favorite princess?”
“Rapunzel.”
“She’s my favorite too. I love Tangled. Do you have any others?”
“I like Moana too. And Anna. But not Elsa.”
I laugh. “Why not Elsa?”
“She’s kind of boring. She likes being alone. I don’t like being alone.” Isn’t that the truth? Her honesty churns my stomach. With Trevor’s demanding shift schedule, I wonder how often he’s able to visit her.
I hang my head, picturing her sitting in her room all by herself. “I don’t like being alone, either.”
Trevor returns with a package of blue raspberry Jell-O in hand, along with a coffee and a vending machine–size bag of Cheetos, which he drops in my lap.
I thank him profusely. My diet is officially a smear on humanity.
A nurse I recognize from around the hospital over the years follows close behind Trevor. She smiles at me and doesn’t bother to question my random presence. “Time for your meds,” she chirps to Angie.
While the nurse fusses with Angie, Trevor and I give them space, stepping into the hallway. From the way he keeps his head ducked, his hands in his pockets, I think he senses I’m a little shook.
“Why didn’t you tell me Angie was your niece? Your niece who’s a patient at the hospital where I work?” I fury-whisper. “I thought she was some woman you were hopelessly in love with.”
“A woman I’m in love with? Really, Chen?” he repeats, sarcasm abundant. It’s as if I thought Angie was his extraterrestrial friend who required immediate assistance returning to her home planet. I treat him to a frosty look until his expression softens. “I’m sorry. You just took me by surprise when you asked me about Angie. It wasn’t meant to be a big secret. Besides, your theories were too amusing to come right out with the truth.”
I gape at him. “This is how you decide to reveal her identity? And you say I have a flair for the dramatics. Of all people, I would have understood,” I say, lowering my voice as a tiny pale child passes by with a nurse.
“I know, I know. It’s just, Angie doesn’t like when people treat her differently. I thought if you knew going into it, you’d have a warped perception of her. She’s really strong for a kid of her age and in her circumstances.”
I frown, bracing myself. “She said she had DORV?”
“Yeah. Double-outlet right ventricle. In a regular heart, the pulmonary artery connects to the right ventricle, whereas the aorta connects to the left. In Angie’s heart, both the pulmonary artery and the aorta connect to the right ventricle, causing it to circulate oxygen-poor blood,” he explains. “When Angie was born, she had her first heart surgery. But it was so complex, she needed a transplant. She’s never been healthy like most kids, but last year, she started getting really sick and the doctors realized her body was rejecting the heart. It’s rare for that to happen after so long. So she’s on the transplant waiting list again.”
“That’s awful. I can’t even imagine.” I grimace. “But I’m still confused. Why would you want me to meet her?”
He shifts his weight, his gaze to the floor. “I was kind of hoping . . . you’d help me with something.”
“With what?” I ask.
“Her tenth birthday party,” he says earnestly. Angie certainly doesn’t look like an almost ten-year-old, given her tiny frame. Although now her righteous sass makes a lot more sense. “Her mom, Payton, is way too busy with work, so I offered to do it.” Pained, he lets out the remaining air in his cheeks. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, And what about your brother? But I don’t. “I know you’re good with parties and events,” he says. Over the past few days, I’ve been in full planning mode for Crystal’s bridal shower in a few weeks. He’s all too familiar with my Pinterest aesthetic board.