The girl nods shyly. “Sure,” she says. There is worry on her face; her gaze is far away. Kay tries to smile, but Addie’s sweetly braided hair, her eyes that know more than a girl her age should, defeat her.
Kay watched as Addie hugged her dad goodbye minutes ago. His face—his wrecked face. She had to look away. Goodbye.
What if it’s the last goodbye? She looks toward the window again, wants to see their car still, to know that this second, they are okay, but the driveway is empty, the street in front of the house only has a mother pushing a stroller, the mail guy parking his truck and hoisting his bag over his shoulder.
She puts her hand on the back of Addie’s neck and guides her into the kitchen. “And then maybe afterward, you can help me collect some of those flowers from outside. We could draw some pictures for Mommy and Daddy, for when they come back, right?” Why did she say that? Daddy. She doesn’t want to jinx it. Damn her well-meaning hopefulness. You can be this way with kids though, can’t you? Shouldn’t you? This whole procedure could be good, she thinks. It could go fine. Her dad could come home and be better, and they could forget all this and enjoy the rest of spring. An easy summer. Of course a stem cell transplant is a risk, a big one. The side effects alone could kill him, but there are no alternatives. “Otherwise,” Freddie said weeks ago with a vacant expression, “we’ll just be waiting for it to come back.”
The cuckoo clock comes to life, and Addie looks up and stares at the small bird that pops out of the top to announce the time: eleven. After it goes back inside, the miniature dancers play music and twirl around. The water wheel spins. Addie doesn’t look away. The pinecone pendulums move up and down.
“Neat, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.” Addie smiles as the clock goes silent again except for the constant ticking sound. She will be here for another forty-eight hours. Dear lord, Kay thinks. Dear lord. This is hard already. What was I thinking? This feels impossible, suffocating. How long can I keep her busy? Will she nap? No, she doesn’t think, if she recalls correctly, that seven-year-olds nap.
Maybe they can watch a movie. Maybe Addie will want to take a bath for a while in the garden tub in the master bedroom. She realizes then that she hasn’t been alone with a child like this in forever.
She hopes she can do it.
Addie stares up at her. Was Kay the best choice? After all these years, she has never healed completely. She seldom has to engage. She usually drifts away. She has not been right for so long. She has been absent. Her heart flutters. There is no choice—Greg’s parents dead, Freddie’s parents far away. Only one aunt （Freddie’s sister）， but she’s in Europe. They need you. Stop this.
She is glad Alex will be home this evening. He’ll at least keep Addie smiling while she gets dinner together. He’ll do that trick where he rolls his handkerchief and makes it look like sleeping twin babies. He’ll hold up the small hammock and sing rock-a-bye baby on the treetop. Then he’ll show her how to flip the handkerchief around and fold it herself. Maybe he’ll teach her a card trick. He’s good like that. She thinks of him doing it with Benny. She wonders for a second if he did it with Iris. The thought occurs to her then: her husband has more experience with children than she does. How odd, she thinks. Sometimes she feels cheated about Iris, feels he’s cheating on Benny, but then she shrugs and she’s mostly grateful for Iris. The whole thing is so different. They needed something different.
Kay takes out the bag of chocolate chips, the canister of flour. She pokes the butter to see if it’s soft enough and she thinks of Alex many years ago blowing on Benny’s belly. How Alex would pause, raise his eyebrows, and furiously do a raspberry on Benny’s smooth skin. His tiny belly button, that small little freckle below his rib. How that boy laughed whenever his dad was home. How young and new they all were then. Her heart. Her heart. She forces a smile at Addie. Can she do this? She has to. Suck it up, toots. “Do you want to wear an apron? Because I have quite the collection, my dear.” Addie follows her over to the broom closet where there are five aprons hanging on small hooks.
“Ooh,” she says. She reaches in and touches the different fabrics. There is a ruffled floral one, and one made of linen with Myrtilles written on the front underneath a picture of blueberries.
“Pick any one you want.” She wishes now she had a small chef’s hat. She’d take a picture of Addie in apron and hat and text it to her mother. Then Freddie would know her child was okay. One less thing to worry about, right? She thinks of the two-hour drive Freddie and Greg are making to Boston. She thinks of the parking garage they will leave their car in, and the wind that will blow through it as they walk. Of Greg’s hope and worry, his hair a new fuzz on his head, his pale skin as he enters the hospital for the procedure. They are in for so much. Weeks and weeks. First, high doses of chemo （again）， then radiation （again） to prime him for the transplant. After the transplant, a risk of infection, and then waiting and seeing. “Believe it or not, the transplant is the quickest and easiest part of this whole thing,” Freddie said. “Kind of anticlimactic.” Greg is so tough and determined in this fight, but this is his last good hand.