She thinks of Iris then, Alex’s daughter, whom she met in December—about Iris’s baby on the way. Alex was right, wasn’t he? The smart businessman, the risk-taker. He knew they were up for this again, and Addie here, even just for this brief moment, has reminded her of the possibilities. Won’t this baby stay with them sometimes the way Addie is here now? Won’t they keep stuff like a high chair in the kitchen? Won’t they put drawings on the fridge, fill a cupboard with special kid cups and plates. Won’t they welcome this child in a Halloween costume, won’t they want to start putting up a Christmas tree again? She feels a hint of excitement.
She and Addie drop balls of dough onto the greased cookie sheet. “Can we leave the oven light on?” Addie says. “Can we watch them?”
“Well, sure.” Kay wants to hug her. She thinks of Greg changing into a hospital gown. She thinks of Iris rubbing her pregnant belly. Of Benny riding his bike that last day, of all the things he has missed. She thinks of the courage, win or lose, it takes to live. She wants to be more courageous. She closes her eyes for just a few seconds as they watch the heat in the clean oven slowly sizzle the dough and flatten it.
What surprises Kay over the next few days:
The smell of chocolate chip cookies renews her. The scent stays in the house for hours.
Addie. She settles in so quickly. By the first evening, she is opening the refrigerator and carefully pouring herself some cranberry juice. She stays for days and days. She misses her parents, but she is fine with Alex and Kay. The Tylers are grateful. Freddie drives back and forth between Wharton and Boston. She looks tired as she eats Kay’s meat loaf. She tells them about the first part of the transplant: conditioning, almost done. The chemo has made Greg so sick, he has such a weakened immune system. He is almost finished with this part. A few days of radiation will follow, and then the transplant. Freddie says he is noble, a soldier.
Alex. He is better than Kay even knew he’d be. He loves having Addie there. He ties her socks in knots while she’s wearing them. She giggles. He cuts her chicken for her. He makes her try asparagus. They sit on the couch and watch a show called Tiny Town that Addie loves. He helps her build a fort out of the sofa cushions. He leaves work early to get home. It is his idea to have Addie stay longer （Freddie was planning to bring her back and forth to Boston so she wouldn’t burden the Lionels）。 “But only if she wants to,” he says.
The weather. It is one of the nicest springs she can remember. The sun is generous over the patio. A robin shakes itself off in the birdbath. Kay has never appreciated a season so much before.
Homework. Addie’s teacher gives her assignments that first Monday. Not much. Some math. Some writing. Kay is surprised a seven-year-old gets homework, but she likes sitting at the kitchen table with her, sliding the completed work back into the folder.
The dog. Addie worries about him in the kennel. His name is Wizard. Alex drives there to pick him up. The dog lies by the television and barks when the UPS man comes. He seems to wink at Kay when she walks by. She remembers how sad she was when Toby died, how he seemed to take more of Benny with him—her last connection to her son. Now Wizard stares at her in the same wise way. She thinks she will tell Alex they need a dog when things go back to normal （knock on wood）。
The cat. They stop by Freddie’s house to check on the cat, Kitty. She’s fine. Addie bends down to kiss the top of her head before they leave. Addie looks around the house and touches Greg’s red plaid coat that hangs from a hook in the mudroom.
The big day. The day comes for the transplant. Freddie says the nurses call it Greg’s new birthday because it might be the day where he is reborn. Freddie sighs and rolls her eyes on the FaceTime call. Addie blows Greg a kiss. He smiles with the tube hooked up to his arm. He gives them all a thumbs-up. Alex claps for Greg. “Attaboy,” he hollers.
“You just want me back at work,” Greg says.
It’s a girl. Iris is having a girl. She comes for lunch one day.
They have seen her several times, but she has never been in the house before. She hugs Kay when she walks in the door, and Kay holds her a few seconds.
“What a cozy place,” Iris says. Kay feels so comfortable around her—as if she’s known her longer.
At their first meeting, back in December, in a café near Iris’s apartment, she approached Alex and Kay shyly and Kay offered to shake her hand. “I’m more of a hugger,” Iris said, and when she reached for her, Kay melted. She had prepared herself to be positive, to be polite, but realized she didn’t need any of these preparations. Alex had been right. Kay found herself that day laughing at their similar shirts （polka dots）。 They both ribbed Alex when he took out his flip phone for a call. They both ordered split pea soup, both snickered when a man at another table called his son the wrong name. Iris looked at her so sincerely that day and said, “I want to know you. I want this to be good for you.” Kay felt tears in her eyes, and she nodded and smiled. Within minutes, Alex was sitting back, sipping his root beer, and Kay and Iris were chatting about brands of chai tea and their mutual love of the color orange. Kay couldn’t explain the connection she felt to Iris—not like a child of hers, but very much like someone she knew in that deep, always way.