We walked past rooms and curtains, past the beep of monitors and the squeak of shoes. Every step felt like a delay. When we reached Lucy’s room, the nurse paused, and for a split second I was afraid she’d stop me.
Then she opened the door.
Lucy was sitting upright on the bed, clutching a paper cup in both hands as if it might disappear. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair damp at the temples. Her eyes— those enormous brown eyes that normally looked mischievous and warm— were too wide, too fixed.
She saw me and her face crumpled.
“Mom,” she said, and then she burst into tears so abruptly it sounded like her body had been holding them back with sheer force until she saw me.
I crossed the room in two steps and wrapped myself around her, pulling her into my chest, feeling how small she was, how tightly she clung. Her whole body shook. She smelled like sweat and hospital soap. She pressed her face into my shoulder so hard it hurt.
“I’m here,” I whispered. “I’m here, baby.”
She sobbed and sobbed, the kind of crying that comes from fear, not pain. She clutched my shirt with fists that looked too tiny to hold that much terror.