Chapter 7: What Renee Said at the Door
She wasn't in her designer swimsuit now.
She was in jeans and a plain gray shirt, her hair pulled back, no sunglasses.
She looked like a different person.
Or maybe she looked like the same person with everything performative stripped away.
She was holding Mia's card.
"I'm sorry to come to your room," she said.
"I asked the front desk if they could call up, but — I wanted to say this in person.
I didn't want to do it through a note again."
I stepped slightly into the doorway, keeping the door mostly closed behind me.
Mia was at the table with her pancakes.
"Okay," I said.
Renee looked down at the card in her hands.
"Your daughter wrote this."
"She did."
"She said —" Renee's voice caught.
She pressed her lips together and waited a moment.
"She said she thought my Mia was probably really great."
"She meant it."
"I know." Renee looked up.
Her eyes were red at the edges, the way eyes get when someone has been crying in a way they're not going to mention.
"I came to tell you that I called the hospital this morning.
The one on the paper I gave you.
I wanted to make sure the study was still open.
I wanted to make sure the number was still right."
I went still.
"It is," she said.
"They confirmed it.
And I spoke to Dr.
Okafor's assistant directly.
I told them a family might be reaching out.
They're expecting your call." A pause.
"If you haven't called yet."
"I called at six this morning," I said.
Something moved across her face.
Relief, maybe.
Or something quieter than relief.
"Good," she said.
We stood in the doorway for a moment without speaking.
"Why did you have that paper?" I asked.
"You said you'd been carrying it for three months."
Renee looked at the card again.
"My husband found the study after our Mia passed.
He sent it to me.
He thought — I don't know what he thought.
That it would help me to know it existed.
That it would feel like something good coming from something terrible." She shook her head slightly.
"We're not together anymore.
But I kept the paper.
I kept it in my bag and I didn't know why."
"Mom?" Mia's voice came from behind the door.
"Who is it?"
I hesitated for one second.
Then I opened the door wider.
Mia was at the table with syrup on her chin, looking at Renee with frank, uncomplicated curiosity.
Renee looked at her.
Her face did something complicated and then went very still.
"Hi," Mia said.
"Hi," Renee said.
"I'm the other Mia," Mia said.
Renee laughed — a short, broken sound that wasn't quite a laugh.
"I know," she said.
"I got your card."
"Did you like it?
I picked the purple one on purpose."
"I know that too," Renee said.
"It was the right choice."
Mia seemed satisfied with this.
She turned back to her pancakes.
Renee looked at me.
"I hope the study helps her," she said quietly.
"I really do.
I hope it helps a lot of kids."
"Thank you for the paper," I said.
"I mean that."
She nodded.
She looked like she might say something else, but she didn't.
She held up the card once more — just briefly — and then she turned and walked down the hallway.
I watched her go.
Then I went back inside and sat down across from Mia and poured myself the last of the coffee from the room service pot.
"Was that the sad lady?" Mia asked, not looking up from her pancakes.
"Yes," I said.
"Is she still sad?"
I thought about the way Renee had held that card.
The way she'd laughed.
May you like
"A little less, maybe," I said.
Mia nodded like this was the correct answer and reached for the syrup again.
