Chapter 7: What Carol Had Been Waiting to Say
Carol turned her phone over and set it on the table between us.
On the screen was an email.
The sender was a name I didn't recognize — a law firm, from the look of it.
The subject line read: *Re: Alice — Confidential — Foundation Coordination.*
"This came in two days ago," Carol said.
"We've been verifying it since then.
I didn't want to say anything until we were certain."
I looked at the screen, then at her.
"Certain of what?"
"There's a family," Carol said.
"They lost a child.
A little girl, about Alice's age, two years ago.
Same diagnosis." She paused.
"They set up a fund in her name.
A private fund, not connected to the hospital.
They've been looking for the right recipient for eighteen months."
I waited.
"When Alice's story was shared online, someone in that family saw it," Carol said.
"They contacted the foundation directly.
They've been in touch with Dr.
Reeves's team, reviewing Alice's case, for the past three weeks."
Dr.
Reeves turned from the window.
He had heard this part before — I could see it in his face.
He had known.
He had been carrying it.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I said.
"Because we needed to confirm it was legitimate first," he said.
"And because I didn't want to give you hope that didn't come through."
"What is it?" I asked.
My voice came out very level.
I was proud of that.
Carol looked at the email, then at me.
"The fund covers the full cost of an experimental treatment protocol," she said.
"It's a clinical trial.
It's been showing strong results in Alice's specific type of case.
The trial is currently closed to new applicants — there's a waiting list." She stopped.
"They're offering to sponsor Alice's entry.
Directly.
By name."
The room was very quiet.
Alice was still eating cake.
She hadn't heard.
She was telling Dana something about the proper ranking of Marvel films, and Dana was nodding along with great seriousness.
"What does that mean for her?" I asked.
"In plain language."
Dr.
Reeves came and sat down across from me.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"It means a different path," he said.
"Not a guaranteed one.
I won't tell you that.
But a stronger one than what we currently have available to us here."
"How much stronger?"
He looked at me steadily.
"Meaningfully stronger."
I looked at Alice.
She had finished her cake.
She was now carefully arranging all the cards from the bundle Carol had brought — the ones from children in other hospitals — into a line along the edge of her bed.
She was reading each one before she placed it.
Some of them made her smile.
One of them made her laugh out loud.
"She doesn't know any of this is happening," I said.
"No," Carol said.
"She's been writing letters to strangers to make them feel less scared," I said.
"While this was happening."
Carol didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
I looked at the email on the phone.
I looked at my daughter.
I looked at Dr.
Reeves.
"What do I need to do?" I said.
"Nothing today," he said.
"Today is her birthday.
We talk through everything properly this week — you, me, the specialist coordinating the trial.
You ask every question you have.
You take the time you need."
"But it's real," I said.
"It's actually real."
"It's real," he said.
I pressed my hands flat on my knees.
I needed something solid.
Across the room, Alice held up a card — a drawing of a stick figure in a cape, with a big yellow star above its head — and showed it to Dana.
"This one's my favorite so far," Alice announced.
Dana leaned in to look.
"That star is very impressive."
"I think it might be me," Alice said thoughtfully.
"Or possibly a comet.
It's hard to tell."
I made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and something else entirely.
Carol put her hand briefly on my arm.
Just for a second.
Then she took it away.
"She's going to be all right," Carol said.
Quietly.
Not as a promise — she was too experienced for that.
But as something she believed.
I nodded.
I couldn't speak.
Alice looked up from her cards and found me across the room.
"Mom," she said.
"Come look at this one.
This kid drew you."
"Drew me?"
"There's a lady crying next to the superhero," she said.
"I think it's definitely you."
The room laughed.
I laughed too, even though my face was wet.
I got up and went to her.
I sat on the edge of her bed and looked at the drawing.
The stick figure lady was crying very dramatically, arms in the air.
The superhero beside her had a huge grin.
"That is absolutely me," I said.
Alice nodded, satisfied.
She placed the card at the very front of her line.
"Best one," she said.
I put my arm around her.
She leaned into me.
The cape settled around her shoulders.
Outside, the afternoon light had shifted.
The room was warm.
The figures stood on the IV pole.
The letter was under the pillow.
And somewhere, a family who had lost their own little girl had looked at a photograph of mine and decided that her name was the right answer to eighteen months of searching.
I didn't tell Alice that part.
May you like
Not yet.
But I held her a little tighter, and she didn't ask why.
