She laughed.
“You get it.”
He glanced at me with an amused smile.
“I’ve learned not to argue with royalty.”
As he wrapped the blood pressure cuff around her small arm, she studied him thoughtfully.
“You’re nice.”
“Thank you.”
“And handsome.”
I nearly dropped the blue crayon.
“Adeline.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to embarrass people.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” Josh said, chuckling.
“I am,” I muttered.
He smiled and finished entering her numbers into the chart.
At the time, the exchange seemed like nothing more than another innocent conversation between a little girl and the nurse she adored.
Life soon returned to its exhausting rhythm.
Chemotherapy. Tests. Waiting. Hope. Fear.
Some evenings, after Adeline finally fell asleep, I stood near the large windows overlooking the parking lot and watched families go home together.
Parents carried sleepy children into warm cars.
Teenagers complained about homework.
Couples shared umbrellas and laughed.
I wondered what it felt like to have an ordinary problem again.
One Monday afternoon, Adeline was unusually chatty.
Josh had just finished replacing the batteries in one of her toys when she began telling him about a cartoon she had watched before she became too sick to attend preschool.
“There was a prince,” she explained.
“And what happened to him?” Josh asked as he adjusted the blanket around her legs.
“He asked the princess to marry him.”
“Oh?”
“It was beautiful.”
She sighed dramatically.
“There were flowers everywhere.”
“I bet there were.”
“And everybody clapped.”
Josh smiled.
“Sounds like quite a celebration.”
She nodded.
“I want that someday.”
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