“Boys with crushes on girls can’t control themselves around pigtails.”
Great. Now I’m being mocked by a psychiatrist. My psychiatrist. I see the station up ahead and, checking my watch, I know that the train will arrive shortly. The one that takes me to Children’s Hospital so I can focus on things that matter. Shaking my head, I say, “Thanks for listening, Dr. Stayner.”
“Call me anytime, Livie. Seriously.”
I hang up, not sure if I feel better or worse.
“Now can you tell us apart?” Eric stands side by side next to a paler-looking Derek. He’s rubbing his smooth scalp. Both of them are grinning.
I purse my lips to keep from smiling as I pull my brows together tightly. My eyes shift from one to the other and back again, scratching my chin as if I’m truly confused. “Derek?” I point to Eric.
“Ha, ha!” Eric’s scrawny arms shoot out in a funny little dance. “Nope! I’m Eric. We win!”
Tilting my head back, I smack my forehead. “I’ll never get you two right!”
“We shaved my head this morning,” Eric explains as he skips over to me. “It’s really smooth. Touch it.”
I oblige, running my fingers over the faint hairline that I can still see. “Smooth,” I agree.
He scrunches his nose. “It feels weird. But it’ll grow back, like Derek’s always does.”
Like Derek’s always does. My stomach muscle spasms for just a second. How many rounds of treatment has that poor kid endured? “It definitely will, Eric,” I say, forcing a smile as I walk over to the table and take a seat. “So what do you want to do today?”
Derek silently takes a seat beside me. By his slower movements, I can tell he doesn’t have the energy of his brother, who just started his treatments this week, according to Connie. “Draw?” he suggests.
“Sounds like a good plan. What do you want to draw?”
His forehead creases as he thinks hard. “I want to be a policeman when I grow up. They’re strong and they can save people. Can I draw that?”
With a deep inhale, I smile. “I think that’s a great idea.”
As the boys get to work, I scan the playroom. There are several other kids here today, including a little girl in an entirely pink ensemble—pink pajamas, pink fuzzy slippers, pink handkerchief covering what I assume is a hairless head. She clutches a pink teddy bear under one arm. Someone—likely another volunteer—trails behind her as she floats from toy to toy, casting furtive glances over in our direction.
“Hi, Lola!” Eric calls out and then, leaning in to me, whispers, “She’s almost four. She’s okay. For a girl.”
“Well, then, we should invite her to sit down with us,” I say, raising an eyebrow and waiting.
Eric’s eyes widen when he clues in that I’m suggesting he do the asking. A shy smile curves his mouth as he watches her out of the corner of his eye.
It’s his brother, though, who turns around and says in that soft, raspy voice, “Do you want to sit with us, Lola?”
Eric scrambles to take the seat next to me, edging in a little closer, watching Lola like a hawk as she gingerly picks her way to the empty seat between him and Derek. “Feel my head, Lola,” he says, leaning forward to point his smooth scalp in her face.
Giggling, she shakes her head and folds her hands under her arms, recoiling slightly.
Derek doesn’t find it amusing, though, and glowers at his brother. “Stop telling people to touch your head.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s weird.” Derek’s eyes flicker over to Lola and the glower vanishes instantly. “Right, Lola?”
She just shrugs, her eyes flickering back and forth behind the two brothers, not saying anything.
Giving up on his attempt to impress Lola with his smooth scalp, Eric occupies himself with his picture, drawing a tank. His brother, though, slides a sheet forward and, holding out his box of crayons, offers, “Here, do you want to draw a picture with me?”
And that’s when it hits me. Derek has a crush on little Lola. I share a look with the middle-aged volunteer who trailed her here. She winks, confirming it.
The boys and Lola color for an hour straight, using up a stack of paper as they draw themselves as everything from a policeman to a werewolf to a scuba-diver to a rock star and the entire time, I can’t take my eyes off Derek as he dotes on Lola, helping her hold her crayon properly, drawing parts of her picture that are harder for a four-year-old than an almost-six-year-old.
I watch while my heart melts and aches at the same time.
At the end of the hour, when Lola’s volunteer reminds her that she needs her rest, Eric, who’s busy coloring the wheels on his dump truck, hollers, “’Bye, Lola!” Derek, though, takes the picture he drew of himself as the policeman and quietly gives it to Lola for her room.
And I have to turn away before they see the tears welling.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Homesick