“I’m sorry, Clara,” he rasps. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to be a match. I wanted to save her. I mean . . . it’s the least I could do after not being here for her for so long.”
Taking one of his hands in mine, I squeeze it. As I’d wandered to my car earlier, a part of me wanted to blame him. The pettiest, smallest part of me. Aside from whatever flaws or shortcomings I see in him, I know he would cut the heart right out of his chest to save her. “It’s not your fault,” I manage through my own hoarse voice.
“How long do we have?”
“A few months, maybe half a year, if we’re lucky.”
He bites his lip and nods a few times, then surprises me by cupping my face in his hands. With his thumbs, he wipes at my cheeks. “Will you let me stay? Will you let me have this time with her, too?”
Nodding, I slide off the hood and straighten my shirt. There are so many conflicted feelings when it comes to Paul. But I know Neena wants to know him. I know, deep down in my heart, she would want him close. So no matter my reservations, I have to give this to her. And the only way to trust Paul won’t disappear is to keep him right under my nose. “Why don’t you move in with us? You can have the guest room.”
“Are you sure?”
Giving him a sad smile, I say, “Honestly, no. But she’ll need us both.” I don’t tell him that maybe Neena isn’t the only one that might need him.
After we tell the news to Marcus, who takes it pretty rough, we decide the three of us should sit down and tell Neena altogether. I couldn’t let them do it alone. Picking Neena up from Marcus’s house where she’s spent the afternoon hanging with Mei-ling, I take her home while Marcus closes up and Clara heads out determined to buy all of Neena’s favorite foods for dinner. I think they both want some time to themselves to process and calm down before Neena sees them.
We pull in the driveway when Neena asks, “What’s wrong?”
Feigning confusion, I reply, “What do you mean?”
“You’re so quiet.”
“Am I?” I hadn’t realized I’d been silent most of the way here. I can’t stop thinking about how awful it will be to tell her that I am not a match.
She watches me for a moment, her mouth in a tight, flat line. “Please don’t lie to me. I hate liars. What’s going on?”
Damn she’s just like her mother. Intuitive and never settling for an easy answer. “Hate is not a nice word. It’s just been a bad day,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. And that isn’t a lie. It’s been an awful fucking day.
She turns her head, staring straight ahead, her voice stoic, when she asks, “You’re not a match, are you?”
Fuck me. What do I say? I really don’t want to lie to her, but I’m not sure I want to be alone when she discovers the truth. I’m chickenshit that way. “Uh, Neena,” I begin.
“How did Mom take it?” She stops me.
Twisting her head so her gaze meets mine, I stare back and can tell she already knows. Squeezing the steering wheel, I let out a long sigh. “Pretty bad,” I admit. Definitely bad. Atrocious, actually. And she wasn’t the only one that felt that way. We all still feel like our worlds were rocked. And not in the good way, but in the shitty this-can’t-be-happening sort of way.
She’s silent for a long moment before she pulls the purple scarf off, revealing her bald head. She flips the visor down and stares at herself in the mirror, running her small hand over her smooth scalp. It’s the first time she’s let me see her without the scarf on and I have to admit, it’s crushing. She’s a twelve-year-old girl. She should be healthy and cutting out pictures in magazines of hairstyles she likes. That’s what kids are supposed to do. Letting her head drop, she flips the visor up. “If I tell you a secret, will you promise not to tell anyone?”
“Yeah, of course.”
She inhales deeply as if bracing herself for whatever she’s about to say. “I’m a little scared to die.”
My face tingles as the blood drains from it. I think I just literally felt my heart crack open. No little girl should have to think of things like this. Taking her hand in mine, I squeeze it and clear my throat, the whole time fighting the tears burning in my eyes. I’m not a crier—not by any means, but this kid gets to me. My kid.
“Don’t cry, Paul,” she warns me. “Please. I just needed someone I could say that to. Mom, she just . . . is always so positive and I know it’s just because she loves me and doesn’t want to give up, but . . .”
“But what?”
“I just needed to say it . . . or be able to say I’m scared without being told everything will be okay.”
I nod in understanding. “You can say anything to me, Neena. I’m here to listen.”
“I just . . . want everyone to be okay.”