or the framed paintings of dogs driving cars that one found at Children’s,
but the absolute sterility of the place made me nostalgic for the happy-kid bullshit at Children’s.
Memorial was so functional. It was a storage facility. A prematorium.
When the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, I saw Gus’s mom pacing in the waiting room, talking on a cell phone.
She hung up quickly, then hugged me and offered to take my cart. “I’m okay,” I said. “How’s Gus?”
He had a tough night, Hazel,” she said. “His heart is working too hard. He needs to scale back on activity.
Wheelchairs from here on out. They’re putting him on some new medicine that should be better for the pain.
His sisters just drove in.” “Okay,” I said. “Can I see him?”
She put her arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. It felt weird.
“You know we love you, Hazel, but right now we just need to be a family. Gus agrees with that. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll tell him you visited.” “Okay,” I said. “I’m just gonna read here for a while, I think.”
She went down the hall, back to where he was. I understood, but I still missed him,
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