“Come here,” she said, patting the bed beside her. He went over and sat down next to her,
taking care not to disturb either the tube they had stuck in her arm
or the tube sending air down her nostrils or the tube he knew occasionally got taped to her chest,
when the bright orange chemicals were pumped into her at her treatments.
“How’s my Conor then?” she asked, reaching up a thin hand to brush his hair.
He could see a yellow stain on her arm around where the tube went in
and little purple bruises all the way along the inside of her elbow.
But she was smiling. It was tired, it was exhausted, but it was a smile.
“I know I must look a fright,” she said. “No, you don’t,” Conor said.
She brushed his hair again with her fingers. “I think I can forgive a kind lie.”
“Are you okay?” Conor asked, and even though the question was in one sense completely ridiculous, she knew what he meant.
“Well, sweetheart,” she said, “a couple of different things they’ve tried haven’t worked like they wanted them to.
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