And Theo’s voice got small.
“And I said there isn’t going to be a funeral.”
He stopped again. And this time he couldn’t do anything about his face.
“I said you’re going to get better.”
A hundred and forty-one people, and I could hear the air handler.
“And Jack said: ‘Probably.’”
Probably. My Son Said Probably to a Sixteen-Year-Old and Hopefully to His Mother.
Theo wiped his face with the back of his hand, which wrecked me, because I have watched that boy do that exact thing since he was eight years old.
“And then he made me promise.”
I could not breathe.
Because Jack never told us. Not once. Not one single time in fourteen months.
He asked me whether his hair would come back. He asked me in January whether he’d be able to start college a semester late instead of a year. He asked me — in February, six weeks before that scan — whether we’d let him go to Japan if the treatment worked, because he’d wanted to go to Japan since he was eleven.
