Fingertips brushed my hair off my forehead and cupped my cheek. It was Memmy. As soon as she knew I was awake, she’d bring me chicken noodle soup and a turkey sandwich with the crusts cut off. She’d read aloud to me: “The woods are lovely, dark, and deep . . . ” We’d listen to Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” and cry with happiness that we were alive to hear it. Her kiss on my cheek was feather-light. I heard her whisper, “I love you.” You didn’t die, I thought. “Of course not,” she whispered. “You love me.” Then I opened my eyes. “Hi,” Julie said. She was leaning over me, and I was in a metal hospital bed. Colorful posters about AIDS and STDs served as wallpaper behind her; and there was an ebony clock with Roman numerals for the hours between two dark wood doors. It said one o’clock; judging by the subdued lighting, I guessed it was one in the morning, not in the afternoon.
