"Wade knows you love playing with him."
Eli sniffed.
"Then he should come."
I looked toward the door.
"You're right, baby."
My voice broke.
"He should."
That night, after Eli fell asleep, I sat beside his bed staring at the wooden racetrack.
I replayed my conversation with Wade over and over.
Had I embarrassed him?
Had I made him feel obligated?
Had I accidentally suggested that he was doing something inappropriate by becoming so close to my son?
I had only wanted to thank him.
But I was beginning to fear that my question had touched a wound I didn't understand.
On the third morning, Eli didn't ask for the blue car.
That frightened me more than his tears had.
He lay quietly against his pillows, watching the doorway without saying anything. When I offered to set up a race, he shook his head.
"Not today."
I sat beside him.
"Okay, sweetheart."
He turned toward the window.
I looked at the clock.
It was 10:07.
For the first time in a year, I hated that number.
A few minutes later, a nurse appeared outside the room.
She looked at Eli.
Then she looked toward me.
"Could I speak with you for a moment?"
Something in her expression made my stomach tighten.
I immediately stood.
"Is something wrong with his tests?"
She shook her head.
"No. This isn't about his medical care."
I followed her into the hallway.
She led me toward a quiet alcove near the nurses' station.
Then she stopped.
For several seconds, she seemed unsure how to begin.
"There's something you should know about Wade."
I stared at her.
"What happened?"
She took a breath.
"He called the volunteer coordinator. He won't be coming in for a few days."
I felt a sharp pain in my chest.
"Why?"
The nurse lowered her eyes.
"He's having a difficult time."
I looked toward Eli's room.
"Did I do something?"
She shook her head.
"No."
I swallowed.
"Then what is it?"
The nurse was quiet.
I could see that she was deciding how much she could appropriately say.
Finally, she spoke.
"Wade has talked openly with some of us about his daughter. I don't want to tell his story for him, but I think it might help you understand why this week is difficult."
My hands became cold.
"His daughter?"
The nurse nodded.
"Her name was Lily."
I stared.
"Was?"
Her eyes filled.
"Lily died several years ago."
For a moment, the hallway seemed to tilt.
I reached for the wall.
The nurse continued gently.
"She was six."