“Good point.”
Lily grew.
High school.
College applications.
Cancer became something in her medical history instead of the center of every week.
She remembered pieces of illness.
Hospital corridors.
Bad-tasting medicine.
Pink cap.
Cole.
The lemonade stand.
She did not remember many of the worst nights.
Rachel was grateful.
Cole remembered all of Megan’s.
That never changed.
Grief softened.
It did not leave.
On Megan’s birthday every year, Cole disappeared for several hours.
Rachel never asked where.
One year Lily did.
He answered.
“Cemetery.”
She nodded.
The following year, she asked to come.
Cole hesitated.
Then agreed.
Megan’s grave was simple.
Name.
Dates.
A small engraved wrench below.
Lily placed a chocolate chip cookie beside the stone.
Cole stared.
“You know squirrels are going to eat that.”
“Then squirrels get a birthday present.”
He laughed.
They sat.
Lily was sixteen.
Almost the age Megan had been when she started working in Cole’s shop.
She asked:
“Do you ever feel bad that the fund got big because she died?”
Cole looked at her.
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
“You didn't make her die.”
“I know.”
“What do you mean?”
Lily picked grass.
“Sometimes people say my lemonade stand started the fund.”
“But Megan started it.”
Cole nodded.
“She did.”
“And sometimes they say I inspired it.”
“She wrote the idea before she met you.”
“I know.”
Cole smiled.
“You're worried you're getting credit that belongs to her.”
“Yes.”
He looked at Megan’s stone.
“I think she would hate all of us talking about who gets credit.”
Lily laughed.
“Probably.”
Cole continued.
“Your cookie didn't invent the idea.”
“Your lemonade stand didn't either.”
“But both pushed me to do what she'd already asked.”
He looked at Lily.
“That's how people work.”
“One person leaves something unfinished.”
“Somebody else carries it.”
“That doesn't erase the first person.”
Lily looked toward the cookie.
“I wish I remembered her.”
Cole’s expression softened.
“She remembered you.”
“How do you know?”
He reached into his pocket.
Pulled out a folded photocopy.
Rachel had seen it years earlier.
A page from Megan’s hospital notebook.
Different from the fund page.
Cole handed it over.
Megan had written:
Dad came back with a cookie some tiny bald girl gave him because apparently she decided he looked pathetic. He did. Whoever that kid is, I hope she gets out of here and grows up to be extremely annoying.
Lily stared.
Then laughed.
“She called me bald.”
“You were.”
“She called you pathetic.”
“You're focusing on the wrong thing.”
“She hoped I'd be annoying.”
Cole smiled.
“Wish granted.”
Lily folded the page carefully.
“Can I keep this?”
Cole thought.
Then nodded.
“Copy.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”