But for the first time, I was ready to remember.
The next morning, I called Angie.
“Would it be all right if I visited Tucker at the hospital sometime?”
She sounded pleased.
“He's been asking about you.”
I smiled.
“Has he?”
“Every day.”
“What does he want?”
“He wants to know whether motorcycles can go faster than airplanes.”
I laughed.
“Well, I've got an answer for that.”
She paused.
Then her voice softened.
“And he wants to know whether you really meant it when you said you'd be on his team.”
My smile faded.
I looked toward Sarah's bedroom.
“Tell him I meant it.”
Angie was quiet.
Then she whispered, “I will.”
Two days later, I walked into a pediatric hospital carrying a small bag of books, a toy motorcycle, and more fear than I'd felt in years.
I had not been inside a children's cancer ward since Sarah died.
The smell of disinfectant hit me first.
Then the bright overhead lights.
The distant beeping of monitors.
The soft voices of nurses speaking outside patient rooms.
Every step brought back memories.
I nearly turned around at the elevator.
But then I remembered Tucker asking whether we were family.
I took a breath.
And I kept walking.
When I reached his room, he was lying beneath a blue blanket, watching cartoons on a tablet.
His face looked tired.
But when he saw me, he sat up so quickly that Angie reached to steady him.
“Bear!”
I smiled.
“Hey, boss.”
He grinned.
“You came!”
“Told you I would.”
He looked at the bag.
“What's that?”
“Important equipment.”
His eyes widened.
“Monster-fighting stuff?”
I sat beside the bed.
“Something like that.”
I pulled out a picture book about motorcycles.
Then a small toy bike.
Then a tiny plastic traffic cone.
Tucker stared.
“What's the cone for?”
“Safety.”
He frowned.
“That's boring.”
I laughed.
“Spoken like a true biker.”
Angie smiled from her chair.
We spent nearly an hour talking about motorcycles.
Tucker wanted to know why engines made different sounds.
He wanted to know whether a motorcycle could climb a mountain.
He wanted to know if I had ever seen a bear while riding.
Then he asked whether my motorcycle could fit inside the hospital elevator.
I told him it probably wouldn't.
He suggested we measure it.
I promised to ask the nurses whether they had a measuring tape.
Angie laughed for the first time since I entered.
When Tucker grew tired, I offered to leave.
He shook his head immediately.
“No.”
I looked at Angie.
She smiled gently.
“You can stay a little longer.”