I thought about that first afternoon in the diner.
The little boy holding out his money.
The terrifying question.
The way he'd looked at five bikers and decided they might be able to defeat a monster.
I smiled sadly.
“I'm glad he did too.”
A few weeks later, Tucker was admitted again for a planned part of his treatment.
His doctors had explained the expected process and possible complications to Angie, and the family prepared as carefully as they could.
I visited on an afternoon when he felt reasonably well.
He was lying in bed with his miniature leather vest folded beside him.
The stuffed dinosaur sat near the pillow.
The toy motorcycle rested on the bedside table.
When I entered, he smiled.
“Bear.”
I sat down.
“Hey, boss.”
He looked toward the window.
“Do you think Sarah liked dinosaurs?”
I considered the question.
“She liked rabbits.”
He frowned.
“That's not the same.”
“Nope.”
He looked at Captain Chomp.
“Do you think she'd be scared of him?”
I laughed.
“Probably not.”
Tucker nodded.
“Good.”
We sat quietly.
Then he looked at me.
“Bear?”
“Yeah?”
“Am I gonna die?”
The question hit me so hard that I felt the room tilt.
I looked toward Angie.
She was standing near the window.
Her face had gone pale.
Tucker waited.
I wanted to tell him no.
Every part of me wanted to say he would grow up, learn to ride a motorcycle, and spend the rest of his life telling people about the crazy bikers who came to visit him.
But I couldn't know that.
And he deserved better than a promise I had no power to keep.
I reached for his hand.
“Buddy, that's a big question.”
He nodded.
“The doctors are trying really hard.”
“Yes, they are.”
He looked toward the blanket.
“Sometimes I hear Mommy crying.”
Angie turned toward the window so Tucker wouldn't see the tears gathering in her eyes. Her fingers gripped the edge of the curtain, and for several seconds, she looked as though she might collapse beneath the weight of the question her little boy had just asked.
“Am I gonna die?”
I had heard those words before.
Eight years earlier, Sarah had asked me the same question while lying in a hospital bed, her favorite stuffed rabbit tucked beneath her arm. I remembered the way my heart had stopped, the way I'd searched desperately for something reassuring to say, and the terrible certainty that any answer I gave would be inadequate.
Back then, I'd told Sarah that everything was going to be fine.