"Have you heard from the motorcycle club?"
The woman smiled.
"Yes."
Rachel raised an eyebrow.
"What now?"
"They want to know whether we have any feedback."
Rachel considered.
"Feedback?"
"About the visit. What worked, what didn't, what they could do better next time."
Rachel smiled faintly.
"Next time?"
The coordinator nodded.
"Apparently they want to come back."
Rachel leaned against the wall.
For several moments, she thought about the night.
Then she nodded.
"Tell them the gift organization was excellent."
The coordinator smiled.
"And?"
"Tell them we need stricter handling of oversized bags near beds."
"Of course."
"And perhaps fewer visitors waiting in the children's corridor."
The woman wrote that down.
Rachel hesitated.
Then added.
"Tell them the children loved the gifts."
The coordinator nodded.
Rachel's expression softened.
"And tell Big Jim..."
She stopped.
The woman waited.
Rachel looked toward Christopher's former room.
It now held another patient.
Another child.
Another family trying to face something frightening.
She swallowed.
"Tell him his visit mattered."
The coordinator nodded slowly.
"I will."
Christopher's mother did not remember much about the first week after her son's death.
She remembered the hospital room.
The little teddy bear.
The way his hand felt in hers.
She remembered the paperwork and the unbearable practical decisions that followed.
She remembered someone asking what clothing she wanted him to wear.
She remembered staring at a tiny pair of shoes and being unable to understand how she was supposed to choose.
She remembered the funeral.
The flowers.
People speaking softly.
The terrible way ordinary conversation continued around her.
Most of all, she remembered returning to a home filled with things Christopher would never use again.
His cereal bowl stood in the cupboard.
A small jacket hung near the door.
His favorite blanket remained folded on the couch.
A box of crayons rested beneath the coffee table.
His bedroom smelled faintly of clean sheets and the shampoo she had used when he was well enough to bathe at home.
She entered the room only once during the first month.
Then she closed the door.
Not because she wanted to forget.
Because the sight of the empty bed was more than she could bear.
Friends visited.
Relatives brought food.
Some stayed.
Others, unsure what to say, gradually stopped calling.
People told her to be strong.
Told her Christopher would always be with her.
Told her she needed to take one day at a time.
Some of the words were kindly meant.
Some helped.
Others made her feel as though she was expected to become manageable for everyone else's comfort.
She did not want to be strong.
She wanted her son.