Maggie and Chip
Maggie notices some stubble on Chip’s face as he lies in the hospital bed and thinks, This is the oldest he will ever be.
She wants to go home and collapse on her bed, turn off the prairie girl lamp and get under the chenille bedspread and put her head under a pillow.
But she can’t hide from him, or their parents, not even for a moment.
His skin doesn’t look the same, and he gets terrible nosebleeds.
Their parents are constantly at the hospital, but whenever she’s alone with him, when their parents go out to whisper in the hallway with the doctors or when they have to fill out paperwork at the nurses’ station, she notices he sits up a little straighter.
They kept him home as long as possible, but finally their mother panicked and said he needed to be safe. She said what if Chip fell, what if he had a seizure. “I’ve always kept my kids safe!” she said and started crying.
“Dad, just take me to the hospital. I can’t have her worrying like this.” He winked.
“You sure, bud?” Their dad’s voice was so different those days. It was higher, sharper.
Chip nodded.
But on this day, he sits up straight, and the sunlight through the window makes that stubble on his chin glow. His hair, semi-wavy, wild, looks like an artist painted it. Maggie felt sick to her stomach when the doctor said he’d lose his hair during chemo. But in his defiant way, he’d kept it.
“Tiger,” he says. “I have a request.”
She nods. She feels so alone. The only person she wants to talk to about Chip dying is Chip.
It makes no sense, but she isn’t used to going through anything without him.
They used to look out her bedroom window on Christmas Eve for Santa’s sleigh.
They used to take bets on how long their parents’ silly fights would last. She used to dread the thought of his room being empty when he left for college, the thought of him coming back different, and now he is going to leave her forever.
She looks at him and thinks he’ll say something that will make her cry: Take care of Mom.
Something like that. “Anything you need,” she says.
“Next time you’re here, bring Velveteen Rabbit.”
“That book?”
“Yeah.”
“You and that dumb rabbit.” She remembers how she was the one to get the book in her Easter basket many years ago, but he picked it up and started reading it over and over. The first time he finished, Chip looked like he was about to cry. “Darn stuffed bunny.”
“I just want to hear it again,” he says now.
“Of course I’ll bring it.” She goes over to his bed and pats his hand. It feels cool, but for that moment, the sunlight is shining on them both.