My mom was sitting on the edge of the bed so I stood awkwardly beside it, not sure where to put my hands. I didn’t want to think too much about the private room we were in, with its windows looking into the woods, or the armchair that folded down into a cot. They’d never given us one that was so nice, and I didn’t want that—I didn’t want to settle in. Sara was supposed to be going home soon.
“They think it’s pneumonia.” My mom was looking past me, her eyes unfocused.
“But she didn’t seem sick this morning.”
“It came on quick,” Lydia said, and leaned forward in the armchair, her elbows on her knees. “She was exhausted so I let her rest. I just let her rest and then she wouldn’t wake up.”
Sara’s skin was pale and damp, long strands of hair sticking to her face and neck. My dad paced back and forth, watching her as though she might wake up at any moment and explain things to him.
“I’m going to find the doctor,” he finally said.
Sara’s nose and mouth were covered by a plastic face mask, the machines whirring beside her. My instinct was to do what I always did at home—adjust her bed, her pillow. Get a few snacks from the kitchen so she never had to ask for them. But now, here, there was no way to help.
We’d come close before, but this wasn’t supposed to be it. It couldn’t be. She still had time, probably years, they’d said, and we had made plans. We hadn’t been on a boat together since we were kids, and her doctor said she could go when it got warmer. She’d use a wheelchair but they said we could take her out on the lake. We wanted to write songs together, me on the guitar and her singing, the lyrics pulled from her poetry. We were supposed to have a John Hughes marathon next week.
I folded the thin blue blanket up from her feet, letting it cover her waist. There was no room for me in her bed, so I curled up on the floor beside the armchair.
11
Sara and I had agreed: Claudia Kishi was the coolest babysitter in the Baby-Sitters Club. It wasn’t just that she had great style, with feather earrings, a snake bracelet, and suspenders that held up purple pants. She had all the things we wanted: Unrealized artistic talent that was certain to be realized at some point in the future, in some remarkable way. A best friend from Manhattan. Junk food hidden in desk drawers and shoeboxes. A prime spot in a love triangle. Her own phone line.
Long after Mary Anne, Dawn, and the others had faded in our memories, Claudia was the one who stayed with us, informing our decisions. Long after the series had been packed in boxes and deposited in the attic, she was the reason we’d bought the hollowed-out book from the Blackwell’s garage sale and then stuffed it with Charms lollipops. We’d hidden Warheads in my blue plastic piggy bank, and Big League Chew in the back of our pillowcases. The first thing I did that night, when I came home from the hospital, was dig a Baby Ruth bar out of the inside of my patent-leather umbrella and eat it in bed.
I’d been the last one to talk to my sister that morning. I’d said goodbye to her after my parents left for work and before Lydia arrived, checking if she needed me to pop in a video or bring her something. I’d been so nervous about seeing Tyler and what that would or wouldn’t mean that I must not have realized something was wrong. There was no way she’d go from talking, laughing even, to not being able to speak or open her eyes. What had I missed?
I didn’t want to move, but I couldn’t stop thinking of Sara in that room, being prodded with needles. When I closed my eyes, I saw her in the hospital bed. It wasn’t until after nine, when I was desperate for a distraction, that I finally went downstairs in search of real food.
A frenetic, rambling voice drifted into the kitchen, and I knew my dad was medicating the way he always did, by watching baseball. He was so obsessed with the Red Sox I could identify the different announcers without looking at the screen. My mom had stayed with Sara, and the house suddenly felt huge with just us there.
The top shelf of the fridge was packed with medications. I couldn’t pronounce any of the names. There were amber pill bottles and large saline bags that Lydia hooked up to Sara’s IV. Vitamins and creams. I grabbed supplies to make a turkey sandwich. I peeled a few pieces of meat from the stack and folded them on the bread, then took some of the extra, smaller pieces for Fuller.
“Fuller, I’ve got turkey for you,” I called, as if he’d understand. He was usually right there as soon as I opened the fridge door.
He didn’t come. Actually, he hadn’t greeted me after school either, and not after we’d gotten back from the hospital. No one had even mentioned letting him out or walking him since we’d gotten home. His bowl was still full of kibble.
I went to the top of the den stairs. “Dad, are the Kowalskis watching Fuller?” It took my dad a few seconds to register I was talking.
“Fuller? No, he’s here somewhere. Did you check the usual places?”
“Not yet…”
“Maybe upstairs?”
He looked at me, then back at the TV.
I went upstairs, assuming he was just waiting for Sara to come home, but when I flicked on her light his crate was empty. He wasn’t curled up under the bed. Then I checked and double-checked my room. Sometimes he liked the chaise by my parents’ dresser, but he wasn’t there either.
“He’s not here,” I said, returning to the den. My heart was pounding now, and I could feel my voice getting thin with nerves. “I can’t find him anywhere.”
My dad got up, but he was still watching the TV until he reached the stairs. His eyes flicked over the obvious places, the kibble bowl and the back door, where Fuller sometimes waited, whining at the glass to come in. Then he went into the living room and knelt on the floor.
“Bingo,” he said. “He’s probably just scared. It was a long day for all of us.”
Sure enough, Fuller was curled into a tight ball under the back corner of the couch. His eyes were open but he didn’t move, even when he saw me. My dad kissed me on the head and went back to the den.
“Fuller, it’s okay,” I tried. “I have a treat for you in the kitchen. Come here.”
Treat was one of the few words that Fuller understood, but he didn’t perk up when I said it. I inched closer until I could just barely reach him. He hated being dragged anywhere or being forced to do anything, but it was just too depressing—the thought that Fuller was depressed. I needed him.
As soon as I touched his front leg he let out a low growl, his whole body trembling with it. “It’s okay, buddy,” I reassured him. I tucked a hand under each of his front legs and tried to slide him out. He squirmed and growled some more.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “You’re shaking. Are you sick?”