Her mother, on the other hand, knows all too well. Shoulders hunched. Eyes heavy with sleeplessness.
I step into their bay, the slight scrape of the curtain drawing their attention.
“Good morning, Ella. Mrs. Bailey,” I say.
Her mother looks up, her lips tugging into a nervous smile. “Dr. Cavendish.”
Ella tilts her head, scrutinizing. “You’re really tall,” she announces, matter-of-factly. As if this is the only detail worth addressing. “Are you the tallest doctor here?”
A faint smile pulls at my mouth.
“I might be,” I say, crouching slightly to meet her gaze. “Though you’re quite the tall young lady yourself.”
She wrinkles her nose, unimpressed. “You’re the boss, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. I’ll be the one taking care of you.”
Her brow furrows, her grip tightening on the rabbit. “Do you know how?”
Her mother flushes. “Ella! Manners, please.”
I hold up a hand, waving away her embarrassment with a small smile. “It’s all right. That’s a fair question.”
Turning back to Ella, I keep my tone light but steady. “Yes, Ella, I do know how. I’ve been fixing tummies for a very long time, and I’ll be extra careful with yours. Does that sound all right?”
She considers this with impressive gravity.
Then she gives a small, solemn nod. “Okay. But if you mess it up, I’m going to tell everyone. Even my headmaster.”
“That’s a deal,” I say. “But I promise we won’t mess it up.”
I nod toward the stuffed rabbit she’s clutching. “And who might this distinguished gentleman be?”
“Mr. Tickles,” she says, lifting him with great ceremony. “He’s only got one eye. He lost it in the washing machine. He still has nightmares, and I have to calm him down. A lot.”
I lean in, inspecting the one-eyed rabbit with the seriousness his plight demands. “I see. Mr. Tickles appears to have endured quite the ordeal. Remarkably resilient. Rather like you, Ella.”
Her lips twitch into a shy smile. “He’s not real, though,” she confesses, as though letting me in on a secret. “But he gets scared sometimes. And he keeps bumping into things ’cause he can’t see properly anymore.”
I tilt my head. “You know what? I think we can arrange something special for Mr. Tickles. How about I ask one of our nurses to find a brave sticker for his sore eye? Something suitably sparkly.” Lowering my voice conspiratorially, I add, “But first, we’ll focus on you. I think Mr. Tickles would understand that you take priority.”
She nods, seemingly satisfied with this arrangement.
“Now, Ella,” I say, “do you have any questions about the procedure? Anything you’d like to know?”
She tilts her head. “Will it hurt? Like . . . a lot?”
“You’ll be asleep the whole time. You won’t feel a thing during the surgery. And when you wake up, you might feel a littlesore, but we’ll make sure you’re as comfortable as possible. Mr. Tickles will be waiting for you. How does that sound?”
She nods, little fingers tightening around Mr. Tickles’s paw. But then her wide, serious eyes meet mine, and she asks in a quiet voice, “Okay. But what if . . . what if I can’t be normal after this?”
The question makes my chest tighten but I don’t let it show.
“Ella,” I say, “there’s no such thing as normal. Every young lady is extraordinary in her own way, and you are no exception. This surgery is merely to help you feel better, so you can continue being the remarkable person you already are.”
Her small brow furrows. She’s skeptical.
After a moment, she nods, pressing Mr. Tickles tighter against her chest. “Okay,” she whispers.
