“Anything that helps us relax is never silly,” I cut in. “I’m like that with folding clothes.”
That earned a tiny spark in her eyes, the kind that said,Finally, another weirdo.Two weirdos recognizing each other. Whoever wasn’t weird didn’t have a personality. At least, that was my theory.
“Laundry and folding clothes are my therapy. Your clothes, my clothes, everyone’s clothes! It just…quiets the brain.”
Her soft laugh bounced off the mops and brooms.
I didn’t need to ask why she was in the cleaning supply at this hour. Nor did she demand to know my reason.
One thing was clear: We’d both had a crappy crap day. Or night.
“I have a solution for days like this.”
“You do?”
I nodded, an arm looping around hers as I helped her up. “Right here in the hospital.”
The soft gurgles and tiny whines invaded my ears as we stepped into the green nursery.
Rows of white cribs lined the room, each one swaddled in soft, neutral blankets. Little legs kicked, learning how to exist. I tiptoed around the tiny hiccups of life.
“After being surrounded by death,” I whispered, “it’s good to be reminded that life still happens.”
Two doe eyes blinked up at me from a half-bald head. The infant let out a cute burp, then a wail.
“Hey, now, don’t be upset. You had to let it out,” I cooed, patting his tiny back. “You did good, puppy.”
“I’m not crying.” Teresa sniffed, hands joined at her chest, leaning over a crib with a little girl sleeping inside. “I might have found a better hobby than puzzles.”
I grinned. “Dinner tonight? I mean…” I glanced at my wristwatch. “Breakfast. My roommates and I?—”
I halted.
My nostrils caught it.
Paclitaxel.
Concern marred my face as I really observed Teresa.
Shoulders sagging, Teresa could barely keep herself upright. The bags under her eyes were trying to join her chin, and her skin had a sheen like olive oil—yellow, waxy.
I inhaled again. The unmistakable smell of chemotherapy clung to her like she was an actual bag filled with it. Like she’d just gone through a cycle.
But that’s impossible.
That would mean she had?—
I couldn’t contain it. “Why do you smell like chemo?”
Teresa opened her mouth, but when no sound came out, she closed it again. The human dipped her head. “I spilled a bag on me. I’m fine. Just exhausted.”
Her yawn betrayed her.
She avoided my gaze, staring at the new life in the crib. Clearly too scared to touch her with skin contaminated by chemotherapy.
“Go get some rest.”
Her head lifted. “My shift starts in three hours. Takes me too long to get back home.”
