She shrugged. "I survive lunch. That's the worst of it."
That sentence stayed with me.
"Eventually, they'll find a new hobby."
Then, one Tuesday morning, Claire couldn't get out of bed. By afternoon, she was in the hospital while Dr. Matthews ordered tests.
For six days, nobody could give me a clear answer. Claire got weaker, and I got busier.
I tracked her meals, temperatures, medications, and test results.
On the seventh morning, Dr. Matthews finished checking Claire's chart.
"We're still ruling things out, Penny," he said.
Claire couldn't get out of bed.
I opened my notebook.
"Then why isn't she getting better?"
"Some answers take time. Right now, we have to keep watching the results."
"I hate everything about that."
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Claire shifted against the pillow.
"Then why isn't she getting better?"
"Mom."
"What, honey?"
She glanced at my notebook.
"You wrote the doctor's name again."
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"You do that when you're scared."
"What, honey?"
My pen stopped.
"I'm not scared."
Claire gave me a tired look.
I closed the notebook.
"Okay. Maybe a little."
She reached for my hand.
"I'm not scared."
"Me too."
I squeezed her fingers. For five seconds, she looked like herself again.
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Then teenage laughter exploded in the hallway.
Claire's smile vanished.
I stood.
"I'll handle it."
"Mom."
