One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths, #2)(21)

I have to remind myself to smooth my furrowed brow as I walk over to where the boys are. Sitting down cross-legged on the floor opposite them, I clap my hands. “Who wants to show me how to build one of these cool houses?” Neither, apparently, because that’s when I get hit with a barrage of questions—one after another, the two of them tag teaming like they’ve rehearsed it for hours.

“We’re almost six years old. How old are you?” Eric asks.

“Eighteen.”

“Do you have parents?” Derek’s voice is so soft next to his brother’s that I barely hear him.

I simply smile and nod, not elaborating.

“Why did you come here?”

“To learn how to build with LEGOs, of course.”

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A doctor. For kids like you.”

“Huh.” Eric pushes his little car around. “I think I want to be a werewolf. But . . . I’m not sure yet though. Do you believe in werewolves?”

“Hmm . . .” I twist my mouth as if considering it. “Only the friendly kind.”

“Huh.” He seems to consider that. “Or maybe I’ll be a race car driver.” He gives an exaggerated shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Well, lucky for you that you have lots of time to decide that, right?” I feel the little kick my subconscious gives my stomach, warning me to get away from this line of conversation.

Thankfully, Derek is already moving toward a new direction. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No, not yet. But I’m working on it.”

His little bald brows bunch together. “How do you work on a boyfriend?”

“Well . . .” My hand crosses over my mouth to keep from bursting out with laughter. With a quick glance over to my left, I see that Diane’s lips are pressed tightly together as she helps another patient paint. She’s within earshot and she’s trying hard not to laugh. “I met someone who I like and I think he might like me too,” I answer honestly.

Derek’s little head bobs up and down slowly as he mouths, “Oh.” He looks ready to ask another question, but his brother cuts him off.

“Have you ever kissed a boy?”

“Uh . . .” I stall for just a second, not expecting that question. “I don’t kiss and tell. That’s a good rule. You should remember it,” I say, and I fight against the blush.

“Oh, I will. Dad says one day I’ll want to kiss girls, but I’m only five so it’s okay not to want to now.”

“He’s right, you will. You both will.” I look at them both in turn with a wink.

“Unless we die,” Eric says matter-of-factly.

I pull my legs to my chest and hug them, the position somehow comforting against the sudden tightness inside. I’ve been around a lot of kids and I’ve heard a lot of things. I’ve even had several conversations about death and heaven. But, unlike that idle child chatter sparked by curiosity, Eric’s words send a chill through my body. Because they’re true. These two little boys in front of me may never kiss a girl, or become race car drivers, or learn that werewolves—friendly or otherwise—don’t exist. They may miss out on all that life has to offer them because for some cruel reason, children are not immortal.

“You’re pressing your lips together tight, like Mom does,” Eric says, snapping two Lego blocks together. “She always does that when we talk about dying.”

I’m not surprised. God, what that poor woman must face, watching not one but both of her little boys get pumped with rounds of chemicals, not knowing if it will be enough, wondering what the next few weeks, months, or years will bring!

A painful lump to my throat swells just thinking about it. But I can’t think about it, I remind myself. I’m here to make them not think about it. “How about we make a rule,” I begin slowly, swallowing. “No talk of dying during our playtime. Only talk about what you’re going to do when your treatment is over and you go home, okay?”

Eric frowns. “But what if—”

“Nope!” I shake my head. “There is no ‘what if.’ Got it? How about we don’t plan on dying. We plan on living. Deal?”

They look at each other and then Eric says, “Can I plan on not kissing a girl?”

The heavy cloud in the room suddenly evaporates as I burst into laughter, on the verge of tears for so many reasons. “You can plan whatever you want as long as it involves you growing old and wrinkly. Shake on it.”

Their eyes light up as they slip their little hands into my proffered one in turn, like we’re making a secret pact. One that I think I need as much as they do.

I help the twins build a battleship, an aircraft carrier, and a torture chamber—Eric’s idea—out of LEGOs. They chatter back and forth, bickering occasionally, exactly as I would expect twin brothers to act. It’s so normal that I almost forget that both of these boys are in a hospital with cancer. Almost. But that unease in my chest lingers, and no amount of giggles seems to dissolve it.

I’m surprised when four hours has passed so quickly and a nurse pokes her head in to tell the boys it’s time for them to tidy up and get back to their room. “Are you coming back again?” Eric asks, his eyes wide with the question.