Page 44 of Eleanor & Grey

I know you said you didn’t need my reply, but being the stubborn guy that I am, I wanted to email you after our talk tonight. I just wanted you to know that you’re not too sad for me. If anything, you are the perfect amount of sad, because you are going through a really shitty thing. Honestly, I would feel a bit scared if you were happy.

Be sad.

Happy can come later.

And you don’t have to push me away. You aren’t too much for me. I want to be there for you, and I’m not going to stop just because you tell me to. This is what being my friend means. It means me being too much sometimes, me checking in on you and wanting to know about the bad days. It means when you’re drowning, I drown, too.

It’s okay for you to lean on me, even if I’m a thousand miles away.

Also, and I cannot make this clear enough: you not wanting your mom to suffer doesn’t mean you are evil in any way, shape, or form.

If anything, it makes you a good person because you don’t want your loved one to hurt anymore.

That’s not a monster—it’s a saint.

Don’t let those thoughts eat you up at night.

You’re a good person, Eleanor Gable.

And if you ever forget, just check for my emails.

I’ll be there to remind you.

-Grey

15

Eleanor

On a quiet afternoon after I returned home from school, Mom and Dad were sitting outside near the ocean, looking out at the waves crashing against the shore.

I walked toward them and smiled. Dad looked at me, his eyes dripping with tears, and my smile quickly disappeared. “What is it?” I asked.

Dad couldn’t even speak.

He just shook his head and covered his mouth with his hand.

“Mom?” I moved over to her. She was resting her head against the back of the wheelchair, and her eyes were closed. I took her hand into mine. “Mom.”

She ever-so-lightly squeezed my hand.

“Still here, Eleanor Rose,” she said.

I exhaled in relief. “I was nervous.”

“It’s okay.” She slowly opened her eyes and raised a hand to my cheek. “Can I have a minute alone with Ellie, Kevin?”

He cleared his throat and sniffled. “Yeah, of course.”

Dad walked away, and I sat down next to Mom’s wheelchair. The light breeze brushed against our skin. She was so tiny, nothing but skin and bones. Sometimes I worried if I touched her even softly, she’d just shatter into a million pieces.

“Do you need another blanket?” I asked.

“I’m good.”

“Maybe you’re thirsty? I can get water.”

“I’m good.”

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