Page 22 of How You See Me
“You have to send me a picture of you doing each activity.”
“Is that proof I followed directions?”
“Kinda. And I want to see . . . like I’m there.”
My throat tightens. “Of course. I’ll text them to Mom’s phone.”
“Rule number two: I want to see where you are.”
“What do you mean?”
She asks Mom for help.
“She wants to track your progress with an app. I think there are a few out there where you can share your location with someone.”
“That sounds cool. Done. I’ll find one before I leave and set it up.”
“Rule number three: Collect a rock at every stop. We got you a jar.”
Mom sets it on the table—a clear plastic jar with a red lid, decorated with tiny drawings of everything we might see.
Lifting it, I examine every side. It’s downright adorable.
“Do you like it?”
“I love it. Do you want smooth rocks you can paint or any kind.”
She taps her chin as she considers. “Smooth. If you can.”
“Got it.” Her eyes sparkle with what I hope are happy tears, and I take her hand. “Are you sure you don’t want me to wait for you? We can do this trip together another time.”
She shakes her head fast. “I’m sure.”
“Okay. Maybe when I get back and you’ve kicked cancer’s butt, we can plan a new one. Scotland castles? Surfing in Australia? African safari? Whatever you want.”
Her arms stretch wide for me, and I carefully lift her into my lap.
“Thank you, Sprinkles.”
I chuckle. That’s new. “Sprinkles?”
“Yeah. Cupcakes are better with sprinkles,” she murmurs, dropping her head to my shoulder. “And you make me feel better.”
“Oh, honey.”
“Honey is for bees,” she says, yawning. “Sprinkles and cupcakes. Together always.”
“Always.” Lost in my love for her, I kiss her hair. “I love you so much.”
???
“Bye, Haysie!” Ava shouts from the front stoop as I head toward the van. We spent the morning doing whatever she wanted—board games, cartoons, coloring outside the lines because she thinks it’s more artistic that way—and now I somehow have to walk away. “Have fun with Josie!”
Knowing what she’s insinuating after the suspicious number of questions she asked, I don’t bother responding with more than a wave.
At the van, I go to say goodbye one last time, but Mom is already helping Ava’s overworked body back inside. She wanted to walk with me instead of ride in her wheelchair—pride carrying her down the hallway and outside—but the short walk drained all her energy. I want to run back and carry her the rest of the way, but swooping in would only defy the reason for the effort. She’s being brave, and I need to let her.
But it’sso damn unfair.
