“I felt my own temper start to rise.”
A cart rattled past. A doctor’s pager beeped somewhere down the hall.
“You don’t understand,” my best friend said, quieter now. “It’s easier if you just see it. I can’t explain it standing here. I tried on the phone, and I sounded insane.”
“Then help me understand on the way. Because I’ve known you for 20 years, and I don’t recognize you right now.”
Diane’s shoulders dropped, just a little.
“For weeks, Rachel. For weeks, I’ve watched him walk in here and make her laugh, eat, and sit up. And I stand at the foot of her bed, and I can’t get her to drink water.”
“You don’t understand.”
I stared at her.
“Diane…”
“Aaron shows up with snacks, and my daughter lights up. I show up with her favorite blanket from when she was six, and she just rolls over.”
“That isn’t his fault,” I said, defending my son.
“I know that,” my friend whispered. “I know that. But knowing it doesn’t make it stop hurting.”
She wiped her face quickly with the back of her hand, as if she were angry at her own tears for showing up.
“And today, today he did something, and I couldn’t even… I couldn’t find the words on the phone.”
“She just rolls over.”
Diane started walking again, faster now, her shoes squeaking on the polished floor. I kept pace.
“I’ve been jealous of a 17-year-old boy,” she said, almost to herself. “I’ve been jealous of him for being able to do something I can’t. Do you know how that feels? To resent the person who is keeping your child afloat?”
I didn’t know what to say. I reached for her elbow, and she let me hold it for one second before pulling away.
