Page 140 of Past the Broken Bridges

The person lying on her side, curled into herself, can barely meet my eyes when I step in.

But when she does…

I swallow.

Red hair.

Blue eyes.

I’m Sawyer. LikeTom Sawyer. It’s a book.

My eyes stay locked on her hair, the same color I remember from thirteen years ago. Except it looks like somebody cut it all off. Did somebody do that to her, or did she do it herself?

It’s hard to process how different she looks compared to what I’m used to, no matter how long I take her in.

Sawyer doesn’t make a move, doesn’t say a word as I soak up her fragile image.

The nurse puts a hand on my arm, as if she’s trying to understand what I must be feeling. She has no idea though.

Because thirteen years ago, I said goodbye to the only person who offered me a semblance of peace when my life was falling apart.

And now, all this time later, I’m meeting her for a second time after saying goodbye to the only other person who helped me get through the cruel fate dealt to me after Hurricane Katrina.

Sawyer left.

Then Mom.

And now Dawson.

The nurse squeezes my arm, bringing me back to reality. “Sawyer is one of the most stubborn patients I’ve had inquite some time. But that kind of strength is exactly what cancer patients like her need to get through it.”

My ears start ringing as the world stops around me. I’m not sure when the nurse drops her hand or when my eyes peel from Sawyer’s short red hair down to her unblinking eyes.

She just lays there. Staring. Distant. Like she’s not even here at all.

Cancer.

Suddenly, I forget about the short memories we created together when we were kids. The fruit snacks and the chips and the tree climbing and the gossiping. I forget about missing her and wondering what ever happened to her and her family and focus on what’s right in front of me. Because none of that matters now.

Not when we’re here, two adults trying to figure out life, both grieving the same person, dealing with our own traumas.

What happened to us?

“I’ll leave you two be,” the nurse tells me softly, her eyes drifting to Sawyer. “If you need me, you know what button to push.”

Once the door closes behind her, Sawyer finally blinks. It’s slow. Tired. Her eyelids heavy with exhaustion.

“How long?” I ask, still standing by the door.

I’m too afraid to walk farther in, to get closer.

Sawyer pulls the blankets up to her chin. “I’ve known for a long time.”

I stare, unable to speak.

She’s known she’s sick for a long time, but she’s never gone to the doctor while she’s been here. Never told me about any appointment. Any treatment. My aunt died from breast cancer. My mom took her to every appointment,every scan. I remember it all. How the life drained from her eyes the longer she fought.

That’s not Sawyer.

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