Page 57 of Pity Present

“Having too much fun, huh?”

She smiles like the action takes all her energy. “He’s a little overstimulated. Life at home is nowhere near this exciting.”

I don’t want to be nosy, but I am curious, so I ask, “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but is there something physically wrong with Ben?” Her eyes immediately become watery, which leads me to believe that there is. I should have kept my mouth shut.

“Ben has leukemia.”

I’m not a doctor, but I’ve noticed his greying pallor. That leads me to guess he might not be doing well. “I’m so sorry,” I tell her before offering a platitude I’m sure she hears all the time. “I’m sure he’ll get better soon.”

Tears silently start to fall down the woman’s face. “He won’t be fine,” she says. “In fact, if we had any hope that would be the outcome, we would have never brought him here and risked himgetting sick with something else.” She adds, “His immune system is shot from all the chemo.”

I say a silent prayer—actually, more of a plea—that God helps this family. “I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”

Her shoulders sag wearily. “Thank you.” Reaching out her hand to mine, she says, “I’m Francie, by the way. You know Ben, and my husband is Ward.”

Taking her hand, I ask, “Is there anything I can do?” I can’t imagine what that would be but honestly, I’d do anything I could to help this kid have a great vacation.

“Not unless you can get him courtside tickets to a Bulls game. The Make-A-Wish Foundation is working on it for him, but you wouldn’t believe the number of dying kids who want to score dream tickets like that.”

Dying.Just hearing the word causes my nervous system to backfire. Pulling out my wallet, I take out a business card and hand it to her. “I’m the new sportswriter atChicago Wind,” I tell her. “I don’t start until the current guy retires, but I would be happy to contact my boss and see if there’s anything we can do.”

Francie takes the card like it’s the answer to her prayers, which it probably isn’t because I don’t really have any pull yet. And I’m currently not Gillian’s favorite employee. “Thank you, Blake. That would be amazing.”

Francie grimaces when she sees the look on my face, which I’m sure conveys the doubt I’m feeling that I can come through for her. “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything to Ben. I know this is a huge ask.”

I decide then and there to do everything in my power to help this kid. I can’t imagine anything would be too big to ask if it would bring some joy to a dying child.

I’m reminded of the last weeks of my brother’s life. My sister and I were so young we couldn’t sort out what was happening to him. All we knew was that he wasn’t going to get better and that he was going to live in heaven with Jesus. We had no basis for processing the reality of that concept.

I assure Francie, “I promise you, I’m going to do everything I can.” And while I’m at it, I’m going to try to sweeten the pot in any way possible.

Looking as though she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, Francie says, “Thank you, Blake. I’d better get back to Ben now.”

My heart nearly breaks in two as I watch her walk away. Instead of going down to the mixer, I go back to my room and call Gillian again. I’m transferred straight through this time.

Her first word is, “What?”

“I need a favor,” I tell her. “A big one.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

MOLLY

The fact that Blake is here under false pretenses really ticks me off, and I didn’t even come to the lodge with hopes of meeting anyone. I’m here to work. So after going back to my room and changing into some dry and non-bloodied clothes, I head down to the gift shop.

Lorelai takes one look at me and gasps, “Have you been in an accident?”

I knew it was only a matter of time before I started to bruise. I should have put an extra layer of foundation on. “I walked into a door,” I tell her.

Concerned, she asks, “How is that even possible?”

I’m not trying to protect Blake as much as myself when I tell her, “I tripped.”

“Do you need to see a doctor?” She doesn’t appear convinced that I’m okay.

Shaking my head, I say, “I don’t think I broke anything.” Then I hurry to change the subject. “Have you had any requests for things you don’t already carry?”

Reaching under the counter, she pulls out a small notepad. “I’ve been keeping track. So far, I’ve had three people ask for protein bars, two for holiday-themed press-on nails, and one for inexpensive festive earrings.” She smiles before telling me that twin seven-year-old girls wanted the press-on nails so they could get fancy for supper in the dining room, and a teenage girl asked for the earrings.

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