Her other obsession was
superheroes.
She kept a row of little figures beside her bed and chose one before every treatment.
Alice had been fighting leukemia for almost a year.
“Chemo buddy,” she’d announce.
That morning, Spider-Man was clipped to her IV pole.
I’d hung paper stars around the room and brought a small cake.
Alice looked at the decorations, then at me.
“You did too much.”
Spider-Man was clipped to her IV pole.
“You said that about Christmas and brought candy canes for everyone, Mom.”
“You only turn seven once.”
She smiled, but a moment later, she stared at the birthday balloon above her bed.
“Do you think I’ll have my eighth birthday here too?”
My hand went straight to her blanket.
“You only turn seven once.”
“Let’s get through seven first.”
Alice nodded too easily.
Before she got sick, she’d complained about being tired.
