At about eleven o’clock, the doorbell rang.
My dad set down his spatula.
“Expecting anybody?”
“Probably Carol from across the street,” my mom said, getting up. “She said she’d bring a casserole.”
But I had a feeling. A cold feeling, low in my stomach.
“I’ll get it,” I said.
“Claire, you should be resting—”
I was already up. I was wearing my mom’s old fuzzy pink robe because none of my own clothes fit, and my hair was in a messy knot, and I hadn’t showered in two days. I didn’t care. I walked down the hallway and opened the front door.
Ben and Diane were standing on the doorstep.
They were both crying.
I’d never seen Ben look like this. He hadn’t shaved. His eyes were red and swollen, with dark purple circles under them. He was wearing the same shirt he’d worn to the hospital. I recognized the coffee stain on the pocket. His hands were trembling.
