“Of course.”
“Real flowers. Not those sad plastic things people leave beside hospital beds.”
“Done.”
“And I want a photograph.”
“Several.”
“And cake.”
“Now you’re taking advantage.”
“I’m dying, Daniel. Let me negotiate.”
I smiled.
“All right. You get your flowers, your cake, your photographs, and your wedding.”
Her expression changed.
For a moment, she looked almost frightened.
“You mean it?”
I took her hand.
“Yes, Eleanor. I mean it.”
She began to cry.
Not the quiet tears I had seen before, but deep, trembling sobs that seemed to come from somewhere much older than her illness.
I sat beside her until she could speak again.
Then she whispered something I couldn’t understand.
“What was that?”
She squeezed my hand.
“Thank you for coming back.”
I assumed she meant the center.
I had no idea she meant something much bigger.
The wedding took place six days later in the center’s small garden.
