heat floods through me, forcing me to look away. “You work at Children’s?” he asks, gesturing to my name tag.
I nod. “Pediatric oncology.”
He smiles. “You help sick kids. That’s nice.”
“Yeah, well, the kids I work with mean a lot to me.” I feel silly for replying like that, but he looks into my eyes for a long time before smiling.
“They’re lucky to have you.”
“Thanks. Well,” I say after another loaded pause, “I should be heading home.”
“Sure. Right,” he says. “I’m sorry again about all the collisions. I’ll watch where I’m going next time.”
“No, I kind of like running into you,” I say softly, then I hurry away before he can say anything else. I look back once over my shoulder and see that he’s still standing there, staring after me. Our eyes lock for a beat, and then I turn around and force myself to get into my car without looking back.
I sneak another look after I’ve closed my car door and see that he’s gone. I squeeze my eyes closed for a second, and then I pound my palms into my steering wheel. “Damn it, Jill!” I say aloud. “You can’t flirt with him. He won’t remember you!”
There’s something there with him, I can feel it. But my time is up. You can’t create a relationship in a day, no matter how many times you repeat it.
6
I NSTEAD OF HEADING home, I drive to the small cemetery on the edge of town where my mother is buried and walk to her grave. It’s been five years since she died, but I still feel lost without her.
“Mom,” I say, reaching out to touch her headstone. I choose to believe that she can hear me; it’s why I come here at least twice a month to talk with her. “Guess what? It turns out I’ll be seeing you sooner than I thought. I’m dying. Apparently, I only have five days left.”
I take a deep breath, trying to digest the reality of the situation. “The thing is, Mom,” I continue, “there are so many things I want to do with my life, and there’s not nearly enough time. Did you feel that way too? Does everyone feel that way when they find out they’re dying?” I listen for an answer, but there’s nothing but the rustling of the wind through the leaves, so I go on. “One of the kids on my floor has shown me something, though. I know this is going to sound totally crazy, but there’s a tree in the lobby of the hospital that grants people the ability to live the same day over and over again. I didn’t believe him at first, but I think I’m reliving today already. Or maybe this is just a sign that I’ve already lost my mind.”
I pause and add, “And I’ve met this guy. I think you’d like him. But that’s a crazy thing to be thinking about now, right?”
Again, the only reply is the soft whisper of the wind. After a while, I say good-bye to my mother, stand up, and head back to my car.
On the drive home, I call my father, and I’m relieved when he picks up instead of Sharon.
“Hey, Dad,” I say when he answers.
“Jill?”
I resist the urge to tell him that of course it’s me; he doesn’t have any other children. “Yeah.”
“Hi, dear. Sharon and I were just headed out to dinner, so I can only talk for a few seconds. What can I do for you?”
I open my mouth to tell him my bad news, but then I realize something. Telling him will be useless if I wake up in the morning and find myself repeating the day again, and it will only hurt him in the short term. “I was just calling to say that I love you, Dad.”
He’s silent for a minute, then he laughs. “You dying or something?”
My heart aches, not just because of his uncannily correct joke, but because the sentiment behind it is right. We don’t have the kind of relationship where we call and say that to each other. Everything went so off track years ago, and we’ve never gotten it back. I laugh weakly instead of answering his question. “Have a good time at dinner, Dad.”
“Thanks.” He pauses. “And Jill? I love you
I nod. “Pediatric oncology.”
He smiles. “You help sick kids. That’s nice.”
“Yeah, well, the kids I work with mean a lot to me.” I feel silly for replying like that, but he looks into my eyes for a long time before smiling.
“They’re lucky to have you.”
“Thanks. Well,” I say after another loaded pause, “I should be heading home.”
“Sure. Right,” he says. “I’m sorry again about all the collisions. I’ll watch where I’m going next time.”
“No, I kind of like running into you,” I say softly, then I hurry away before he can say anything else. I look back once over my shoulder and see that he’s still standing there, staring after me. Our eyes lock for a beat, and then I turn around and force myself to get into my car without looking back.
I sneak another look after I’ve closed my car door and see that he’s gone. I squeeze my eyes closed for a second, and then I pound my palms into my steering wheel. “Damn it, Jill!” I say aloud. “You can’t flirt with him. He won’t remember you!”
There’s something there with him, I can feel it. But my time is up. You can’t create a relationship in a day, no matter how many times you repeat it.
6
I NSTEAD OF HEADING home, I drive to the small cemetery on the edge of town where my mother is buried and walk to her grave. It’s been five years since she died, but I still feel lost without her.
“Mom,” I say, reaching out to touch her headstone. I choose to believe that she can hear me; it’s why I come here at least twice a month to talk with her. “Guess what? It turns out I’ll be seeing you sooner than I thought. I’m dying. Apparently, I only have five days left.”
I take a deep breath, trying to digest the reality of the situation. “The thing is, Mom,” I continue, “there are so many things I want to do with my life, and there’s not nearly enough time. Did you feel that way too? Does everyone feel that way when they find out they’re dying?” I listen for an answer, but there’s nothing but the rustling of the wind through the leaves, so I go on. “One of the kids on my floor has shown me something, though. I know this is going to sound totally crazy, but there’s a tree in the lobby of the hospital that grants people the ability to live the same day over and over again. I didn’t believe him at first, but I think I’m reliving today already. Or maybe this is just a sign that I’ve already lost my mind.”
I pause and add, “And I’ve met this guy. I think you’d like him. But that’s a crazy thing to be thinking about now, right?”
Again, the only reply is the soft whisper of the wind. After a while, I say good-bye to my mother, stand up, and head back to my car.
On the drive home, I call my father, and I’m relieved when he picks up instead of Sharon.
“Hey, Dad,” I say when he answers.
“Jill?”
I resist the urge to tell him that of course it’s me; he doesn’t have any other children. “Yeah.”
“Hi, dear. Sharon and I were just headed out to dinner, so I can only talk for a few seconds. What can I do for you?”
I open my mouth to tell him my bad news, but then I realize something. Telling him will be useless if I wake up in the morning and find myself repeating the day again, and it will only hurt him in the short term. “I was just calling to say that I love you, Dad.”
He’s silent for a minute, then he laughs. “You dying or something?”
My heart aches, not just because of his uncannily correct joke, but because the sentiment behind it is right. We don’t have the kind of relationship where we call and say that to each other. Everything went so off track years ago, and we’ve never gotten it back. I laugh weakly instead of answering his question. “Have a good time at dinner, Dad.”
“Thanks.” He pauses. “And Jill? I love you
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