She wasn't asleep. She was watching me with the careful attention of someone who had waited a long time for something and wasn't quite sure what to do now that it had happened.
I tried to say her name and managed to get closer. Susan leaned forward. Then she gently wrapped both arms around me, as if holding something fragile, and pressed her face against my shoulder.
She was watching me with that careful attention.
The sound she made was the deep, relieved cry of someone who had just set down something very heavy.
I still couldn't raise my arms very high, but I managed to put a hand on her back and squeeze it.
Susan told me that she had seen people suddenly start shouting and running after her. When she turned around and saw me on the ground, she said she had never run so fast in her life.
“I read the letter,” she added after a moment, her voice muffled against my shoulder. “I read it three times.”
“I haven’t forgiven you yet,” she added. “But I don’t want to lose you either.”
I told her that was enough. It was more than enough.
“I don’t want to lose you.”
Chris drove us home just yesterday. Susan was sitting in the back seat next to me, her shoulder against mine, just like when she was 12 and we had first met.
Chris hadn’t talked much since the hospital, but over those four days, something inside him had
