You Give Good Love

by J. J. Murray

  “I’m okay,” Aniya whispered. “I missed you.”

  Hope saw tears in Dylan’s eyes. He’s not seeing Aniya right now. He’s seeing Shayna. Be strong, be strong.

  She touched Aniya’s hand through the plastic. “We’ve been out shopping all day for you.”

  “What’d you get me?” Aniya whispered.

  “Surprises,” Hope said. “Good ones.”

  “Like what?” Aniya asked.

  “You’ll find out Christmas morning,” Hope said. “When you get home.”

  Aniya shifted her head. “Hi, Dylan.”

  Dylan nodded. “Hi.” His body shook. “I’m . . . I’m sorry.” He stood and stumbled toward the door.

  Hope grabbed his hand. “Dylan, maybe we can tell her one thing we got her.”

  Dylan turned, tears pouring down his face. “It’s too . . . I’ve been here before, Hope,” he whispered.

  Hope put her lips on his ear. “And this one is coming home,” she whispered. “Tell her one thing we got her.”

  Dylan closed his eyes. “You have to guess, Aniya.”

  “A baseball,” Aniya whispered.

  Dylan squeezed Hope’s hand, went to the chair, and pulled it closer to Aniya. “Close.” He sat, leaning forward.

  He’s still crying. He’s not afraid to cry in front of a child. He’s not ashamed, and here come my tears to join his. Hope backed to the shadow of the door.

  “Why are you crying, Dylan?” Aniya whispered.

  “I want you to come home,” Dylan said. “I’ve missed you. I’ve burned all of Miss Hope’s toast.”

  “You don’t know the trick,” Aniya said. “I’ll teach it to you.”

  Dylan nodded, wiping his eyes. “We didn’t get you a baseball, but you were close. You get three guesses. That was your first one.”

  “A hat?” Aniya whispered.

  “No,” Dylan said. “You’re going to have so much hair you won’t want to wear a hat anymore.”

  He’s smiling again. He’s seeing Aniya now.

  “Why are you way over there, Hope?” Aniya whispered.

  Just feeling what Dylan felt with Shayna. “You two talk. I’ll be outside, and I’ll be seeing you on my lunch breaks as often as I can, okay?”

  “Okay,” Aniya whispered. “I like your ring.”

  “Dylan has good taste,” Hope said. He also has the best heart.

  Hope returned to the waiting area, wiping her eyes.

  “She will be fine,” Violine said.

  “I know,” Hope said.

  “Bondye bon,” Violine said. “God is good. Dèyè mon gen mon. Behind the mountains, there are mountains, but nanpwen mòn Jezi pa deplase. There is no mountain that Jesus cannot move.” She smiled. “Lespwa fè viv. Hope makes one live, oui?”

  “Oui,” Hope said.

  Violine sighed. “Georges has gone home with your gifts. He does not like being here. He must stay busy.” Violine laughed. “And Aniya wants your hair. I had no idea it was so long. She will trip all over herself playing baseball.”

  So strong. Violine could lose her daughter, and she finds time to laugh.

  “Does it not get in the way?” Violine asked.

  “Sometimes,” Hope said.

  Violine sat back, folding her hands in front of her. “They have been talking a long time.”

  “Dylan is probably telling her everything we got her,” Hope said.

  “Or he is telling Aniya everything he is getting you,” Violine said.

  Hope stood. “He might be doing just that.”

  She reentered Aniya’s room quietly and saw Dylan watching Aniya sleep.

  He saw Hope and reached out his hand.

  Hope took his hand and sat on his lap.

  They watched Aniya sleep for several minutes.

  She’s dreaming, and with her big eyes, I hope she’s having big dreams.

  “What were you two talking about?” Hope whispered.

  “Secrets,” Dylan whispered. He lifted Hope off his lap and stood. “Lots of secrets.”

  They returned to the waiting area. “She’s sleeping,” Dylan said.

  Violine hugged him. “Good.” She hugged Hope. “What should Aniya wear to the ballet?”

  “For most five-year-old girls, I’d say a dress,” Hope said. “Tell her that I plan to wear nice slacks, a fancy blouse, flats, and a long coat.”

  Violine smiled. “So she can wear her normal church clothes. We stopped fighting her about dresses a year ago. She is small, but she is strong. We will be ready.”

  Dylan took an envelope from his coat and handed it to Violine. “As I told you, Aniya’s cards have been selling very well. This is money she has earned so far. I’m sure she’ll earn even more.”

  “Thank you,” Violine said. “Thank you both.”

  As they rode a cab back to her apartment, Dylan twisted Hope’s ring. “I hope you’re right.”

  “About what?” Hope said.

  “Aniya being home in time for the ballet,” Dylan said. “That’s two weeks from tonight.”

  “Wow,” Hope said. “We’ll have to get you ready.”

  “What?”

  “What are you wearing to the ballet?” Hope asked. “I can’t go to the ballet with you dressed any old way.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “No hoodies allowed.”

  “I will wear a suit and tie, Miss Warren,” Dylan said, “and shiny black shoes.”

  “Ooh, I cannot wait to see you,” Hope said. “How much did little Aniya earn?”

  “She’s up to around fourteen thousand cards,” Dylan said, “so the check was for a little over twenty-five thousand.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Hope said. That’s amazing!

  Dylan sighed. “It won’t make much of a dent in their expenses, though, but it’s a start.”

  “It is,” Hope said. “So, what are we doing tomorrow?”

  “Sleeping in until dark,” Dylan said, “and then I will show you the lights.”

  “I like the sound of the that,” Hope whispered. “I could sleep for days.”

  The next evening, they rode the Lexington Avenue Express to Union Square in Manhattan to take a bus tour of an Italian-American neighborhood bursting with Christmas lights in Dyker Heights. Hope had never seen anything like it. Lifesize nativity scenes glowed, giant toy soldiers marched, Santas waved, choirs of angels filled yards, and houses became beacons of the holiday spirit.

  Their poor electric bills, but wow! Astronauts could see this neighborhood from space! The people around us taking pictures don’t need to use their flashes.

  “Puts my apartment to shame, doesn’t it?” Dylan asked.

  “It’s beautiful,” Hope said. “You turned your apartment into a holiday wonderland just for me to see. These people”—she pointed out the bus window—“they did it for the entire world to see. I’m seeing spots.”

  The following weekend, after a quiet week at Thrifty and five quiet but inquisitive (“What’d you get me for Christmas, Hope?”) peanut-butter-and-jelly lunches with Aniya, Hope and Dylan survived the Brooklyn Flea’s holiday market at Fort Greene without buying a single item. Dylan said it had to be some sort of record.

  “No one ever leaves here without buying something,” he said.

  Hope did linger a while looking at baby clothes.

  Dylan allowed her to do so, smiling the entire time.

  After an hour, however, Dylan considered her searching to be a bit excessive.

  “You’re not cooperating, Mr. Healy,” Hope said. “I am preparing to nest, and I need feathers for our child.”

  “We’ll just wrap her in a quilt until she’s five,” Dylan said.

  For that remark, Hope went through the mounds of baby clothes for another twenty minutes.

  While she looked, Dylan’s phone rang. “Hello, Mrs. Pierre-Louis.” As he listened, he closed his eyes. “That’s . . . that’s too bad.”

  Hope tried not to eavesdrop, but she couldn’t help it.

  Aniya�
��s body isn’t cooperating. It’s not rejecting, but it’s not accepting her transplant. She won’t be able to go to the ballet, and she has little chance of coming home for Christmas.

  Dylan closed his phone and put it into his pocket. “Aniya’s new bone marrow isn’t producing enough normal blood cells. Dr. Mishra is keeping her on antibiotics. Aniya had another blood and platelet transfusion this morning.”

  That’s three this week!

  He sighed. “Once her bone marrow is producing enough healthy red and white blood cells and platelets, she can go home, but right now, she’s not ready.”

  “We’re still going to see The Nutcracker together,” Hope said.

  “I wouldn’t feel right going,” Dylan said. “Not without Aniya.”

  “We’re not going to the ballet, Dylan,” Hope said. “We’ll take The Nutcracker to Aniya on Monday night.”

  “How?”

  “I know a guy,” Hope said. Gently used. I will enjoy. No disappointments. I hope he still has the DVD. I may even find some “new” used jeans in my new size. “And there’s something I’ll need you to do, too.”

  After she told him, Dylan kissed her. “You’re going to make Aniya so happy.”

  “And Kiki, Angie, and Justin will help, too,” Hope said. “They just don’t know it yet. Give me your phone . . .”

  Mr. Al-Hamsi was very happy to take Hope’s money on Monday for the Nutcracker DVD and two pairs of men’s 34-32 jeans. He even had mounds of red-and-white Santa hats and stockings.

  “I found just for you,” he said, pointing at the jeans.

  “I told you to find thirty thirty-two’s,” Hope said.

  Mr. Al-Hamsi smiled. “You have filled out. I see you from here. I say, she is getting, um, back.”

  He did not just say “back”! Though I am getting a little shelf back there. My weigh-ins are turning into church services filled with hallelujahs.

  “I get these just for you,” he said.

  The man’s been checking out my sexy derriere, yet another man measuring women with his eyes in Brooklyn. “I’m glad you have this DVD, Mr. Al-Hamsi. You’re going to make a little girl in the hospital very happy.”

  After Hope told him about Aniya, Mr. Al-Hamsi handed back five dollars. “Milad Majid,” he said. “Means ‘Merry Christmas.’ Tell the child Milad Majid for me.”

  “Milad Majid, Mr. Al-Hamsi,” Hope said. “La paix être à vous.”

  “Salaam alaikum,” he said. “Et bonne année.”

  He understood me and he speaks French. A trilingual man is selling DVDs and used jeans and checking out “backs” on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn. “A happy new year to you, too,” Hope said. “Where did you learn French?”

  “Grand-père,” Mr. Al-Hamsi said. “He learn from French in Syria. Then French leave after war. French good at leaving mess behind. Grand-père teach me.”

  Hope smiled. “We will talk more so we can improve your French.”

  Mr. Al-Hamsi smiled and nodded. “And I will teach you Arabic.”

  “L’assez foire, monsieur,” Hope said.

  “L’assez foire?” Mr. Al-Hamsi shook his head. “Is not fair enough. French easy. Arabic difficult. Not as difficult as Japanese, I tell you.”

  “You speak Japanese, too?” Hope asked.

  “Enough to order sushi,” he said with a shrug. “They appreciate when you try. Sometimes give you bigger piece of fish.”

  Hope laughed. “I’ll try to remember that.” Look at all these props. She handed back the five.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “How many hats can I get for five?” she asked.

  “With bell, two, without bell, four, one size fits all.”

  Some of them have bells? “I’ll take four.” She selected four.

  Mr. Al-Hamsi nodded. “You come back after Christmas. Half-off sale. No disappointments.”

  “I will.”

  Hope took the rest of the day off to prepare for the ballet, pediatric ICU style. She had already called the ICU nurses Sunday and told them her plan, and they were more than willing to participate. Dr. Mishra thought it was a fantastic idea.

  “I have always wanted to be in the ballet,” she said, “but I was too short.”

  Then Hope made popcorn.

  Fifty microwave bags’ worth.

  It kind of looks like snow.

  She filled a thirty-gallon kitchen trash bag with the popcorn, and then she called Dylan at Kinderstuff. “How’s it going?”

  “The red jacket is done and the mouse ears are ready, but the head will still be a little wet,” he said. “I’ve already burned out one hair dryer trying to dry the thing.”

  “How does it look?” Hope asked.

  “Like the real thing,” Dylan said.

  “Not too scary,” Hope asked.

  “No,” Dylan said. “He’s smiling. I don’t much like the whole white-tights-and-black-boots thing, though. How’s your costume coming?”

  What costume? I’m wearing gray sweats, some papier-mâché mouse ears, and some painted whiskers to be the Mouse King. Only Dylan will be in tights. I’m not crazy. Who wears tights in Brooklyn in December?

  “What about my tail?” Hope asked.

  There was silence.

  He forgot about my tail. “I can’t believe you aren’t thinking about my tail.”

  “I am, cailín,” Dylan said, “and that’s why I forgot about the mouse tails.”

  Do I believe him? Maybe it’s true. I have a nice tail now. “It’s getting late, Dylan,” Hope said. “You’re not going to be able to swing by here, are you?”

  “No.”

  Hope munched some popcorn. “It’s okay. I’ll get a cab and pick you up for a change.”

  “Gotta go,” Dylan said. “I left Ramón in charge of the hair dryer. You know how he likes to burn things. Bye, and thank you.”

  Don’t thank me yet, Mr. Healy. She called Thrifty. “Kiki, it’s Hope.”

  “I am not talking to you,” Kiki said. “You think of me only as a mouse. Why is On-Gee a toy soldier? I should be the soldier and she should be the mouse.”

  “How do your costumes look?” Hope asked.

  “On-Gee looks fantastic, of course,” Kiki said, “but I do not look good in gray. You will owe me.”

  “Be there by six-thirty, okay? I want to have a dress rehearsal.”

  “What is to rehearse?” Kiki said. “The mice fight the soldiers, and the mice lose. You are having me fight the woman I love, another reason I hate you.”

  “Dylan gets to kill me,” Hope said. “Put Justin on.”

  “What?” Kiki cried. “No, Hope. Please. No pictures.”

  “Put . . . Justin . . . on,” Hope said, “or me cuff yuh severely.”

  “Here he is,” Kiki said.

  “Hi, Hope,” Justin said. “I got the appointment changed. I’ll be there the entire time.”

  “Make sure you get lots of tight shots of Kiki and Dylan, okay?” Hope asked.

  “Will do,” Justin said.

  It’s not every day you get to see the love of your life wearing tights and a Jamaican woman wearing unflattering, baggy gray sweats.

  Hope rode in the cab to Kinderstuff in her sweats, boots, and new coat, the bag containing the popcorn and the DVD beside her. As soon as the driver pulled to the curb, Dylan rushed out carrying the nutcracker’s huge papier-mâché head.

  He’s wearing some sensationally tight tights. You go, Mr. Healy! Yuh me champion! Dat me grindsman!

  “Could I put this up here with you?” Dylan asked the driver.

  The driver blinked. “He’s kidding, right?”

  “He never kids,” Hope said. “He’s Irish.”

  The driver squinted. “The Irish kid all the time.”

  “I’m being ironic,” Hope said. “Would it fit in the trunk?”

  The driver shook his head and opened the front passenger door.

  The head barely fit.

  Dylan slid into the back seat and
shut the door. “Brooklyn Hospital Center.”

  The cab pulled into traffic.

  Hope put her hand on Dylan’s thigh. “Are you cold, or are you just glad to see me?” she whispered.

  “Both,” Dylan said with a grin. “Where are your . . .” His mouth dropped open. “You’re not wearing tights, Miss Warren.”

  “Right,” Hope said. “We’re going to be elephant mice tonight.”

  “So I’m . . . the only one,” Dylan said, smiling and shaking his head. “I suppose Justin will be there to record the event.”

  “Yes,” Hope said. “He’s bringing his zoom lens, too.”

  Dylan pulled up his red coat. “Do I look as if I need a zoom lens?” he whispered.

  “Nope,” Hope said. “A wide angle lens.”

  He straightened his jacket. “Thank you.”

  “Are the ears inside the head?” Hope asked. That has to be the strangest question I have ever asked!

  “Yes,” Dylan said. “Five pairs of mouse ears are in a bag.”

  Hope grazed his leg with her nails. “You look cute.”

  “Give me some popcorn,” Dylan said.

  Hope hugged the bag of popcorn. “You’re not stealing my snow.”

  “You know you can’t throw that around the ICU,” Dylan said.

  She pushed the bag against her door. “They’re putting down some plastic to catch it.” She walked her fingers across Dylan’s thigh.

  Dylan grabbed Hope’s hand. “Let’s not give them a real show, okay?”

  Dylan gave Hope the bag of mouse ears and promptly put on the nutcracker’s head before entering the hospital. After Dylan had to duck to get into the elevator, Hope held the elevator door so several people could take pictures of him with their cell phones.

  “Hope, please,” Dylan said.

  “I can’t hear you,” Hope said as more flashes lit up the elevator car. “I might be able to hear you if you take off the head.”

  “Not a chance,” Dylan said. “I am a professional nutcracker. It would ruin the mystery if I revealed my true identity.”

  When Hope and Dylan entered the pediatric ICU waiting room, Hope couldn’t stop smiling as Justin filled the room with flashes. Two ICU nurses wore gray scrubs and black boots, whiskers and button-black noses already painted on their faces. Angie had somehow stuffed all her hair inside a fuzzy black Beefeater’s hat and stood at attention in a sharp toy soldier’s costume complete with shiny black knee-high boots. Violine was putting the last whiskers on Dr. Mishra while Kiki put on her ears.