Lydie pulls her car up to the hospital entrance so we don’t have to walk through the snow. We move slowly, through the revolving glass door, Dad’s arm around me. It feels strange to have this sudden gust of winter on my face after so many hours in the sealed climate of the hospital. I hunch my shoulders against the cold.
Lydie rushes out to hug us with tears in her eyes.
“I was so worried,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Lydie and the twins spent the night at home with Grandma,” says Dad.
“Oh Max,” says Lydie, putting her arm around me. “I’m so sorry about what happened. About what you saw. I am just so sorry. I don’t even know what to say.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “You don’t need to say anything.”
“I want you to know, that was the first time,” says Lydie.
“Please,” I say. “I don’t need to talk about this.”
“Maybe later,” says Dad.
“Okay,” says Lydie. “Later when things calm down. If you want. Or not at all. What’s important is you’re okay. Hey. You know what? It’s so cold today. Let’s not stand out here and freeze. I want to get you home to your grandma, where you belong. The girls are in the car. We stopped by Whole Foods on our way and I’m going to make us all some organic carrot-ginger soup. And then I’ll take the twins home. We’ve all had a long night.”
We get in the car, my dad and Lydie in the front and me in the back with the twins. They throw their arms around me and bury their faces in my sides. Lydie pulls away from the curb and I watch through the rear window as the hospital’s red letters and white brick dissolve behind us like a bad dream. We head down the street toward the center of town, where normal people are doing what they always do on a snowy day: a store owner is shoveling his walk, a scruffy guy is clearing off his car. I watch them go about their business while my dad tells Lydie about all the things that happened to us in the hospital, some that I remember and some that I don’t.
I look out the window at the world going by and I feel like a speck, like a comma on a page, so tiny and voiceless, I could almost disappear and the world would go on, a never-ending sentence without pause.
Lydie pulls up outside our house.
She slings a cloth bag of vegetables over her shoulder, comes to the back, and opens the car door for me and the twins.
They walk me up the snowy path to the porch, my dad and Luna on one side and Lydie and Soleil on the other. Dad hands his keys to Lydie and she lets us in. The door opens and we are warm before we even step inside. I am enveloped by the familiarity of this intimate space, filled with our breath and our sweat and the cells of our skin. But at the same time, this feeling of complete familiarity makes me want to cry.
Grandma comes to the door.
“Max,” she says. “I was so scared.”
“I was scared too,” I tell her.
We sit at the kitchen table and watch Lydie make us soup.
We don’t say anything. We are too exhausted. The twins pull their chairs close and lean against me on both sides, two small, blond heads. I put my arms around their limp, warm bodies. Lydie doesn’t seem to mind the silence. She’s busy cooking for us: Carrots. Coconut milk. Ginger. Pepper. She finds our blender in the cabinet under the sink and sets it on puree. For a full minute, our kitchen is filled with whirring blades, and that horrible sound like bones grinding. Then she finds a saucepan. She lights the burner on the stove and puts up the soup. Lydie stirs and bustles around our kitchen, finding spoons and soup bowls, tidying up the counter and table while we watch, silently, too overwhelmed to speak or move. The soup warms. She adds butter and more ginger. Soon the kitchen smells orange and spicy. She pours soup into our bowls and joins us at the table.
“Drink up,” she says. “It’s good for you. Here’s a fun fact. Most people know that carrots are good for eyesight, but did you know that carrots are also an amazing natural brain food? It’s true. Perfect for concussions.”
“Huh,” says my dad. “That’s good to know.”
He takes a sip and his entire body melts.
“It’s wonderful,” he says, sighing.
Grandma takes a sip. Then she looks up and smiles at Lydie.
I take a sip in spite of myself. It is heavenly. I pick up the bowl with both hands and drink and drink until I am warm and orange on the inside, and I can’t help but close my eyes so I can taste it better, the way all things taste better with your eyes closed, buttery and thick going down.
Dad raises the bowl to his lips and drinks until his bowl is empty.
“Thanks,” he says when he is finished, and I know that he is thanking Lydie for more than the soup.
“You’re welcome,” says Lydie. She washes the dishes and puts them in the drainer to dry. Then she comes back to the table and kisses me on the head. I don’t stiffen or move away. I let her do it. I don’t know why. Her lips are warm from the soup.
“Get some rest,” she says.
We nod, too exhausted to say anything. Dad starts to get up from his chair to walk her to the door, but Lydie pushes him down gently. “Don’t,” she says. “I’ll let us out. I’ll call you tonight to see how you’re doing, okay? Take it easy. And take care of each other.”
She takes Luna by one hand and Soleil by the other.
“Take care of each other,” says Luna.
Lydie kisses Luna on the top of her head, smiles at us, and walks with the twins over to the front door. The door closes behind her, a soft, careful thump, much too soft to be final. Soon, I can hear the engine turn over, the sound of her car pulling off down the road.