Every day after school Sam’s mother brought his sister to visit. Some days Katie would have Twistie crumbs colouring the corner of her mouth, others a stain of chocolate milk on her jumper. For Sam it seemed wholly unjust that his sister was being lavished with treats at the hospital canteen while he was the one suffering all the injections and checkups and daytime television of the children’s ward. Sometimes he could barely bring himself to look at her as she chattered about what her friends at school were doing, or whatever class project she was working on.
His mother told him later that getting a snack was the only thing that helped calm Katie down before she saw him. The hospital terrified her. The thought of leaving Sam there overnight, even more so. Sam remembered that on the first day following his operation, once he was properly awake but unable to speak, his sister had sat on the edge of his bed, inconsolable, sobbing in a long, echoey howl. She bit strands of her hair into wet brown clumps. The freckles on her nose pinched in a terrified wince. He had only ever heard her make that sound once before—the time he’d had to read aloud to her the letter their father left behind when he moved to Perth.
That day, after the operation, once Katie had cried herself into a limp sleep and woken up quiet, their mother had given her a white handkerchief edged with blue embroidery. She was to use it whenever she felt sad. It was special, their mother said. It was especially made for tears. It would gather them up and hold them tight, and by the time the material was dry, she was guaranteed to be happy again.
Katie was sceptical and, still crying, hugged Sam’s stomach extra tightly and altogether too long before she left for the night. From that day on, though, she kept the handkerchief tucked in the sleeve of her shirt, exactly as her mother had done.