10:40 P.M.

           Irunaway.

           IleaveAdam,Kim,andWillowinthelobbyandIjuststartcareeningthroughthehospital.Idon’trealizeI’mlookingforthepediatricwarduntilIgetthere.Itearthroughthehalls,pastroomswithnervousfour-year-oldssleepingrestlesslybeforetomorrow’stonsillectomies,pasttheneonatalICUwithbabiesthesizeoffists,hookeduptomoretubesthanIam,pastthepediatriconcologyunitwherebaldcancerpatientssleepundercheerfulmuralsofrainbowsandballoons.I’mlookingforhim,eventhoughIknowIwon’tfindhim.Still,Ihavetokeeplooking.

           Ipicturehishead,histightblondcurls.Ilovetonuzzlemyfaceinthosecurls,havedonesincehewasababy.Ikeptwaitingforthedaywhenhe’dswatmeaway,say"You’reembarrassingme,"thewayhedoestoDadwhenDadcheerstooloudlyatT-ballgames.Butsofar,thathadn’thappened.Sofar,I’vebeenallowedconstantaccesstothatheadofhis.Sofar.Nowthereisnomoresofar.It’sover.

           Ipicturemyselfnuzzlinghisheadonelasttime,andIcan’tevenimagineitwithoutseeingmyselfcrying,mytearsturninghisblondcurlicuesstraight.

           TeddyisnevergoingtograduatefromT-balltobaseball.He’snevergoingtogrowamustache.Nevergoingtogetintoafistfightorshootadeerorkissagirlorhavesexorfallinloveorgetmarriedorfatherhisowncurly-hairedchild.I’monlytenyearsolderthanhim,butit’slikeI’vealreadyhadsomuchmorelife.Itisunfair.