“Charlie,” I called softly.
He stopped mid-joke, the smile falling from his face the second he saw me standing there. For one stunned beat, he didn’t move at all. Then he crossed the hall and pulled me toward a quiet corner.
Charlie yanked off the nose and stared at me. “Meryl… what are you doing here?”
“I should be asking you that,” I shot back. “What’s going on?”
I pulled Owen’s letter from my bag. Charlie saw the handwriting, and all the strength seemed to leave his face at once. Whatever wall he had built between us, my son’s handwriting cracked it down the middle.
“Meryl… what are you doing here?”
“Owen wrote to me,” I said. “He told me to follow you.”
“I should’ve told you,” Charlie began.
“Then tell me now.”
He wiped at his eyes. “I’ve been doing this for two years now. Coming here after work, putting on that ridiculous outfit, bringing toys and little gifts, and doing whatever I could to make those kids laugh, even if only for a little while.”
“Why?” I breathed.
“Because of Owen.”
The words hit me so hard that I forgot how to breathe for a second.
“I’ve been doing this for two years now.”
“During one of his treatments, Owen told me the hardest part wasn’t the pain. He said it was seeing the other kids there looking scared and trying not to cry in front of their parents. He said he wished somebody would just make them smile for one hour.” Charlie looked toward the ward. “So I started coming here after work. Dressed up. Brought presents. I never told Owen. I wanted it to be for him, not because of him.”
