Chapter 76 The Call That Wasn't Sunday
Jane's sophomore year started with a thunderstorm.
She had driven herself back to campus, her car packed with clothes and a small robot from Leo. The rain was so heavy she had to pull over twice, waiting for the wipers to keep up. When she finally arrived, her dorm room was dark and her roommate had transferred to another school.
"I'm alone," she said on the phone that night. "It's fine. I'll get a single."
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"I'm sure. More space for my stuff. And my dinosaur collection."
Damian took the phone. "We can come help you unpack."
"I'm already unpacked. It took twenty minutes. There wasn't much."
We hung up. The house felt quiet. Waffle was sleeping more now, his gray muzzle resting on his paws. The dogwood had lost its leaves to autumn.
The Sunday calls continued. Jane was busy with anatomy labs, clinical rotations, late nights studying at the library. Her voice was sometimes tired but always steady. She talked about patients, about professors, about the weight of learning to save lives.
Sarah still called too. Their conversations had grown shorter, easier. No pressure. Just checking in, sharing small news.
One Sunday, Jane didn't call.
Damian and I sat on the porch, watching the phone. Four o'clock came and went. Five. Six. The sun began to set.
"Maybe she forgot," I said.
"She never forgets. Not once in three years."
I called her. No answer. Texted. No reply.
At eight, my phone rang. Jane's voice was strange, thick.
"Mommy, I'm okay. I was in the hospital."
The world stopped. "What happened?"
"A clinical rotation. A kid came in with a fever that wouldn't break. I stayed late to help. I didn't have my phone. It was in my locker."
"You scared us."
"I'm sorry. I didn't think. I just wanted to help."
Damian took the phone. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine, Daddy. Just tired. The kid is going to be okay."
We talked for an hour. She explained her schedule, her responsibilities, her promise to keep her phone on her at all times.
When we hung up, Damian held me.
"She's going to be a doctor," he said.
"A nurse. A good one."
"Same thing. She's going to save people."
Thanksgiving came. Jane drove home through early snow. She was thinner, more serious. She had cut her hair short for clinicals.
"You look different," Rose said.
"I feel different."
"Good different?"
"Important different. Like I matter."
She spent the weekend in the yellow room, sleeping late, reading old notebooks. She found the box of letters from Sarah and read them on the porch, Waffle at her feet.
"She wrote to me again," Jane said, holding up a new card.
"What did she say?"
"Same thing. That she's proud. That she's sorry. That she loves me."
"Do you believe her?"
Jane looked at the dogwood, bare branches against the gray sky. "I believe she's trying. That's enough. It has to be."
Christmas was loud. Eleanor came in a wheelchair, wrapped in blankets despite the heated house. Rosa cooked enough food for an army. The children exchanged gifts. Leo's latest robot could now clean the gutters. Max had a skateboard with light-up wheels. Lily painted a family portrait that made everyone cry. Rose gave everyone matching socks with their initials.
Jane gave me a framed photo. Herself in nursing scrubs, standing outside the children's hospital, smiling at the camera.
"My first day of clinicals," she said.
"I'm so proud."
"I know. You tell me every week."
"I'll keep telling you. Forever."
Winter turned to spring. The dogwood budded, tiny green tips appearing. Waffle turned fifteen, ancient for a dog. He slept most of the day, his muzzle gray, his eyes cloudy. The children took turns sitting with him.
Jane came home for spring break. She spent hours on the porch, Waffle's head in her lap, stroking his ears.
"He won't be here much longer," she said.
"No. But he's had a good life. A long life."
"He was the best dog. The best friend."
"The best."
The call came on a Tuesday. Jane was crying, her voice breaking.
"Mommy, Waffle died."
I sat down on the kitchen floor, the phone pressed to my ear. "What happened?"
"He just went to sleep. He didn't wake up. I was holding him."
Damian took the phone. "We'll come get you. You shouldn't drive like this."
"I'm already in the car. I'm driving home. I need to be there."
We buried Waffle under the dogwood tree. The children gathered in a circle. Rose read a poem about loyalty. Lily put fresh flowers on the grave. Max placed a small dinosaur beside the marker. Leo said a few words about unconditional love.
Jane stood apart, her hand on the tree trunk.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything."
That summer, Jane got an internship at the children's hospital where she would eventually work. She rented a small apartment near campus, with yellow curtains and a view of a parking lot. Sarah came to visit her there, not at our house. They went to a museum downtown, had lunch at a diner, walked through a park.
"It was nice," Jane said on the phone afterward.
"Just nice?"
"It was easy. No awkwardness. She's just... a person now. A person who loves me."
"Is that enough?"
"It's more than enough. It's everything."
Jane was twenty when she graduated. Summa cum laude. A job waiting at the children's hospital. An apartment of her own, with a real kitchen.
She walked across the stage in a cap and gown, a gold cord around her neck for academic honors. Rose sat in the front row with her new husband. Lily had flown in from California. Max was in college, Leo in grad school. All of them home to see her.
Damian held my hand. "She did it."
"She did."
Sarah sat in the back, alone, wiping her eyes with a tissue.
After the ceremony, Jane walked to her. They hugged for a long time. Sarah handed her a small velvet box.
Jane opened it. A silver locket. Inside, two tiny photos. One of Sarah, young and scared, holding a newborn. One of our whole family, all of us, standing in front of the dogwood tree, Waffle at our feet.
"Two mothers," Sarah said.
"One heart," Jane replied.
That night, we had a party in the garden. The dogwood was in full bloom, white petals glowing in the dusk. The white pipe hummed its steady song. Jane stood under the tree, the locket catching the fading light.
Damian and I watched from the porch.
"We did it," he said.
"She did it."
"We helped. We loved."
I leaned into him. "We never stopped."
The children gathered around Jane. Rose, Lily, Max, Leo. All grown. All here. All laughing.
Jane looked up at us and smiled. She touched the locket.
The dogwood petals fell like snow.