2:29 AM

Chapter Sixty-Two

"What?" I ask, my voice is thick.

"I'm so sorry, Andy. I know how close you were to her," she says.

"Ellie...she can't...she can't be dead," I say. I saw her last night, she was fine. Oh, God.

I didn't say goodbye to her.

She was sleeping when I left for school. I didn't wake her up.

"Why don't you come into the hospital?" she says. "I can send someone to come and pick you up."

"O-okay," I say. I tell her where I am and she ends the call.

Eleanor is dead. She's dead and I never said goodbye.

Brandon picks me up. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"No," I say. "I'm not okay."

"I'm really sorry," Brandon says. He looks at me.

"I never said goodbye, Brandon," I tell him. "I saw her this morning and I never said goodbye."

"You couldn't have known," Brandon tells me. "Her condition was deteriorating her immune system. She came into the hospital early in the morning and became septic. We did everything we could, but we caught it too late. Her body shut down and she died at 16:33." I look at my watch. It's five thirty. Ellie died an hour ago.

We get to the hospital. "Can I see her?" I ask. He nods.

"We haven't moved her from her room," Brandon tells me.

"Is Ms. Hopkins here?" I ask.

"She's in the room," he says. We walk through the hospital. Brandon stops in front of Ellie's room. "You can go in."

I walk in and shut the door. Ms. Hopkins looks up. "Andy," she says. Her eyes are red. "She's gone."

"I know," I say. I look at the bed. Ellie's eyes are shut. Her face is pale. Her skin is twinged with grey. She looks peaceful. I pull the sheet over her head and walk over to Ms. Hopkins. She stands up and hugs me. I wrap my arms around her. "How did this happen?" I murmur.

"I don't know, I don't know," she says. She starts crying.

"I never said goodbye," I whisper. And then tears fall from my eyes.

Ellie's gone. She's dead. Her heart has stopped beating. Her eyes will ever open. I'll never hear her laugh again. She'll never smile. I'll never hear her squeal about Ian. She'll never grow up.

She's gone and she never got to live. Ellie was always in hospitals and never felt great. She never got to be a kid or have a first kiss. She'll never know what it's like to fall madly in love with someone.

It's not fair. She was ten. Eleanor was in fourth grade. She never made it to fifth grade, to Middle school. She never really got to live. She didn't get to be a kid, to have a childhood.

Ellie's gone.

"Were you there when she died?" I ask. I feel Ms. Hopkins nod.

"I was," she whispers. "She told me that everything was going to be okay. Eleanor said she'd felt worse than normal for a while and she knew that her time was coming. She said that she didn't want me to regret anything. She told me I was a great mother. And she said that it was her time to go, and that I should let her go peacefully." Tears roll down my cheeks. "I held her when she died."

"She's gone," I whisper. "What are we supposed to do?"

I don't know how long we stand there crying, holding each other, grieving for Ellie.

What are we supposed to do?