PLAYBOY PRINCESS (gxg) ✓

05. Paris Young

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               "MRS. CANTASIA," PARIS BEGAN, BUT THEY were both already crying.

               There was no way to say it. No way to tell her so that somehow, her feelings would be spared. Paris worked side by side with death, and this . . . this was the aftermath.

              "Isabella fought bravely," Paris said gently. 

              "And . . . how did she die?" Mrs. Cantasia said. "Tell me—tell me it wasn't painful."

               Paris thought of the little girl, writhing on the bed, eyes wide with agony.

               "No," Paris said softly. "It wasn't painful."

               Then Mrs. Cantasia collapsed into her arms, weeping into her shoulder, and Paris couldn't hold back the tide anymore.

               Today would have been Isabella's seventh birthday.

               She . . . she would never turn seven.

               Paris had cared for Izzy since she had been four, diagnosed with osteosarcoma. She had watched Isabella morph from the pale, unsmiling ghost of a girl to the bright, happy one who had said, "Pink! I want everything to be pink for my party!" 

               Pink balloons. Pink streamers. Pink candles.

               She had loved Isabella in the same way she would have loved her own daughter.

               And now . . . now, she was dead.

               This was her job. This what it meant, working in the pediatrics ward.

               Watching kids grow up. Watching them die.

               And she loved her job, but today . . . she hated it.

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               "MATTHEW, IF YOU EVER NEED ANYTHING, PLEASE don't hesitate to tell me."

               Isabella's brother looked up at her. He looked so much like her it hurt. 

               Matthew was around seventeen, with hollowed cheekbones and bright eyes. "Thanks, Doc, but . . ."

              "What's wrong, Matthew?" 

              Mrs. Cantasia was down the hall, sorting out the details to the funeral. 

              Matthew seemed almost haunted as he said, "I just don't think that anything would help."

              "Oh, Matthew," Paris said, and she squeezed his shoulder. "I know it feels that way, but—"

              "Matthew!" Mrs. Cantasia called from down the hall. Her face was red, streaked with red. She waved goodbye to Paris, motioning for her son to follow. And he left—one last glance at her, brimming with misery.

              Fifteen minutes later, Paris still couldn't forget that look.

              She flattened her hands against the counter. Looking into the bathroom mirror.

              I just don't think anything would help, he had said.

              What would she have said, if she had finished her reply?