I could tell her about Maddie or Eddie. I could tell her that I now know three things: I’m in love, I’m not going to stop going to the hospital, and I’ve just realized that I really do want to be a writer. No, not “want”—must. I don’t have a choice, but only now has that become clear to me. It feels as if it’s the only way to make sense of everything—people, colors, emotions, landscapes, and rooms I can read as if they were books. And Maddie too.

A story found me in Oxford. That’s what always happens: stories find you.

There’s one thing I’m not going to do for the time being, though, and that’s go to school. I couldn’t sit in class at Colet Court while Maddie would like to live but longs to die. I can’t study math and electrical circuits and French while my father’s fighting for survival. I must go to Maddie and tell her that I’ve understood and that I’ll be there for her.

Malcolm is perching on the bottom step out in the hallway. When I wave to him, he gratefully jumps to his feet and comes into the kitchen. My mother puts her arm around him and hugs him tight. Steve has placed his hand beside my mother’s on the plastic tablecloth, and they link their little fingers.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” my mother asks in a faint voice.

“Because you’ve got one another,” I answer honestly. “You, Malcolm, and Steve have got one another.”

And that’s exactly how they look as they face me. Without realizing it, they are intertwined.

Tears well up in my mother’s eyes, and she lifts her hand to her mouth. “I had no idea that’s how you saw things,” she says. She opens her arms wide. Come to me! her empty embrace cries, and very cautiously we both stand up and I hug her and she hugs me. I hadn’t noticed I’d grown, but almost overnight my mother and I are the same height. As we stand there, it’s clear that everything has changed.

I realize at that moment that you can always decide: nothing simply happens. It’s always possible to decide whether to lie or tell the truth, whether to be an asshole or not to be an asshole.

Steve claps his hands and says, “All right then, I’ll drive you to the hospital and then to school, okay? We’ll tell the head teacher that you’re going to take a break this year. But no more lies, do you hear? Marie-France? Sam?”

I nod and say, “I’ll wait for you outside, Steve.”

My voice has broken. I can feel the sound of my words echoing inside me. It is deep and calm and green. Dark green.

Henri