She stayed in the hospital for two weeks. Margo visited every day, always bringing snacks—cheese puffs, mostly, but also an alarming number of those little peanut butter cracker packets. She told ridiculous stories about other people she’d guarded over the centuries (a Viking who kept trying to fight trees, a Victorian lady who secretly wrote terrible poetry, a nineteenth-century baker whose bread was so bad it once started a small riot). She made Lena laugh, which hurt her ribs, which made her laugh harder.
Lena opened her eyes. “I don’t have a death wish.”
Margo grinned. “No. Most of them are really into kale. Very sanctimonious about it, too. I’m kind of the black sheep of the guardian angel world.” angelaboutme
When Lena got out of the hospital, she didn’t go back to her old routine. She bought a plant—a small, stubborn succulent she named Leonard. She called a therapist she had been avoiding for years. She sent an email to a half-sister she hadn’t spoken to since they were both in foster care together. The reply came three hours later: I thought you forgot about me. I’m in Portland too. Want to get coffee?
Margo smiled, and for the first time, Lena noticed that her smile looked like sunrise—warm and slow and full of impossible light. “That’s okay. That’s why I’m here. Not to fix you. Just to sit with you. Just to remind you that you’re not alone.” She stayed in the hospital for two weeks
Margo was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was different—less chirpy, more gentle. “I know. I was there. I sat on the fire escape outside your bedroom window every night for six months after he left, just in case you decided to climb out. You almost did, twice. Do you remember?”
She woke up in a hospital bed, which was ironic enough to make her want to laugh. Her body was broken in three places: a fractured pelvis, two cracked ribs, a concussion that would give her migraines for months. But that wasn’t the strangest part. The strangest part was the woman sitting in the plastic chair beside her bed. She made Lena laugh, which hurt her ribs,
At twenty-six, Lena was a freelance graphic designer working out of a cramped studio apartment in Portland. She had no pets, no plants, no relationships that lasted longer than three months. Her phone contained exactly forty-seven contacts, most of them clients. She paid her bills on time, ran four miles every morning, and never—not once—allowed herself to cry.