Tuesday, September 27, 4:30 PM. Amy.

I have to start supper soon. I just wanted to record that Claire is definitely doing better. The amoxicillin’s working. She was a little more alert last night. This morning she was awake and able to talk a little. She’s still pale and looks so thin. At lunch I got a couple of spoonfuls of soup into her. We’ll see how she does at supper.

Brewer is about the same. At least he’s not worse. He’s not moving around much; it makes him dizzy. Everything is bright to him and he keeps asking for quiet. He’s sleeping a lot.

I’m worried about him, but somehow I think he’ll be fine. It’s hard to imagine a pesky little concussion keeping Brewer down for long.

I…I love him.

It’s been a long time since I’ve said that, even to myself. I mean really said it, really meant it.

I loved him years ago. Somewhere along the way he lost my faith, my passion, my affection. We were far away. And I wandered. I never thought I’d love him again, never thought I’d trust him.

But I do trust him now. Don’t I?

I trust him to lead us, to take care of us. I trust him to stick with me, even if he hates my guts. He’s doing it, after all.

Do I trust him with my heart? I…I’m not sure. I want to, though. That’s new. I want to trust him completely, body and soul. I want him to love me. Maybe he never will, not completely, but I need him to love me a little.

Geez. I sat down to record the patients’ conditions and look at me pining like a schoolgirl. Supper is going to be late.